“Now is my time to slip away,” thought I:  but the tones that then severed the air arrested me.  Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice:  he did —­ a mellow, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his own force; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and there waking sensation strangely.  I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired —­ till the tide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my sheltered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was fortunately near.  Thence a narrow passage led into the hall:  in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the staircase.  I heard the dining-room door unclose; a gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him:  it was Mr. Rochester.

“How do you do?” he asked.

“I am very well, sir.”

“Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?”

I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it:  but I would not take that freedom.  I answered —

“I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir.”

“What have you been doing during my absence?”

“Nothing particular; teaching Adele as usual.”

“And getting a good deal paler than you were —­ as I saw at first sight.  What is the matter?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?”

“Not the least.”

“Return to the drawing-room:  you are deserting too early.”

“I am tired, sir.”

He looked at me for a minute.

“And a little depressed,” he said.  “What about?  Tell me.”

“Nothing —­ nothing, sir.  I am not depressed.”

“But I affirm that you are:  so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes —­ indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag.  If I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know what all this means.  Well, to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it is my wish; don’t neglect it.  Now go, and send Sophie for Adele.  Good-night, my —­ " He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.

CHAPTER XVIII

Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too:  how different from the first three months of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passed beneath its roof!  All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house, all gloomy associations forgotten:  there was life everywhere, movement all day long.  You could not now traverse the gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady’s-maid or a dandy valet.