We went in slowly, and Jane bolted the door.  “But who it is that can be bolted out,” she said, “I know not; though there’s much to bolt in.  I have stood here, Mr. Brocken, on darker nights as still as this, and have heard what seemed to be the sea breaking, far away, leagues upon leagues beyond the forests—­the gush forward, the protracted, heavy retreat,—­listened till I could have wept to think that it was only my own poor furious heart beating.  You may imagine, then, I push the bolts home.”

“But why, Jane—­why?” cried Mr. Rochester incredulously.  “Violent fancies, child!”

“Why, sir, it was, I say, not the sea I heard, but a trickling tide one icy tap might stay, if it found but entry there.”

“You talk wildly, Jane—­wildly, wildly; the air’s afloat with listeners; so it seems, so it seems.  Had I but one clear lamp in this dark face!”

We sat down in the candle-lit twilight to supper.  It was to me like the supper of a child, taken at peace in the clear beams, ere he descend into the shadow of sleep.

They sat, try as I would not to observe them, hand touching hand throughout the meal.  But to me it was as if one might sit to eat before a great mountain ruffled with pines, and perpetually clamorous with torrents.  All that Mr. Rochester said, every gesture, these were but the ghosts of words and movements.  Behind them, gloomy, imperturbable, withdrawn, slumbered a strange, smouldering power.  I began to see how very hotly Jane must love him, she who loved above all things storm, the winds of the equinox, the illimitable night-sky.

She begged him to take a little wine with me, and filled his glass till it burned like a ruby between their hands.

“It paints both our hands!” she cried glancing up at him.

“Ay, Janet,” he answered; “but where is yours?”

“And what goal will you make for when you leave us,” she enquired of me. “Is there anywhere else?” she added, lifting her slim eyebrows.

“I shall put trust in Chance,” I replied, “which at least is steadfast in change.  So long as it does not guide me back, I care not how far forward I go.”

“You are right,” she answered; “that is a puissant battlecry, here and hereafter.”

Mr. Rochester rose hastily from his chair.  “The candles irk me, Jane.  I would like to be alone.  Excuse me, sir.”  He left the room.

Jane lifted a dark curtain and beckoned me to bring the lights.  She sat down before a little piano and desired me to sit beside her.  And while she played, I know not what, but only it seemed old, well-remembered airs her mood suggested, she asked me many questions.

“And am I indeed only like that poor mad thing you thought Jane Eyre?” she said, “or did you read between?”

I answered that it was not her words, not even her thoughts, not even her poetry that was to me Jane Eyre.

“What then is left of me?” she enquired, stooping her eyes over the keys and smiling darkly.  “Am I indeed so evanescent, a wintry wraith?”