I cleared and steadied my voice to reply:  “All is changed about me, sir; I must change too —­ there is no doubt of that; and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats with recollections and associations, there is only one way —­ Adele must have a new governess, sir.”

“Oh, Adele will go to school —­ I have settled that already; nor do I mean to torment you with the hideous associations and recollections of Thornfield Hall —­ this accursed place —­ this tent of Achan —­ this insolent vault, offering the ghastliness of living death to the light of the open sky —­ this narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend, worse than a legion of such as we imagine.  Jane, you shall not stay here, nor will I. I was wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield Hall, knowing as I did how it was haunted.  I charged them to conceal from you, before I ever saw you, all knowledge of the curse of the place; merely because I feared Adele never would have a governess to stay if she knew with what inmate she was housed, and my plans would not permit me to remove the maniac elsewhere —­ though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the arrangement.  Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge:  but to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate.

“Concealing the mad-woman’s neighbourhood from you, however, was something like covering a child with a cloak and laying it down near a upas-tree:  that demon’s vicinage is poisoned, and always was.  But I’ll shut up Thornfield Hall:  I’ll nail up the front door and board the lower windows:  I’ll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here with my wife, as you term that fearful hag:  Grace will do much for money, and she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to bear her company and be at hand to give her aid in the paroxysms, when my wife is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on —­ "

“Sir,” I interrupted him, “you are inexorable for that unfortunate lady:  you speak of her with hate —­ with vindictive antipathy.  It is cruel —­ she cannot help being mad.”

“Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don’t know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again:  it is not because she is mad I hate her.  If you were mad, do you think I should hate you?”

“I do indeed, sir.”