"You come out at last," he said. "Well, I have been waiting for you
long, and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one
sob: five minutes more of that death-like hush, and I should have
forced the lock like a burglar. So you shun me?--you shut yourself
up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me
with vehemence. You are passionate. I expected a scene of some
kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them
to be shed on my breast: now a senseless floor has received them,
or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you have not wept at
all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I
suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?"
"Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter--nothing
poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit
quietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive
look."
"Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one
little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his
bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some
mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his
bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?"
Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such
deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly
energy in his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in
his whole look and mien--I forgave him all: yet not in words, not
outwardly; only at my heart's core.
"You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?" ere long he inquired wistfully--
wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness, the
result rather of weakness than of will.
"Yes, sir."
"Then tell me so roundly and sharply--don't spare me."
"I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water." He heaved a
sort of shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me
downstairs. At first I did not know to what room he had borne me;
all was cloudy to my glazed sight: presently I felt the reviving
warmth of a fire; for, summer as it was, I had become icy cold in my
chamber. He put wine to my lips; I tasted it and revived; then I
ate something he offered me, and was soon myself. I was in the
library--sitting in his chair--he was quite near. "If I could go
out of life now, without too sharp a pang, it would be well for me,"
I thought; "then I should not have to make the effort of cracking my
heart-strings in rending them from among Mr. Rochester's. I must
leave him, it appears. I do not want to leave him--I cannot leave
him."