he 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imperturbable, withdrawn, slumbered a strange, smouldering power.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 seeme