But to me it was as if one might sit to eat
before a great mountain ruffled with pines, and perpetually clamorous
with torrents. All that Mr. Rochester said, every gesture, these were
but the ghosts of words and movements. Behind them, gloomy,
imperturbable, withdrawn, slumbered a strange, smouldering power. I
began to see how very hotly Jane must love him, she who loved above
all things storm, the winds of the equinox, the illimitable night-sky.
She begged him to take a little wine with me, and filled his glass
till it burned like a ruby between their hands.
"It paints both our hands!" she cried glancing up at him.
"Ay, Janet," he answered; "but where is yours?"
"And what goal will you make for when you leave us," she enquired of
me. "_Is_ there anywhere else?" she added, lifting her slim eyebrows.
"I shall put trust in Chance," I replied, "which at least is steadfast
in change. So long as it does not guide me back, I care not how far
forward I go."
"You are right," she answered; "that is a puissant battlecry, here and
hereafter."
Mr. Rochester rose hastily from his chair.
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