He turned toward her in surprise.
“Why, certainly not,” he answered. “Have we to go on anywhere?”
She shook her head.
“No!” she said. “Only I feel I’d like to talk to you for a little time, if you don’t mind. It’s nothing very much,” she continued, nervously twisting her handkerchief between her fingers.
“I’ll come home with pleasure,” Rochester interrupted. “Don’t look so scared,” he added, patting the back of her hand gently. “You know very well, if there is any little trouble, I shall be delighted to help you out.”
She did not remove her hand, but she looked out of the window. What she wanted to say seemed harder than ever. And after all, was it worth while? It would mean giving up a very agreeable side to life. It would mean—Her thoughts suddenly changed their course. Once more she was sitting upon that very uncomfortable bench in the great city hall. Once more she felt that curious new sensation, some answering vibration in her heart to the wonderful, passionate words which were bringing tears to the eyes not only of the women, but of the men, by whom she was surrounded. No, it was not an art, this—a trick! No acting was great enough to have touched the hearts of all this time and sin-hardened multitude. It was the truth—simply the truth.
“It isn’t exactly a little thing, Henry. I’ll tell you about it when we get home.”
No, it was no little thing, Rochester thought to himself, as he stood upon the hearthrug of her boudoir, and listened to the woman who sat on the end of the sofa a few feet away as she talked to him. Sometimes her eyes were raised to his—eyes whose color seemed more beautiful because of the tears in them. Sometimes her head was almost buried in her hands. But she talked all the time—an odd, disconnected sort of monologue, half confession, half appeal. There was little in it which seemed of any great moment, and yet to Rochester it was as though he were face to face with a tragedy. This woman was asking him much!
“I know so well,” she said, “what a useless, frivolous, miserable sort of life mine has been, and I know so well that I haven’t made the least attempt, Henry, to be a good wife to you. That wasn’t altogether my fault, was it?” she asked pleadingly. “Do tell me that.”