CHAPTER XIX 253
one flavour of remorse were detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution-- such is not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight-- to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood-- no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet-- That will do. I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish now to protract this moment ad infinitum; but I dare not. So far I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore I would act; but further might try me beyond my strength. Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me; the play is played out '."
Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still? The old woman ' s voice had changed: her accent, her gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass-- as the speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me-- on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced.
" Well, Jane, do you know me?" asked the familiar voice. " Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then-- " " But the string is in a knot-- help me." " Break it, sir."
" There, then-- ' Off, ye lendings!'" And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his disguise.
" Now, sir, what a strange idea!"