CHAPTER XXV 356
" 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