Again—­Rochester hears Jane’s voice in the room where she comes to him.

“’And where is the speaker?  Is it only a voice?  Oh!  I cannot see, but I must feel or my heart will stop and my brain burst.’...

“He groped.  I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.

“‘Her very fingers!’ he cried; ’her small, slight fingers!  If so, there must be more of her.’

“The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder—­neck—­wrist—­I was entwined and gathered to him....

“I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes—­I swept back his hair from his brow and kissed that too.  He suddenly seemed to rouse himself:  the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

“‘It is you—­is it, Jane?  You are come back to me then?’

“‘I am.’”

The scene as it stands is far from perfect; but only Charlotte Bronte could sustain so strong an illusion of passion through so many lapses.  And all that passion counts for no more than half in the astounding effect of reality she produces.  Before Jane Eyre there is no novel written by a woman, with the one exception of Wuthering Heights, that conveys so poignant an impression of surroundings, of things seen and heard, of the earth and sky; of weather; of the aspects of houses and of rooms.  It suggests a positive exaltation of the senses of sound and light, an ecstasy, an enchantment before the visible, tangible world.  It is not a matter of mere faithful observation (though few painters have possessed so incorruptibly the innocence of the eye).  It is an almost supernatural intentness; sensation raised to the nth power.  Take the description of the awful red room at Gateshead.

“A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour, with a flush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly-polished old mahogany.  Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high and glared white the piled-up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane.  Scarcely less prominent was an ample, cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne....  Mr. Reed had been dead nine years:  it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker’s men; and since that day a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion.”

Could anything be more horrible than that red room?  Or take the descriptions of the school at Lowood where the horror of pestilence hangs over house and garden.  Through all these Gateshead and Lowood scenes Charlotte is unerring and absolute in her reality.