“I did,” Rochester answered. “It was a mistake.”
“You cannot tell,” she said. “I know that you mistrust him. You are very, very English, dear Henry, and you have so little sympathy with those things which you do not understand—which do come, perhaps, a little near what you call charlatanism. Still, though you may deny it as much as you like, there are many, many things in the world—things, even, in connection with our daily lives, which are absolutely, wonderfully mysterious. There are new things to be learned, Henry. Bertrand Saton may be a self-deceiver. He may even deserve all the hard things you can say of him, but there are cleverer people than you and I who do not think so.”
“Dear,” Rochester answered, “I did not bring you here to talk of Bertrand Saton. To tell you the truth,” he added, “I even hate to hear his name upon your lips.”
There was no time for her to answer. From the shadow of the rock against which they leaned, he rose with a subtle alertness which seemed somehow a little uncanny—as though, indeed, he had risen from under the ground upon which they stood.
“I heard my name,” he said. “Forgive me if I am interrupting you. I had no wish to play the eavesdropper.”
Pauline took a quick step backwards. Even in that tense moment of surprise, Rochester found himself able to notice the color fading from her cheeks. He turned upon the newcomer, and there was something like fury in his tone.
“What the devil are you doing here, Saton?” he asked.
Saton’s tone was almost apologetic.
“I did not know,” he said, “that I was forbidden to walk upon your lands. I am often here, and this is my favorite hour.”
Rochester laughed, a little harshly.