“Eagerness of a listener!” repeated she:  “yes; Mr. Rochester has sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such delight in their task of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?”

“Grateful!  I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face.”

“Detecting!  You have analysed, then.  And what did you detect, if not gratitude?”

I said nothing.

“You have seen love:  have you not? —­ and, looking forward, you have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?”

“Humph!  Not exactly.  Your witch’s skill is rather at fault sometimes.”

“What the devil have you seen, then?”

“Never mind:  I came here to inquire, not to confess.  Is it known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?”

“Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.”

“Shortly?”

“Appearances would warrant that conclusion:  and, no doubt (though, with an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to question it), they will be a superlatively happy pair.  He must love such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse.  I know she considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon me!) I told her something on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous grave:  the corners of her mouth fell half an inch.  I would advise her blackaviced suitor to look out:  if another comes, with a longer or clearer rent-roll, —­ he’s dished —­ "

“But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester’s fortune:  I came to hear my own; and you have told me nothing of it.”

“Your fortune is yet doubtful:  when I examined your face, one trait contradicted another.  Chance has meted you a measure of happiness:  that I know.  I knew it before I came here this evening.  She has laid it carefully on one side for you.  I saw her do it.  It depends on yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up:  but whether you will do so, is the problem I study.  Kneel again on the rug.”

“Don’t keep me long; the fire scorches me.”

I knelt.  She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair.  She began muttering, —

“The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon:  it is susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid:  that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness.  It turns from me; it will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking glance, the truth of the discoveries I have already made, —­ to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin:  its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinion.  The eye is favourable.