"The candles irk me, Jane.
I would like to be alone. Excuse me, sir." He left the room.
Jane lifted a dark curtain and beckoned me to bring the lights. She
sat down before a little piano and desired me to sit beside her. And
while she played, I know not what, but only it seemed old,
well-remembered airs her mood suggested, she asked me many questions.
"And am I indeed only like that poor mad thing you thought Jane Eyre?"
she said, "or did you read between?"
I answered that it was not her words, not even her thoughts, not even
her poetry that was to me Jane Eyre.
"What then is left of me?" she enquired, stooping her eyes over the
keys and smiling darkly. "Am I indeed so evanescent, a wintry wraith?"
"Well," I said, "Jane Eyre is left."
She pressed her lips together. "I see," she said brightly. "But then,
was I not detestable too? so stubborn, so wilful, so demented,
so--vain?"
"You were vain," I answered, "because--"
"Well?" she said, and the melody died out, and the lower voices of her
music complained softly on.
"For a barrier," I answered.
"A barrier?" she cried.
Pages:
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36