Jane Eyre did none of these things. As soon as she was aware of her passion for Mr. Rochester she thrust it down into the pocket of her voluminous mid-Victorian skirt and sat on it. Instead of languishing and fainting where Rochester could see her, she held her head rather higher than usual, and practised the spirited arts of retort and repartee. And nobody gave her any credit for it. Then Rochester puts the little thing (poor Jane was only eighteen when it happened) to the torture, and, with the last excruciating turn of the thumbscrew, she confesses. That was the enormity that was never forgiven her.
"'You'll like Ireland, I think,'" says Rochester in his torturing mood; "'they are such kind-hearted people there.'
"'It is a long way off, sir.'
"'No matter, a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance.'
"'Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier.'
"'From what, Jane?'
"'From England and from Thornfield, and—'
"'Well?'
"'From you, sir.'"
She had done it. She had said, or almost said the words.