“You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre?  Of course not:  I need not ask you; because you never felt love.  You have both sentiments yet to experience:  your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it.  You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hitherto slid away.  Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base.  But I tell you —­ and you may mark my words —­ you will come some day to a craggy pass in the channel, where the whole of life’s stream will be broken up into whirl and tumult, foam and noise:  either you will be dashed to atoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave into a calmer current —­ as I am now.

“I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost.  I like Thornfield, its antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its grey facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin:  and yet how long have I abhorred the very thought of it, shunned it like a great plague-house?  How I do still abhor -”

He ground his teeth and was silent:  he arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground.  Some hated thought seemed to have him in its grip, and to hold him so tightly that he could not advance.

We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused; the hall was before us.  Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a glare such as I never saw before or since.  Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, detestation, seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow.  Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount; but another feeling rose and triumphed:  something hard and cynical:  self-willed and resolute:  it settled his passion and petrified his countenance:  he went on —

“During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point with my destiny.  She stood there, by that beech-trunk —­ a hag like one of those who appeared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres.  ‘You like Thornfield?’ she said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the air a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front, between the upper and lower row of windows, ‘Like it if you can!  Like it if you dare!’

“‘I will like it,’ said I; ‘I dare like it;’ and” (he subjoined moodily) “I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness —­ yes, goodness.  I wish to be a better man than I have been, than I am; as Job’s leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hindrances which others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten wood.”

Adele here ran before him with her shuttlecock.  “Away!” he cried harshly; “keep at a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!” Continuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the point whence he had abruptly diverged —