prompt:
Chapter: Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too: how
different from the first three months of stillness, monotony, and
solitude I had passed beneath its roof!  All sad feelings seemed now
driven from the house, all gloomy associations forgotten: there was life
everywhere, movement all day long.  You could not now traverse the
gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so
tenantless, without encountering a smart lady's-maid or a dandy valet.

The kitchen, the butler's pantry, the servants' hall, the entrance hall,
were equally alive; and the saloons were only left void and still when
the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather called
their occupants out into the grounds.  Even when that weather was broken,
and continuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast over
enjoyment: indoor amusements only became more lively and varied, in
consequence of the stop put to outdoor gaiety.

I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of
entertainment was proposed: they spoke of "playing charades," but in my
ignorance I did not understand the term.  The servants were called in,
the dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the
chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch.  While Mr. Rochester and
the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were running
up and down stairs ringing for their maids.  Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to
give information respecting the resources of the house in shawls,
dresses, draperies of any kind; and certain wardrobes of the third storey
were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped
petticoats, satin sacques, black modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought
down in armfuls by the abigails; then a selection was made, and such
things as were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the
drawing-room.

Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him, and was
selecting certain of their number to be of his party.  "Miss Ingram is
mine, of course," said he: afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and
Mrs. Dent.  He looked at me: I happened to be near him, as I had been
fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent's bracelet, which had got loose.

"Will you play?" he asked.  I shook my head.  He did not insist, which I
rather feared he would have done; he allowed me to return quietly to my
usual seat.

He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the other party, which
was headed by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of chairs.  One of
the gentlemen, Mr. Eshton, observing me, seemed to propose that I should
be asked to join them; but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion.

"No," I heard her say: "she looks too stupid for any game of the sort."

Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up.  Within the arch, the
bulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had likewise chosen,
was seen enveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a
large book; and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr. Rochester's
cloak, and holding a book in her hand.  Somebody, unseen, rang the bell
merrily; then Adele (who had insisted on being one of her guardian's
party), bounded forward, scattering round her the contents of a basket of
flowers she carried on her arm.  Then appeared the magnificent figure of
Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on her head, and a wreath of
roses round her brow; by her side walked Mr. Rochester, and together they
drew near the table.  They knelt; while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton,
dressed also in white, took up their stations behind them.  A ceremony
followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the pantomime
of a marriage.  At its termination, Colonel Dent and his party consulted
in whispers for two minutes, then the Colonel called out--

"Bride!" Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell.

A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose.  Its second rising
displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last.  The drawing-
room, as I have before observed, was raised two steps above the dining-
room, and on the top of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within
the room, appeared a large marble basin--which I recognised as an
ornament of the conservatory--where it usually stood, surrounded by
exotics, and tenanted by gold fish--and whence it must have been
transported with some trouble, on account of its size and weight.

Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen Mr. Rochester,
costumed in shawls, with a turban on his head.  His dark eyes and swarthy
skin and Paynim features suited the costume exactly: he looked the very
model of an Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring.
Presently advanced into view Miss Ingram.  She, too, was attired in
oriental fashion: a crimson scarf tied sash-like round the waist: an
embroidered handkerchief knotted about her temples; her
beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them upraised in the act of
supporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head.  Both her cast of
form and feature, her complexion and her general air, suggested the idea
of some Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was
doubtless the character she intended to represent.

She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her pitcher; she
again lifted it to her head.  The personage on the well-brink now seemed
to accost her; to make some request:--"She hasted, let down her pitcher
on her hand, and gave him to drink."  From the bosom of his robe he then
produced a casket, opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and
earrings; she acted astonishment and admiration; kneeling, he laid the
treasure at her feet; incredulity and delight were expressed by her looks
and gestures; the stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and the
rings in her ears.  It was Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were
wanting.

The divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they could
not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated.  Colonel
Dent, their spokesman, demanded "the tableau of the whole;" whereupon the
curtain again descended.

On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed; the
rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort of dark and coarse
drapery.  The marble basin was removed; in its place, stood a deal table
and a kitchen chair: these objects were visible by a very dim light
proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles being all extinguished.

Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting on
his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground.  I knew Mr. Rochester; though
the begrimed face, the disordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one
arm, as if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle), the
desperate and scowling countenance, the rough, bristling hair might well
have disguised him.  As he moved, a chain clanked; to his wrists were
attached fetters.

"Bridewell!" exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade was solved.

A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume their
ordinary costume, they re-entered the dining-room.  Mr. Rochester led in
Miss Ingram; she was complimenting him on his acting.

"Do you know," said she, "that, of the three characters, I liked you in
the last best?  Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a gallant
gentleman-highwayman you would have made!"

"Is all the soot washed from my face?" he asked, turning it towards her.

"Alas! yes: the more's the pity!  Nothing could be more becoming to your
complexion than that ruffian's rouge."

"You would like a hero of the road then?"

"An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian
bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate."

"Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married an hour
since, in the presence of all these witnesses."  She giggled, and her
colour rose.

"Now, Dent," continued Mr. Rochester, "it is your turn."  And as the
other party withdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats.  Miss
Ingram placed herself at her leader's right hand; the other diviners
filled the chairs on each side of him and her.  I did not now watch the
actors; I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my
attention was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on the
arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs.  What
charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word they chose, how they
acquitted themselves, I no longer remember; but I still see the
consultation which followed each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss
Ingram, and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards him,
till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his
cheek; I hear their mutual whisperings; I recall their interchanged
glances; and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle
returns in memory at this moment.

I have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr. Rochester: I could
not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice
me--because I might pass hours in his presence, and he would never once
turn his eyes in my direction--because I saw all his attentions
appropriated by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with the hem of her
robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me
by chance, would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean to
merit observation.  I could not unlove him, because I felt sure he would
soon marry this very lady--because I read daily in her a proud security
in his intentions respecting her--because I witnessed hourly in him a
style of courtship which, if careless and choosing rather to be sought
than to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness, captivating, and in its
very pride, irresistible.

There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though
much to create despair.  Much too, you will think, reader, to engender
jealousy: if a woman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a
woman in Miss Ingram's.  But I was not jealous: or very rarely;--the
nature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that word.  Miss
Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too inferior to excite the
feeling.  Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say.  She was very
showy, but she was not genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant
attainments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature: nothing
bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted
by its freshness.  She was not good; she was not original: she used to
repeat sounding phrases from books: she never offered, nor had, an
opinion of her own.  She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she did
not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were
not in her.  Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent she gave to a
spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Adele: pushing her
away with some contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her;
sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating her with
coldness and acrimony.  Other eyes besides mine watched these
manifestations of character--watched them closely, keenly, shrewdly.  Yes;
the future bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over his intended
a ceaseless surveillance; and it was from this sagacity--this guardedness
of his--this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one's defects--this
obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her, that my ever-
torturing pain arose.

I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons,
because her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given her
his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him
that treasure.  This was the point--this was where the nerve was touched
and teased--this was where the fever was sustained and fed: _she could
not charm him_.

If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and sincerely
laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face, turned to the
wall, and (figuratively) have died to them.  If Miss Ingram had been a
good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour, kindness, sense, I
should have had one vital struggle with two tigers--jealousy and despair:
then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should have admired
her--acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for the rest of my days:
and the more absolute her superiority, the deeper would have been my
admiration--the more truly tranquil my quiescence.  But as matters really
stood, to watch Miss Ingram's efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester, to
witness their repeated failure--herself unconscious that they did fail;
vainly fancying that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly
pluming herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelled
further and further what she wished to allure--to witness _this_, was to
be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.

Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded.  Arrows
that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and fell
harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have
quivered keen in his proud heart--have called love into his stern eye,
and softness into his sardonic face; or, better still, without weapons a
silent conquest might have been won.

"Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so
near to him?" I asked myself.  "Surely she cannot truly like him, or not
like him with true affection!  If she did, she need not coin her smiles
so lavishly, flash her glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so
elaborate, graces so multitudinous.  It seems to me that she might, by
merely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and looking less, get
nigher his heart.  I have seen in his face a far different expression
from that which hardens it now while she is so vivaciously accosting him;
but then it came of itself: it was not elicited by meretricious arts and
calculated manoeuvres; and one had but to accept it--to answer what he
asked without pretension, to address him when needful without grimace--and
it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like a
fostering sunbeam.  How will she manage to please him when they are
married?  I do not think she will manage it; and yet it might be managed;
and his wife might, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman the sun
shines on."

I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester's project of
marrying for interest and connections.  It surprised me when I first
discovered that such was his intention: I had thought him a man unlikely
to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife; but
the longer I considered the position, education, &c., of the parties, the
less I felt justified in judging and blaming either him or Miss Ingram
for acting in conformity to ideas and principles instilled into them,
doubtless, from their childhood.  All their class held these principles:
I supposed, then, they had reasons for holding them such as I could not
fathom.  It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him, I would take
to my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the very obviousness of
the advantages to the husband's own happiness offered by this plan
convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption of
which I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world would act
as I wished to act.

But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to my
master: I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a
sharp look-out.  It had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of
his character: to take the bad with the good; and from the just weighing
of both, to form an equitable judgment.  Now I saw no bad.  The sarcasm
that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only
like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence was pungent, but
their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid.  And as for the
vague something--was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a
desponding expression?--that opened upon a careful observer, now and
then, in his eye, and closed again before one could fathom the strange
depth partially disclosed; that something which used to make me fear and
shrink, as if I had been wandering amongst volcanic-looking hills, and
had suddenly felt the ground quiver and seen it gape: that something, I,
at intervals, beheld still; and with throbbing heart, but not with
palsied nerves.  Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to dare--to
divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day she might
look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets and analyse their
nature.

Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride--saw
only them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their
movements of importance--the rest of the party were occupied with their
own separate interests and pleasures.  The Ladies Lynn and Ingram
continued to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their two
turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in confronting
gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on
which their gossip ran, like a pair of magnified puppets.  Mild Mrs. Dent
talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two sometimes bestowed a
courteous word or smile on me.  Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and Mr.
Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justice business.  Lord
Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang to and with one of
the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant
speeches of the other.  Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended
their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors: for, after
all, Mr. Rochester and--because closely connected with him--Miss Ingram
were the life and soul of the party.  If he was absent from the room an
hour, a perceptible dulness seemed to steal over the spirits of his
guests; and his re-entrance was sure to give a fresh impulse to the
vivacity of conversation.

The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt one
day that he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not likely
to return till late.  The afternoon was wet: a walk the party had
proposed to take to see a gipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond
Hay, was consequently deferred.  Some of the gentlemen were gone to the
stables: the younger ones, together with the younger ladies, were playing
billiards in the billiard-room.  The dowagers Ingram and Lynn sought
solace in a quiet game at cards.  Blanche Ingram, after having repelled,
by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and Mrs. Eshton to
draw her into conversation, had first murmured over some sentimental
tunes and airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a novel from the
library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and
prepared to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of
absence.  The room and the house were silent: only now and then the
merriment of the billiard-players was heard from above.

It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already given warning of the
hour to dress for dinner, when little Adele, who knelt by me in the
drawing-room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed--

"Voila, Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!"

I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the others, too,
looked up from their several occupations; for at the same time a
crunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible
on the wet gravel.  A post-chaise was approaching.

"What can possess him to come home in that style?" said Miss Ingram.  "He
rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went out? and Pilot
was with him:--what has he done with the animals?"

As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments so
near the window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking
of my spine: in her eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when
she did, she curled her lip and moved to another casement.  The
post-chaise stopped; the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman
alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not Mr. Rochester; it was
a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.

"How provoking!" exclaimed Miss Ingram: "you tiresome monkey!"
(apostrophising Adele), "who perched you up in the window to give false
intelligence?" and she cast on me an angry glance, as if I were in fault.

Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the new-comer entered.
He bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady present.

"It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam," said he, "when my
friend, Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I arrive from a very long
journey, and I think I may presume so far on old and intimate
acquaintance as to instal myself here till he returns."

His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck me as being
somewhat unusual,--not precisely foreign, but still not altogether
English: his age might be about Mr. Rochester's,--between thirty and
forty; his complexion was singularly sallow: otherwise he was a
fine-looking man, at first sight especially.  On closer examination, you
detected something in his face that displeased, or rather that failed to
please.  His features were regular, but too relaxed: his eye was large
and well cut, but the life looking out of it was a tame, vacant life--at
least so I thought.

The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party.  It was not till
after dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at his ease.  But
I liked his physiognomy even less than before: it struck me as being at
the same time unsettled and inanimate.  His eye wandered, and had no
meaning in its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I never
remembered to have seen.  For a handsome and not an unamiable-looking
man, he repelled me exceedingly: there was no power in that
smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness in that aquiline
nose and small cherry mouth; there was no thought on the low, even
forehead; no command in that blank, brown eye.

As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the light of the
girandoles on the mantelpiece beaming full over him--for he occupied an
arm-chair drawn close to the fire, and kept shrinking still nearer, as if
he were cold, I compared him with Mr. Rochester.  I think (with deference
be it spoken) the contrast could not be much greater between a sleek
gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and the rough-coated
keen-eyed dog, its guardian.

He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend.  A curious friendship
theirs must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old adage
that "extremes meet."

Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times scraps
of their conversation across the room.  At first I could not make much
sense of what I heard; for the discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary
Ingram, who sat nearer to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that
reached me at intervals.  These last were discussing the stranger; they
both called him "a beautiful man."  Louisa said he was "a love of a
creature," and she "adored him;" and Mary instanced his "pretty little
mouth, and nice nose," as her ideal of the charming.

"And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!" cried Louisa,--"so
smooth--none of those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and such
a placid eye and smile!"

And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned them to the other
side of the room, to settle some point about the deferred excursion to
Hay Common.

I was now able to concentrate my attention on the group by the fire, and
I presently gathered that the new-comer was called Mr. Mason; then I
learned that he was but just arrived in England, and that he came from
some hot country: which was the reason, doubtless, his face was so
sallow, and that he sat so near the hearth, and wore a surtout in the
house.  Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Spanish Town, indicated
the West Indies as his residence; and it was with no little surprise I
gathered, ere long, that he had there first seen and become acquainted
with Mr. Rochester.  He spoke of his friend's dislike of the burning
heats, the hurricanes, and rainy seasons of that region.  I knew Mr.
Rochester had been a traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but I thought
the continent of Europe had bounded his wanderings; till now I had never
heard a hint given of visits to more distant shores.

I was pondering these things, when an incident, and a somewhat unexpected
one, broke the thread of my musings.  Mr. Mason, shivering as some one
chanced to open the door, asked for more coal to be put on the fire,
which had burnt out its flame, though its mass of cinder still shone hot
and red.  The footman who brought the coal, in going out, stopped near
Mr. Eshton's chair, and said something to him in a low voice, of which I
heard only the words, "old woman,"--"quite troublesome."

"Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take herself
off," replied the magistrate.

"No--stop!" interrupted Colonel Dent.  "Don't send her away, Eshton; we
might turn the thing to account; better consult the ladies."  And
speaking aloud, he continued--"Ladies, you talked of going to Hay Common
to visit the gipsy camp; Sam here says that one of the old Mother Bunches
is in the servants' hall at this moment, and insists upon being brought
in before 'the quality,' to tell them their fortunes.  Would you like to
see her?"

"Surely, colonel," cried Lady Ingram, "you would not encourage such a low
impostor?  Dismiss her, by all means, at once!"

"But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady," said the footman; "nor
can any of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now, entreating
her to be gone; but she has taken a chair in the chimney-corner, and says
nothing shall stir her from it till she gets leave to come in here."

"What does she want?" asked Mrs. Eshton.

"'To tell the gentry their fortunes,' she says, ma'am; and she swears she
must and will do it."

"What is she like?" inquired the Misses Eshton, in a breath.

"A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as a crock."

"Why, she's a real sorceress!" cried Frederick Lynn.  "Let us have her
in, of course."

"To be sure," rejoined his brother; "it would be a thousand pities to
throw away such a chance of fun."

"My dear boys, what are you thinking about?" exclaimed Mrs. Lynn.

"I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding," chimed
in the Dowager Ingram.

"Indeed, mama, but you can--and will," pronounced the haughty voice of
Blanche, as she turned round on the piano-stool; where till now she had
sat silent, apparently examining sundry sheets of music.  "I have a
curiosity to hear my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame
forward."

"My darling Blanche! recollect--"

"I do--I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will--quick,
Sam!"

"Yes--yes--yes!" cried all the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen.  "Let
her come--it will be excellent sport!"

The footman still lingered.  "She looks such a rough one," said he.

"Go!" ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went.

Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of raillery
and jests was proceeding when Sam returned.

"She won't come now," said he.  "She says it's not her mission to appear
before the 'vulgar herd' (them's her words).  I must show her into a room
by herself, and then those who wish to consult her must go to her one by
one."

"You see now, my queenly Blanche," began Lady Ingram, "she encroaches.  Be
advised, my angel girl--and--"

"Show her into the library, of course," cut in the "angel girl."  "It is
not my mission to listen to her before the vulgar herd either: I mean to
have her all to myself.  Is there a fire in the library?"

"Yes, ma'am--but she looks such a tinkler."

"Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding."

Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expectation rose to full flow
once more.

"She's ready now," said the footman, as he reappeared.  "She wishes to
know who will be her first visitor."

"I think I had better just look in upon her before any of the ladies go,"
said Colonel Dent.

"Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming."

Sam went and returned.

"She says, sir, that she'll have no gentlemen; they need not trouble
themselves to come near her; nor," he added, with difficulty suppressing
a titter, "any ladies either, except the young, and single."

"By Jove, she has taste!" exclaimed Henry Lynn.

Miss Ingram rose solemnly: "I go first," she said, in a tone which might
have befitted the leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a breach in the van
of his men.

"Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause--reflect!" was her mama's cry; but
she swept past her in stately silence, passed through the door which
Colonel Dent held open, and we heard her enter the library.

A comparative silence ensued.  Lady Ingram thought it "le cas" to wring
her hands: which she did accordingly.  Miss Mary declared she felt, for
her part, she never dared venture.  Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under
their breath, and looked a little frightened.

The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the library-
door again opened.  Miss Ingram returned to us through the arch.

Would she laugh?  Would she take it as a joke?  All eyes met her with a
glance of eager curiosity, and she met all eyes with one of rebuff and
coldness; she looked neither flurried nor merry: she walked stiffly to
her seat, and took it in silence.

"Well, Blanche?" said Lord Ingram.

"What did she say, sister?" asked Mary.

"What did you think?  How do you feel?--Is she a real fortune-teller?"
demanded the Misses Eshton.

"Now, now, good people," returned Miss Ingram, "don't press upon me.
Really your organs of wonder and credulity are easily excited: you seem,
by the importance of you all--my good mama included--ascribe to this
matter, absolutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the house, who
is in close alliance with the old gentleman.  I have seen a gipsy
vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed fashion the science of palmistry
and told me what such people usually tell.  My whim is gratified; and now
I think Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag in the stocks to-morrow
morning, as he threatened."

Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and so declined further
conversation.  I watched her for nearly half-an-hour: during all that
time she never turned a page, and her face grew momently darker, more
dissatisfied, and more sourly expressive of disappointment.  She had
obviously not heard anything to her advantage: and it seemed to me, from
her prolonged fit of gloom and taciturnity, that she herself,
notwithstanding her professed indifference, attached undue importance to
whatever revelations had been made her.

{During all that time she never turned a page: p184.jpg}

Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, declared they dared not go
alone; and yet they all wished to go.  A negotiation was opened through
the medium of the ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and fro,
till, I think, the said Sam's calves must have ached with the exercise,
permission was at last, with great difficulty, extorted from the rigorous
Sibyl, for the three to wait upon her in a body.

Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram's had been: we heard
hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library; and
at the end of about twenty minutes they burst the door open, and came
running across the hall, as if they were half-scared out of their wits.

"I am sure she is something not right!" they cried, one and all.  "She
told us such things!  She knows all about us!" and they sank breathless
into the various seats the gentlemen hastened to bring them.

Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of
things they had said and done when they were mere children; described
books and ornaments they had in their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that
different relations had presented to them.  They affirmed that she had
even divined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each the
name of the person she liked best in the world, and informed them of what
they most wished for.

Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further
enlightened on these two last-named points; but they got only blushes,
ejaculations, tremors, and titters, in return for their importunity.  The
matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and
again reiterated the expression of their concern that their warning had
not been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger
urged their services on the agitated fair ones.

In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged
in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I turned, and
saw Sam.

"If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is another young
single lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she
will not go till she has seen all.  I thought it must be you: there is no
one else for it.  What shall I tell her?"

"Oh, I will go by all means," I answered: and I was glad of the
unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity.  I slipped
out of the room, unobserved by any eye--for the company were gathered in
one mass about the trembling trio just returned--and I closed the door
quietly behind me.

"If you like, miss," said Sam, "I'll wait in the hall for you; and if she
frightens you, just call and I'll come in."

"No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid."  Nor was
I; but I was a good deal interested and excited.

The library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sibyl--if
Sibyl she were--was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the chimney-
corner.  She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or rather, a broad-
brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin.
An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending over the fire,
and seemed reading in a little black book, like a prayer-book, by the
light of the blaze: she muttered the words to herself, as most old women
do, while she read; she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it
appeared she wished to finish a paragraph.

I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were rather cold with
sitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire.  I felt now as composed
as ever I did in my life: there was nothing indeed in the gipsy's
appearance to trouble one's calm.  She shut her book and slowly looked
up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as she
raised it, that it was a strange one.  It looked all brown and black: elf-
locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under her chin,
and came half over her cheeks, or rather jaws: her eye confronted me at
once, with a bold and direct gaze.

"Well, and you want your fortune told?" she said, in a voice as decided
as her glance, as harsh as her features.

"I don't care about it, mother; you may please yourself: but I ought to
warn you, I have no faith."

"It's like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you; I heard it in
your step as you crossed the threshold."

"Did you?  You've a quick ear."

"I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain."

"You need them all in your trade."

"I do; especially when I've customers like you to deal with.  Why don't
you tremble?"

"I'm not cold."

"Why don't you turn pale?"

"I am not sick."

"Why don't you consult my art?"

"I'm not silly."

The old crone "nichered" a laugh under her bonnet and bandage; she then
drew out a short black pipe, and lighting it began to smoke.  Having
indulged a while in this sedative, she raised her bent body, took the
pipe from her lips, and while gazing steadily at the fire, said very
deliberately--"You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly."

"Prove it," I rejoined.

"I will, in few words.  You are cold, because you are alone: no contact
strikes the fire from you that is in you.  You are sick; because the best
of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to man, keeps far away
from you.  You are silly, because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon
it to approach, nor will you stir one step to meet it where it waits
you."

She again put her short black pipe to her lips, and renewed her smoking
with vigour.

"You might say all that to almost any one who you knew lived as a
solitary dependent in a great house."

"I might say it to almost any one: but would it be true of almost any
one?"

"In my circumstances."

"Yes; just so, in _your_ circumstances: but find me another precisely
placed as you are."

"It would be easy to find you thousands."

"You could scarcely find me one.  If you knew it, you are peculiarly
situated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of it.  The materials
are all prepared; there only wants a movement to combine them.  Chance
laid them somewhat apart; let them be once approached and bliss results."

"I don't understand enigmas.  I never could guess a riddle in my life."

"If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm."

"And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?"

"To be sure."

I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which she
took out of her pocket, and having tied it round and returned it, she
told me to hold out my hand.  I did.  She approached her face to the
palm, and pored over it without touching it.

"It is too fine," said she.  "I can make nothing of such a hand as that;
almost without lines: besides, what is in a palm?  Destiny is not written
there."

"I believe you," said I.

"No," she continued, "it is in the face: on the forehead, about the eyes,
in the lines of the mouth.  Kneel, and lift up your head."

"Ah! now you are coming to reality," I said, as I obeyed her.  "I shall
begin to put some faith in you presently."

I knelt within half a yard of her.  She stirred the fire, so that a
ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however, as she
sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine, it illumined.

"I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night," she said, when she
had examined me a while.  "I wonder what thoughts are busy in your heart
during all the hours you sit in yonder room with the fine people flitting
before you like shapes in a magic-lantern: just as little sympathetic
communion passing between you and them as if they were really mere
shadows of human forms, and not the actual substance."

"I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad."

"Then you have some secret hope to buoy you up and please you with
whispers of the future?"

"Not I.  The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my earnings to
set up a school some day in a little house rented by myself."

"A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on: and sitting in that window-
seat (you see I know your habits )--"

"You have learned them from the servants."

"Ah! you think yourself sharp.  Well, perhaps I have: to speak truth, I
have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole--"

I started to my feet when I heard the name.

"You have--have you?" thought I; "there is diablerie in the business
after all, then!"

"Don't be alarmed," continued the strange being; "she's a safe hand is
Mrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose confidence in her.  But,
as I was saying: sitting in that window-seat, do you think of nothing but
your future school?  Have you no present interest in any of the company
who occupy the sofas and chairs before you?  Is there not one face you
study? one figure whose movements you follow with at least curiosity?"

"I like to observe all the faces and all the figures."

"But do you never single one from the rest--or it may be, two?"

"I do frequently; when the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling a
tale: it amuses me to watch them."

"What tale do you like best to hear?"

"Oh, I have not much choice!  They generally run on the same
theme--courtship; and promise to end in the same catastrophe--marriage."

"And do you like that monotonous theme?"

"Positively, I don't care about it: it is nothing to me."

"Nothing to you?  When a lady, young and full of life and health,
charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune, sits
and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you--"

"I what?"

"You know--and perhaps think well of."

"I don't know the gentlemen here.  I have scarcely interchanged a
syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I consider
some respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others young,
dashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all at liberty to
be the recipients of whose smiles they please, without my feeling
disposed to consider the transaction of any moment to me."

"You don't know the gentlemen here?  You have not exchanged a syllable
with one of them?  Will you say that of the master of the house!"

"He is not at home."

"A profound remark!  A most ingenious quibble!  He went to Millcote this
morning, and will be back here to-night or to-morrow: does that
circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance--blot him, as
it were, out of existence?"

"No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme
you had introduced."

"I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of late so
many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester's eyes that they overflow
like two cups filled above the brim: have you never remarked that?"

"Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his guests."

"No question about his right: but have you never observed that, of all
the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been favoured with
the most lively and the most continuous?"

"The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator."  I said
this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk, voice,
manner, had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream.  One unexpected
sentence came from her lips after another, till I got involved in a web
of mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit had been sitting for
weeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record of every pulse.

"Eagerness of a listener!" repeated she: "yes; Mr. Rochester has sat by
the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such delight
in their task of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was so willing to
receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given him; you have
noticed this?"

"Grateful!  I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face."

"Detecting!  You have analysed, then.  And what did you detect, if not
gratitude?"

I said nothing.

"You have seen love: have you not?--and, looking forward, you have seen
him married, and beheld his bride happy?"

"Humph!  Not exactly.  Your witch's skill is rather at fault sometimes."

"What the devil have you seen, then?"

"Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess.  Is it known that
Mr. Rochester is to be married?"

"Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram."

"Shortly?"

"Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt (though, with
an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to question it),
they will be a superlatively happy pair.  He must love such a handsome,
noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not
his person, at least his purse.  I know she considers the Rochester
estate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon me!) I told her
something on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous
grave: the corners of her mouth fell half an inch.  I would advise her
blackaviced suitor to look out: if another comes, with a longer or
clearer rent-roll,--he's dished--"

"But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester's fortune: I came to
hear my own; and you have told me nothing of it."

"Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face, one trait
contradicted another.  Chance has meted you a measure of happiness: that
I know.  I knew it before I came here this evening.  She has laid it
carefully on one side for you.  I saw her do it.  It depends on yourself
to stretch out your hand, and take it up: but whether you will do so, is
the problem I study.  Kneel again on the rug."

"Don't keep me long; the fire scorches me."

{She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair:
p190.jpg}

I knelt.  She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in
her chair.  She began muttering,--

"The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks soft
and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is susceptible;
impression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it ceases
to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid: that
signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness.  It turns from me; it
will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking glance,
the truth of the discoveries I have already made,--to disown the charge
both of sensibility and chagrin: its pride and reserve only confirm me in
my opinion.  The eye is favourable.

"As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed to
impart all that the brain conceives; though I daresay it would be silent
on much the heart experiences.  Mobile and flexible, it was never
intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of solitude: it is a
mouth which should speak much and smile often, and have human affection
for its interlocutor.  That feature too is propitious.

"I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow
professes to say,--'I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances
require me so to do.  I need not sell my soul to buy bliss.  I have an
inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous
delights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford
to give.'  The forehead declares, 'Reason sits firm and holds the reins,
and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild
chasms.  The passions may rage furiously, like true heathens, as they
are; and the desires may imagine all sorts of vain things: but judgment
shall still have the last word in every argument, and the casting vote in
every decision.  Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by: but
I shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which interprets the
dictates of conscience.'

"Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected.  I have formed
my plans--right plans I deem them--and in them I have attended to the
claims of conscience, the counsels of reason.  I know how soon youth
would fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one
dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detected; and I do not want
sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution--such is not my taste.  I wish to foster,
not to blight--to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood--no, nor of
brine: my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet--That will
do.  I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium.  I should wish now
to protract this moment _ad infinitum_; but I dare not.  So far I have
governed myself thoroughly.  I have acted as I inwardly swore I would
act; but further might try me beyond my strength.  Rise, Miss Eyre: leave
me; the play is played out'."

Where was I?  Did I wake or sleep?  Had I been dreaming?  Did I dream
still?  The old woman's voice had changed: her accent, her gesture, and
all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass--as the speech of my
own tongue.  I got up, but did not go.  I looked; I stirred the fire, and
I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her
face, and again beckoned me to depart.  The flame illuminated her hand
stretched out: roused now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at once
noticed that hand.  It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own;
it was a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically
turned; a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward,
I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before.  Again I
looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me--on the contrary,
the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced.

"Well, Jane, do you know me?" asked the familiar voice.

"Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then--"

"But the string is in a knot--help me."

"Break it, sir."

"There, then--'Off, ye lendings!'"  And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his
disguise.

"Now, sir, what a strange idea!"

"But well carried out, eh?  Don't you think so?"

"With the ladies you must have managed well."

"But not with you?"

"You did not act the character of a gipsy with me."

"What character did I act?  My own?"

"No; some unaccountable one.  In short, I believe you have been trying to
draw me out--or in; you have been talking nonsense to make me talk
nonsense.  It is scarcely fair, sir."

"Do you forgive me, Jane?"

"I cannot tell till I have thought it all over.  If, on reflection, I
find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you;
but it was not right."

"Oh, you have been very correct--very careful, very sensible."

I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had.  It was a comfort; but,
indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the
interview.  Something of masquerade I suspected.  I knew gipsies and
fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman had
expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to
conceal her features.  But my mind had been running on Grace Poole--that
living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her.  I had
never thought of Mr. Rochester.

"Well," said he, "what are you musing about?  What does that grave smile
signify?"

"Wonder and self-congratulation, sir.  I have your permission to retire
now, I suppose?"

"No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room
yonder are doing."

"Discussing the gipsy, I daresay."

"Sit down!--Let me hear what they said about me."

"I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o'clock.  Oh,
are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you
left this morning?"

"A stranger!--no; who can it be?  I expected no one; is he gone?"

"No; he said he had known you long, and that he could take the liberty of
installing himself here till you returned."

"The devil he did!  Did he give his name?"

"His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West Indies; from Spanish
Town, in Jamaica, I think."

Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if to lead
me to a chair.  As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip; the smile
on his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his breath.

"Mason!--the West Indies!" he said, in the tone one might fancy a
speaking automaton to enounce its single words; "Mason!--the West
Indies!" he reiterated; and he went over the syllables three times,
growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly
seemed to know what he was doing.

"Do you feel ill, sir?" I inquired.

"Jane, I've got a blow; I've got a blow, Jane!"  He staggered.

"Oh, lean on me, sir."

"Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now."

"Yes, sir, yes; and my arm."

He sat down, and made me sit beside him.  Holding my hand in both his
own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most troubled
and dreary look.

"My little friend!" said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island with only
you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me."

"Can I help you, sir?--I'd give my life to serve you."

"Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your hands; I promise you that."

"Thank you, sir.  Tell me what to do,--I'll try, at least, to do it."

"Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they will be
at supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is
doing."

I went.  I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as Mr.
Rochester had said; they were not seated at table,--the supper was
arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they stood
about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands.
Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were general and
animated.  Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking to Colonel and Mrs.
Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them.  I filled a wine-glass (I saw
Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did so: she thought I was taking a
liberty, I daresay), and I returned to the library.

Mr. Rochester's extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked once more
firm and stern.  He took the glass from my hand.

"Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!" he said.  He swallowed the
contents and returned it to me.  "What are they doing, Jane?"

"Laughing and talking, sir."

"They don't look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard something
strange?"

"Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety."

"And Mason?"

"He was laughing too."

"If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you do,
Jane?"

"Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could."

He half smiled.  "But if I were to go to them, and they only looked at me
coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then dropped off
and left me one by one, what then?  Would you go with them?"

"I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in staying with
you."

"To comfort me?"

"Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could."

"And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?"

"I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if I did, I should
care nothing about it."

"Then, you could dare censure for my sake?"

"I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence; as
you, I am sure, do."

"Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper in his
ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show him in here
and then leave me."

"Yes, sir."

I did his behest.  The company all stared at me as I passed straight
among them.  I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded him
from the room: I ushered him into the library, and then I went upstairs.

At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the visitors
repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester's voice, and
heard him say, "This way, Mason; this is your room."

He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease.  I was soon
asleep.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: With guests at Thornfield, life is cheerful. One night, they are preparing for a game of charades. Rochester's group goes first, pantomiming a marriage ceremony with Rochester and Blanche as the happy couple. They then enact the story of Eliezer and Rebecca, and end with Rochester as a prisoner in chains. Colonel Dent's team correctly guesses the overall meaning of the three charades: Bridewell, an English prison. No longer interested in the charades, Jane watches the interactions between Rochester and Blanche. Their intimate style of conversing leads Jane to believe they will soon marry. But Jane doesn't believe they love each other. Rochester is marrying for social and political reasons, while Blanche is marrying for money. Mr. Mason an old acquaintance of Rochester's, arrives one day. Jane immediately dislikes Mason's "unsettled and inanimate" face. From Mason, she learns that Rochester once lived in the West Indies. A gypsy woman, old Mother Bunches, arrives from a nearby camp and wants to tell the fortunes of "the quality." Lady Ingram wants the old woman sent away, but Blanche insists upon having her fortune told. After fifteen minutes with the old woman, Blanche returns, and has obviously received disappointing news. Mary Ingram and Amy and Louisa Eschton have their fortunes read together and return laughing, impressed by Mother Bunches' intimate knowledge of their lives. Finally, the gypsy insists upon telling Jane's fortune. Jane isn't frightened, just interested and excited. Jane enters the library and finds the gypsy woman seated snugly in an easy chair. She sits in front of the fire, reading something that looks like a Prayer Book. Despite Jane's protests to the contrary, the gypsy woman tells Jane she is cold, sick, and silly. Jane, she foretells, is very close to happiness; if Jane made a movement toward it, bliss would result. Soon the gypsy's speech has wrapped Jane in a dream-like state, and she is surprised by how well the old woman knows the secrets of her heart. The gypsy also explains that she crushed Blanche's marriage hopes by suggesting Rochester isn't as wealthy as he seems. The gypsy then reads each of Jane's features, as the voice drones on it eventually becomes Rochester's. Jane tells Rochester the disguise was unfair and admits she had suspected Grace Poole of being the masquerader. Before leaving, Jane tells Rochester about Mason's arrival; he is visibly upset by this news. Rochester worries that Mason has told them something grave or mysterious about him. Later that night she hears Rochester happily leading Mason to his room.


prompt:
Chapter: I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to let
down my window-blind.  The consequence was, that when the moon, which was
full and bright (for the night was fine), came in her course to that
space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at me through the
unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me.  Awaking in the dead of
night, I opened my eyes on her disk--silver-white and crystal clear.  It
was beautiful, but too solemn; I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw
the curtain.

Good God!  What a cry!

The night--its silence--its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp,
a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.

My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralysed.
The cry died, and was not renewed.  Indeed, whatever being uttered that
fearful shriek could not soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on
the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud
shrouding his eyrie.  The thing delivering such utterance must rest ere
it could repeat the effort.

It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead.  And
overhead--yes, in the room just above my chamber-ceiling--I now heard a
struggle: a deadly one it seemed from the noise; and a half-smothered
voice shouted--

"Help! help! help!" three times rapidly.

"Will no one come?" it cried; and then, while the staggering and stamping
went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster:--

"Rochester!  Rochester! for God's sake, come!"

A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the gallery.
Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell; and there
was silence.

I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs; I issued
from my apartment.  The sleepers were all aroused: ejaculations,
terrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after door unclosed; one
looked out and another looked out; the gallery filled.  Gentlemen and
ladies alike had quitted their beds; and "Oh! what is it?"--"Who is
hurt?"--"What has happened?"--"Fetch a light!"--"Is it fire?"--"Are there
robbers?"--"Where shall we run?" was demanded confusedly on all hands.
But for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness.  They
ran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the
confusion was inextricable.

"Where the devil is Rochester?" cried Colonel Dent.  "I cannot find him
in his bed."

"Here! here!" was shouted in return.  "Be composed, all of you: I'm
coming."

And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced
with a candle: he had just descended from the upper storey.  One of the
ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram.

"What awful event has taken place?" said she.  "Speak! let us know the
worst at once!"

"But don't pull me down or strangle me," he replied: for the Misses
Eshton were clinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast white
wrappers, were bearing down on him like ships in full sail.

"All's right!--all's right!" he cried.  "It's a mere rehearsal of Much
Ado about Nothing.  Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous."

And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks.  Calming himself
by an effort, he added--

"A servant has had the nightmare; that is all.  She's an excitable,
nervous person: she construed her dream into an apparition, or something
of that sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with fright.  Now, then, I
must see you all back into your rooms; for, till the house is settled,
she cannot be looked after.  Gentlemen, have the goodness to set the
ladies the example.  Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in evincing
superiority to idle terrors.  Amy and Louisa, return to your nests like a
pair of doves, as you are.   Mesdames" (to the dowagers), "you will take
cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in this chill gallery any longer."

And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived to get
them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories.  I did not
wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed, as unnoticed I
had left it.

Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and dressed myself
carefully.  The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the words that
had been uttered, had probably been heard only by me; for they had
proceeded from the room above mine: but they assured me that it was not a
servant's dream which had thus struck horror through the house; and that
the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was merely an invention framed to
pacify his guests.  I dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies.  When
dressed, I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent
grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what.  It seemed
to me that some event must follow the strange cry, struggle, and call.

No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually, and in
about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a desert.  It seemed
that sleep and night had resumed their empire.  Meantime the moon
declined: she was about to set.  Not liking to sit in the cold and
darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was.  I left
the window, and moved with little noise across the carpet; as I stooped
to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door.

"Am I wanted?" I asked.

"Are you up?" asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master's.

"Yes, sir."

"And dressed?"

"Yes."

"Come out, then, quietly."

I obeyed.  Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

"I want you," he said: "come this way: take your time, and make no
noise."

My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat.
He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the dark, low
corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed and stood at his
side.

"Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any salts--volatile salts?"

"Yes."

"Go back and fetch both."

I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer,
and once more retraced my steps.  He still waited; he held a key in his
hand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock;
he paused, and addressed me again.

"You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"

"I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet."

I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness.

"Just give me your hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a fainting
fit."

I put my fingers into his.  "Warm and steady," was his remark: he turned
the key and opened the door.

I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax
showed me over the house: it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry was
now looped up in one part, and there was a door apparent, which had then
been concealed.  This door was open; a light shone out of the room
within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost like a dog
quarrelling.  Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, said to me, "Wait a
minute," and he went forward to the inner apartment.  A shout of laughter
greeted his entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole's
own goblin ha! ha!  _She_ then was there.  He made some sort of
arrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him: he
came out and closed the door behind him.

"Here, Jane!" he said; and I walked round to the other side of a large
bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of
the chamber.  An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a man sat in it,
dressed with the exception of his coat; he was still; his head leant
back; his eyes were closed.  Mr. Rochester held the candle over him; I
recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face--the stranger, Mason:
I saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked in
blood.

"Hold the candle," said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a basin
of water from the washstand: "Hold that," said he.  I obeyed.  He took
the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpse-like face; he asked
for my smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils.  Mr. Mason
shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned.  Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of
the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away
blood, trickling fast down.

"Is there immediate danger?" murmured Mr. Mason.

"Pooh!  No--a mere scratch.  Don't be so overcome, man: bear up!  I'll
fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you'll be able to be removed by
morning, I hope.  Jane," he continued.

"Sir?"

"I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour,
or perhaps two hours: you will sponge the blood as I do when it returns:
if he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his
lips, and your salts to his nose.  You will not speak to him on any
pretext--and--Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak
to her: open your lips--agitate yourself--and I'll not answer for the
consequences."

Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear,
either of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him.
Mr. Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded to
use it as he had done.  He watched me a second, then saying,
"Remember!--No conversation," he left the room.  I experienced a strange
feeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating
step ceased to be heard.

Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of its mystic
cells; night around me; a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and
hands; a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door: yes--that
was appalling--the rest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of
Grace Poole bursting out upon me.

I must keep to my post, however.  I must watch this ghastly
countenance--these blue, still lips forbidden to unclose--these eyes now
shut, now opening, now wandering through the room, now fixing on me, and
ever glazed with the dulness of horror.  I must dip my hand again and
again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling gore.
I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment; the
shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and grow black
under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the
doors of a great cabinet opposite--whose front, divided into twelve
panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles, each
enclosed in its separate panel as in a frame; while above them at the top
rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ.

According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here or
glanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his
brow; now St. John's long hair that waved; and anon the devilish face of
Judas, that grew out of the panel, and seemed gathering life and
threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor--of Satan himself--in his
subordinate's form.

Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen for the
movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den.  But since
Mr. Rochester's visit it seemed spellbound: all the night I heard but
three sounds at three long intervals,--a step creak, a momentary renewal
of the snarling, canine noise, and a deep human groan.

Then my own thoughts worried me.  What crime was this that lived
incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor
subdued by the owner?--what mystery, that broke out now in fire and now
in blood, at the deadest hours of night?  What creature was it, that,
masked in an ordinary woman's face and shape, uttered the voice, now of a
mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey?

And this man I bent over--this commonplace, quiet stranger--how had he
become involved in the web of horror? and why had the Fury flown at him?
What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when
he should have been asleep in bed?  I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him
an apartment below--what brought him here!  And why, now, was he so tame
under the violence or treachery done him?  Why did he so quietly submit
to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced?  Why _did_ Mr. Rochester
enforce this concealment?  His guest had been outraged, his own life on a
former occasion had been hideously plotted against; and both attempts he
smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion!  Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was
submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the latter held
complete sway over the inertness of the former: the few words which had
passed between them assured me of this.  It was evident that in their
former intercourse, the passive disposition of the one had been
habitually influenced by the active energy of the other: whence then had
arisen Mr. Rochester's dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason's arrival?  Why
had the mere name of this unresisting individual--whom his word now
sufficed to control like a child--fallen on him, a few hours since, as a
thunderbolt might fall on an oak?

Oh!  I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered:
"Jane, I have got a blow--I have got a blow, Jane."  I could not forget
how the arm had trembled which he rested on my shoulder: and it was no
light matter which could thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the
vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester.

"When will he come?  When will he come?" I cried inwardly, as the night
lingered and lingered--as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened:
and neither day nor aid arrived.  I had, again and again, held the water
to Mason's white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating salts:
my efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or mental suffering, or loss
of blood, or all three combined, were fast prostrating his strength.  He
moaned so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; and
I might not even speak to him.

The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I perceived streaks
of grey light edging the window curtains: dawn was then approaching.
Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of his distant kennel in the
courtyard: hope revived.  Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more
the grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was relieved.  It
could not have lasted more than two hours: many a week has seemed
shorter.

Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch.

"Now, Carter, be on the alert," he said to this last: "I give you but
half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the
patient downstairs and all."

"But is he fit to move, sir?"

"No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his spirits must
be kept up.  Come, set to work."

Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the holland blind, let
in all the daylight he could; and I was surprised and cheered to see how
far dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the
east.  Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already handling.

"Now, my good fellow, how are you?" he asked.

"She's done for me, I fear," was the faint reply.

"Not a whit!--courage!  This day fortnight you'll hardly be a pin the
worse of it: you've lost a little blood; that's all.  Carter, assure him
there's no danger."

"I can do that conscientiously," said Carter, who had now undone the
bandages; "only I wish I could have got here sooner: he would not have
bled so much--but how is this?  The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well
as cut.  This wound was not done with a knife: there have been teeth
here!"

"She bit me," he murmured.  "She worried me like a tigress, when
Rochester got the knife from her."

"You should not have yielded: you should have grappled with her at once,"
said Mr. Rochester.

"But under such circumstances, what could one do?" returned Mason.  "Oh,
it was frightful!" he added, shuddering.  "And I did not expect it: she
looked so quiet at first."

"I warned you," was his friend's answer; "I said--be on your guard when
you go near her.  Besides, you might have waited till to-morrow, and had
me with you: it was mere folly to attempt the interview to-night, and
alone."

"I thought I could have done some good."

"You thought! you thought!  Yes, it makes me impatient to hear you: but,
however, you have suffered, and are likely to suffer enough for not
taking my advice; so I'll say no more.  Carter--hurry!--hurry!  The sun
will soon rise, and I must have him off."

"Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged.  I must look to this other
wound in the arm: she has had her teeth here too, I think."

"She sucked the blood: she said she'd drain my heart," said Mason.

I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust,
horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only
said--

"Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don't repeat
it."

"I wish I could forget it," was the answer.

"You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish
Town, you may think of her as dead and buried--or rather, you need not
think of her at all."

"Impossible to forget this night!"

"It is not impossible: have some energy, man.  You thought you were as
dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now.
There!--Carter has done with you or nearly so; I'll make you decent in a
trice.  Jane" (he turned to me for the first time since his re-entrance),
"take this key: go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into
my dressing-room: open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a
clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bring them here; and be nimble."

I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named,
and returned with them.

"Now," said he, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his
toilet; but don't leave the room: you may be wanted again."

I retired as directed.

"Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?" inquired Mr.
Rochester presently.

"No, sir; all was very still."

"We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be better, both for your
sake, and for that of the poor creature in yonder.  I have striven long
to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last.  Here,
Carter, help him on with his waist-coat.  Where did you leave your furred
cloak?  You can't travel a mile without that, I know, in this damned cold
climate.  In your room?--Jane, run down to Mr. Mason's room,--the one
next mine,--and fetch a cloak you will see there."

Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and
edged with fur.

"Now, I've another errand for you," said my untiring master; "you must
away to my room again.  What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane!--a
clod-hopping messenger would never do at this juncture.  You must open
the middle drawer of my toilet-table and take out a little phial and a
little glass you will find there,--quick!"

I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.

"That's well!  Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a
dose myself, on my own responsibility.  I got this cordial at Rome, of an
Italian charlatan--a fellow you would have kicked, Carter.  It is not a
thing to be used indiscriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as now,
for instance.  Jane, a little water."

He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the water-bottle on
the washstand.

"That will do;--now wet the lip of the phial."

I did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid, and presented it
to Mason.

"Drink, Richard: it will give you the heart you lack, for an hour or so."

"But will it hurt me?--is it inflammatory?"

"Drink! drink! drink!"

Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was evidently useless to resist.  He was
dressed now: he still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and sullied.
Mr. Rochester let him sit three minutes after he had swallowed the
liquid; he then took his arm--

"Now I am sure you can get on your feet," he said--"try."

The patient rose.

"Carter, take him under the other shoulder.  Be of good cheer, Richard;
step out--that's it!"

"I do feel better," remarked Mr. Mason.

"I am sure you do.  Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs;
unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you
will see in the yard--or just outside, for I told him not to drive his
rattling wheels over the pavement--to be ready; we are coming: and, Jane,
if any one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem."

It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of
rising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent.  The side-passage
door was fastened; I opened it with as little noise as possible: all the
yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open, and there was a
post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated on the box,
stationed outside.  I approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming;
he nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened.  The stillness of
early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet drawn over the
servants' chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the
blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands
over the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped
from time to time in their closed stables: all else was still.

The gentlemen now appeared.  Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the
surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable ease: they assisted him into the
chaise; Carter followed.

"Take care of him," said Mr. Rochester to the latter, "and keep him at
your house till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a day or two to
see how he gets on.  Richard, how is it with you?"

"The fresh air revives me, Fairfax."

"Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind--good-bye,
Dick."

"Fairfax--"

"Well what is it?"

"Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be: let
her--" he stopped and burst into tears.

"I do my best; and have done it, and will do it," was the answer: he shut
up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove away.

"Yet would to God there was an end of all this!" added Mr. Rochester, as
he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.

This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in
the wall bordering the orchard.  I, supposing he had done with me,
prepared to return to the house; again, however, I heard him call "Jane!"
He had opened the portal and stood at it, waiting for me.

"Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments," he said; "that
house is a mere dungeon: don't you feel it so?"

"It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir."

"The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes," he answered; "and you
see it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is
slime and the silk draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate,
and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark.  Now _here_" (he
pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) "all is real, sweet, and
pure."

He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees, and
cherry trees on one side, and a border on the other full of all sorts of
old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses, pansies,
mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs.  They
were fresh now as a succession of April showers and gleams, followed by a
lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was just entering the
dappled east, and his light illumined the wreathed and dewy orchard trees
and shone down the quiet walks under them.

"Jane, will you have a flower?"

He gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and offered it to
me.

"Thank you, sir."

"Do you like this sunrise, Jane?  That sky with its high and light clouds
which are sure to melt away as the day waxes warm--this placid and balmly
atmosphere?"

"I do, very much."

"You have passed a strange night, Jane."

"Yes, sir."

"And it has made you look pale--were you afraid when I left you alone
with Mason?"

"I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room."

"But I had fastened the door--I had the key in my pocket: I should have
been a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb--my pet lamb--so near a
wolf's den, unguarded: you were safe."

"Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?"

"Oh yes! don't trouble your head about her--put the thing out of your
thoughts."

"Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she stays."

"Never fear--I will take care of myself."

"Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now, sir?"

"I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor even then.  To
live, for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust which may crack and
spue fire any day."

"But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led.  Your influence, sir, is evidently
potent with him: he will never set you at defiance or wilfully injure
you."

"Oh, no!  Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me--but,
unintentionally, he might in a moment, by one careless word, deprive me,
if not of life, yet for ever of happiness."

"Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear, and show him
how to avert the danger."

He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw it
from him.

"If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger be?  Annihilated
in a moment.  Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say to
him 'Do that,' and the thing has been done.  But I cannot give him orders
in this case: I cannot say 'Beware of harming me, Richard;' for it is
imperative that I should keep him ignorant that harm to me is possible.
Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle you further.  You are my little
friend, are you not?"

"I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is right."

"Precisely: I see you do.  I see genuine contentment in your gait and
mien, your eye and face, when you are helping me and pleasing me--working
for me, and with me, in, as you characteristically say, '_all that is
right_:' for if I bid you do what you thought wrong, there would be no
light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no lively glance and
animated complexion.  My friend would then turn to me, quiet and pale,
and would say, 'No, sir; that is impossible: I cannot do it, because it
is wrong;' and would become immutable as a fixed star.  Well, you too
have power over me, and may injure me: yet I dare not show you where I am
vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you should transfix
me at once."

"If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me, sir,
you are very safe."

"God grant it may be so!  Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down."

The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic
seat.  Mr. Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for me: but I stood
before him.

"Sit," he said; "the bench is long enough for two.  You don't hesitate to
take a place at my side, do you?  Is that wrong, Jane?"

I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise.

"Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew--while all the
flowers in this old garden awake and expand, and the birds fetch their
young ones' breakfast out of the Thornfield, and the early bees do their
first spell of work--I'll put a case to you, which you must endeavour to
suppose your own: but first, look at me, and tell me you are at ease, and
not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you err in staying."

"No, sir; I am content."

"Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy:--suppose you were no longer a
girl well reared and disciplined, but a wild boy indulged from childhood
upwards; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land; conceive that you
there commit a capital error, no matter of what nature or from what
motives, but one whose consequences must follow you through life and
taint all your existence.  Mind, I don't say a _crime_; I am not speaking
of shedding of blood or any other guilty act, which might make the
perpetrator amenable to the law: my word is _error_.  The results of what
you have done become in time to you utterly insupportable; you take
measures to obtain relief: unusual measures, but neither unlawful nor
culpable.  Still you are miserable; for hope has quitted you on the very
confines of life: your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which you feel
will not leave it till the time of setting.  Bitter and base associations
have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here and there,
seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure--I mean in heartless,
sensual pleasure--such as dulls intellect and blights feeling.
Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of voluntary
banishment: you make a new acquaintance--how or where no matter: you find
in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you have
sought for twenty years, and never before encountered; and they are all
fresh, healthy, without soil and without taint.  Such society revives,
regenerates: you feel better days come back--higher wishes, purer
feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to spend what remains
to you of days in a way more worthy of an immortal being.  To attain this
end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom--a mere
conventional impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies nor your
judgment approves?"

He paused for an answer: and what was I to say?  Oh, for some good spirit
to suggest a judicious and satisfactory response!  Vain aspiration!  The
west wind whispered in the ivy round me; but no gentle Ariel borrowed its
breath as a medium of speech: the birds sang in the tree-tops; but their
song, however sweet, was inarticulate.

Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query:

"Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant, man
justified in daring the world's opinion, in order to attach to him for
ever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own
peace of mind and regeneration of life?"

"Sir," I answered, "a wanderer's repose or a sinner's reformation should
never depend on a fellow-creature.  Men and women die; philosophers
falter in wisdom, and Christians in goodness: if any one you know has
suffered and erred, let him look higher than his equals for strength to
amend and solace to heal."

"But the instrument--the instrument!  God, who does the work, ordains the
instrument.  I have myself--I tell it you without parable--been a
worldly, dissipated, restless man; and I believe I have found the
instrument for my cure in--"

He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling.  I
almost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch the
suspended revelation; but they would have had to wait many minutes--so
long was the silence protracted.  At last I looked up at the tardy
speaker: he was looking eagerly at me.

"Little friend," said he, in quite a changed tone--while his face changed
too, losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and
sarcastic--"you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don't
you think if I married her she would regenerate me with a vengeance?"

He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and when he
came back he was humming a tune.

"Jane, Jane," said he, stopping before me, "you are quite pale with your
vigils: don't you curse me for disturbing your rest?"

"Curse you?  No, sir."

"Shake hands in confirmation of the word.  What cold fingers!  They were
warmer last night when I touched them at the door of the mysterious
chamber.  Jane, when will you watch with me again?"

"Whenever I can be useful, sir."

"For instance, the night before I am married!  I am sure I shall not be
able to sleep.  Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company?  To
you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her."

"Yes, sir."

"She's a rare one, is she not, Jane?"

"Yes, sir."

"A strapper--a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair just
such as the ladies of Carthage must have had.  Bless me! there's Dent and
Lynn in the stables!  Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket."

As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in the yard, saying
cheerfully--

"Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise:
I rose at four to see him off."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Later that evening, Jane lies in bed, gazing at the moonlight coming in her window. Suddenly, she hears a heart-stopping cry for help. Jane hurriedly puts on some clothes, horror shaking her body. All members of the party have gathered in the hallway, wondering if the house is on fire or if robbers have broken in. Rochester assures them that the noise was simply a servant having a bad dream and sends them back to their beds. Jane knows this is a lie, because she heard the strange cry, a struggle, and then a call for help. Before too long, Rochester knocks on her door, asking if she can help him, as long as she isn't afraid of blood. Together they climb to the mysterious third story of the house. There they discover Richard Mason with a bloody arm. Rochester asks Jane to sop up the blood while he runs for the surgeon, but insists that Mason and Jane not speak with each other; if they do, Rochester will "not answer for the consequences." Jane stares at a cabinet in the room, which bears a grim design: the twelve Christian apostles with a dying Jesus hanging from a cross above them. As dawn approaches, Rochester finally returns with the surgeon. While he dresses Mason's wounds, the men speak obscurely of the woman who bit and stabbed Mason. Rochester has Jane run downstairs to find a special cordial he bought from an Italian charlatan. He measures twelve drops of the liquid into a glass, and has Mason drink the mixture, which Rochester claims will give him the "heart" he lacks for an hour or so. After Mason has left, Jane and Rochester walk through the gardens. Rochester tells Jane the hypothetical story of a wild boy indulged from children, who commits a "capital error" while in a remote foreign country. He lives in debauchery for a while, then seeks to resume a happy, pure life with a kind stranger, but a "mere conventional impediment stands in his way." What would Jane do in such a situation, Rochester asks? Jane's answer is that a sinner's reformation should never depend on another person; instead, he should look to God for solace. Rochester then asks Jane, without parable, if marrying Blanche would bring him regeneration? He describes Blanche as a "strapper," big and buxom, like the women of Carthage, then rushes off to the stables to speak with Dent and Lynn.