moment.'

'And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am

close to you? Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and

think only of real happiness! You say you love me, Janet: yes- I

will not forget that; and you cannot deny it. Those words did not

die inarticulate on your lips. I heard them clear and soft: a

thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music- "I think it is a

glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, Edward, because

I love you." Do you love me, Jane?- repeat it.'

'I do, sir- I do, with my whole heart.'

'Well,' he said, after some minutes' silence, 'it is strange; but

that sentence has penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think because

you said it with such an earnest, religious energy, and because your

upward gaze at me now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and

devotion: it is too much as if some spirit were near me. Look

wicked, Jane: as you know well how to look: coin one of your wild,

shy, provoking smiles, tell me you hate me- tease me, vex me; do

anything but move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened.'

'I will tease you and vex you to your heart's content, when I

have finished my tale: but hear me to the end.'

'I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the

source of your melancholy in a dream.'

I shook my head. 'What! is there more? But I will not believe it to

be anything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on.'

The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensiveimpatience of

his manner, surprised me: but I proceeded.

'I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary

ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the

stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high and

very fragile-looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the

grass-grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble hearth,

and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl,

I still carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down

anywhere, however tired were my arms- however much its weight

impeded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse

at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and you were

departing for many years and for a distant country. I climbed the thin

wall with franticperilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you

from the top: the stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I

grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and

almost strangled me; at last I gained the summit. I saw you like a

speck on a white track, lessening every moment. The blast blew so

strong I could not stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the

scared infant in my lap: you turned an angle of the road: I bent

forward to take a last look; the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the

child rolled from my knee, I lost my balance, fell, and woke.'

'Now, Jane, that is all.'

'All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a

gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought- Oh, it is daylight! But I was

mistaken; it was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in.

There was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet,

where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil,

stood open; I heard a rustling there. I asked, "Sophie, what are you

doing?" No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took

the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the

portmanteau. "Sophie! Sophie!" I again cried: and still it was silent.

I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise, then

bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my

veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not

Mrs. Fairfax: it was not- no, I was sure of it, and am still- it was

not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.'

'It must have been one of them,' interrupted my master.

'No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing

before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield

Hall before; the height, the contour were new to me.'

'Describe it, Jane.'

'It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark

hair hanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on:

it was white and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I

cannot tell.'

'Did you see her face?'

'Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she

held it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head,

and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the

visage and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass.'

'And how were they?'

'Fearful and ghastly to me- oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It

was a discoloured face- it was a savage face. I wish I could forget

the roll of the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the

lineaments!'

'Ghosts are usually pale, Jane.'

'This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow

furrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes.

Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?'

'You may.'

'Of the foul German spectre- the Vampyre.'

'Ah!- what did it do?'

'Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts,

and flinging both on the floor, trampled on them.'

'Afterwards?'

'It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw

dawn approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door.

Just at my bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eyes glared upon me-

she thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under

my eyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost

consciousness: for the second time in my life- only the second time- I

became insensible from terror.'

'Who was with you when you revived?'

'No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in

water, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill,

and determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now

sir, tell me who and what that woman was?'

'The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I

must be careful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made

for rough handling.'

'Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was

real: the transaction actually took place.'

'And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a

ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you

without a tear- without a kiss- without a word?'

'Not yet.'

'Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to

bind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no

recurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee that.'

'Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only

such: I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to

me the mystery of that awful visitant.'

'And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal.'

'But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and

when I looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the

cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there- on

the carpet- I saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis,- the

veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!'

I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms

round me. 'Thank God!' he exclaimed, 'that if anything malignant did

come near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to

think what might have happened!'

He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I

could scarcely pant. After some minutes' silence, he continued,

cheerily-

'Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream,

half reality. A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that

woman was- must have been- Grace Poole. You call her a strange being

yourself: from all you know, you have reason so to call her- what

did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and

waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost

delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance

different from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black

face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results

of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is

like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my house:

when we have been married a year and a day, I will tell you; but not

now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the

mystery?'

I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible

one: satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear

so- relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented

smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.

'Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?' he asked, as I

lit my candle.

'Yes, sir.'

'And there is room enough in Adele's little bed for you. You must

share it with her to-night, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident

you have related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did

not sleep alone: promise me to go to the nursery.'

'I shall be very glad to do so, sir.'

'And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you

go upstairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good

time to-morrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast

before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care

away, Janet. Don't you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen?

and there is no more beating of rain against the window-panes: look

here' (he lifted up the curtain)- 'it is a lovely night!'

It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now

trooping before the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing

off eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully.

'Well,' said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, 'how

is my Janet now?'

'The night is serene, sir; and so am I.'

'And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of

happy love and blissful union.'

This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of

sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all.

With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood- so

tranquil, so passionless, so innocent- and waited for the coming

day: all my life was awake and astir in my frame: and as soon as the

sun rose I rose too. I remember Adele clung to me as I left her: I

remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck; and

I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I

feared my sobs would break her still sound repose. She seemed the

emblem of my past life; and he I was now to array myself to meet,

the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.