“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.