“No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester’s pride; and that did not scare me, because I am used to the sight of the demon.  But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose:  it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now —­ wild and high —­ but ‘with a sullen, moaning sound’ far more eerie.  I wished you were at home.  I came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me.  For some time after I went to bed, I could not sleep —­ a sense of anxious excitement distressed me.  The gale still rising, seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance.  I was glad when it ceased.  On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night.  I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us.  During all my first sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a little child:  a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear.  I thought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I strained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and entreat you to stop —­ but my movements were fettered, and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther every moment.”

“And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close to you?  Little nervous subject!  Forget visionary woe, and think only of real happiness!  You say you love me, Janet:  yes —­ I will not forget that; and you cannot deny it.  Those words did not die inarticulate on your lips.  I heard them clear and soft:  a thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music —­ ’I think it is a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, Edward, because I love you.’  Do you love me, Jane? —­ repeat it.”

“I do, sir —­ I do, with my whole heart.”

“Well,” he said, after some minutes’ silence, “it is strange; but that sentence has penetrated my breast painfully.  Why?  I think because you said it with such an earnest, religious energy, and because your upward gaze at me now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and devotion:  it is too much as if some spirit were near me.  Look wicked, Jane:  as you know well how to look:  coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me —­ tease me, vex me; do anything but move me:  I would rather be incensed than saddened.”

“I will tease you and vex you to your heart’s content, when I have finished my tale:  but hear me to the end.”

“I thought, Jane, you had told me all.  I thought I had found the source of your melancholy in a dream.”