I shook my head.  “What! is there more?  But I will not believe it to be anything important.  I warn you of incredulity beforehand.  Go on.”

The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner, surprised me:  but I proceeded.

“I dreamt another dream, sir:  that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin, the retreat of bats and owls.  I thought that of all the stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking.  I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the grass-grown enclosure within:  here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice.  Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child:  I might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms —­ however much its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it.  I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years and for a distant country.  I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top:  the stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I gained the summit.  I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening every moment.  The blast blew so strong I could not stand.  I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap:  you turned an angle of the road:  I bent forward to take a last look; the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I lost my balance, fell, and woke.”

“Now, Jane, that is all.”

“All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come.  On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought —­ Oh, it is daylight!  But I was mistaken; it was only candlelight.  Sophie, I supposed, had come in.  There was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling there.  I asked, ’Sophie, what are you doing?’ No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau.  ‘Sophie!  Sophie!’ I again cried:  and still it was silent.  I had risen up in bed, I bent forward:  first surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins.  Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax:  it was not —­ no, I was sure of it, and am still —­ it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.”

“It must have been one of them,” interrupted my master.

“No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary.  The shape standing before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield Hall before; the height, the contour were new to me.”

“Describe it, Jane.”

“It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back.  I know not what dress she had on:  it was white and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell.”