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little Adele had tapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had
sought me. 'Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes,' I
murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over an
obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were
feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to the
ground; an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up- I was supported by
Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold.
'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