All language subtitles for Jane Eyre (1973 ) s1e2.en

What a deuce is to do now!

You great brute, how the devil did you?

Get away, pilot!

Oh dear heaven!

Had he been a handsome, heroic young
gentleman, I should not have dared to

address him, but his frown and the roughness
of his manner set me at once at my ease.

If you're injured, sir, I can fetch help
either from Thornfield Hall or the village.

Thank you, I shall do.

I have no broken bones, only a sprain.

You may go on.

I cannot think of leaving you, sir, until
I see you are fit to mount your horse.

I should think you ought to be at home if
you have a neighborhood.

Are you a sprite or an elf to be out so
late?

I'm a governess, sir.

Where?

From just below.

And I'm not at all afraid of being out
late when it's moonlight.

The devil you're not.

I'll gladly run over to Hay for you.

Indeed I was going there to post a letter.

You live just below, the house with the
battlements?

Yes.

Whose house is it?

Mr. Rochester's.

Do you know him?

No, I've never seen him.

Hmm, the governess.

Do you take me if I'm not forgotten?

The governess.

No, I cannot commission
you to fetch help, but

you may help me a
little if you'll be so kind.

Your shoulder.

Only necessity you understand compels me
to make you useful.

Hey, hey, hold still.

Thank you.

I make haste to post your letter and
return as fast as you can.

All three vanished.

The incident had occurred and was gone for
me.

An incident of no moment.

Yet it marked a change.

My help had been needed and claimed.

Trivial, transitory, though
the deed was, it was yet an

active thing and I was weary
of an existence all passive.

Pilot?

Yes, miss.

Whose dog is this?

He came with Master, Mr. Rochester.

He's just arrived.

Indeed.

And is Mrs. Fairfax with him?

And Mrs. Adela.

They're in the drawing room now.

John's gone fit surgeon, but Master's had
an accident.

His horse fell and his ankle sprained.

Slipped on some ash, they say.

Did it.

Oh, Leah, fetch me a candle, will you?

Directly, miss.

Leah?

Where's Leah?

Oh, Miss Jane, have you heard?

Mr. Rochester has come home.

So unexpected.

Yes, sir, I believe.

He's had an accident and I'm going to get
him some Brandy.

Oh dear, such a to-do.

Leah!

Leah!

Mais mon ami, Mr. Edward Rochester,
il a parlé de vous, mademoiselle.

Adela, we are speaking English today.

He asked me the name of my governess.

He asked me, not ask.

Asked is the past tense.

Écoutez-moi, mademoiselle Jeannette, il m'a
demandé si vous étiez une petite personne.

J 'AI répondu qui?

For it is true, you are a little,
are you not?

Yes.

Now Adela, I want you... Wait,
he's coming out of the library.

I hear him.

Oh, Adela!

She's so excited today, she can speak of
nothing but Mr. Rochester.

Hush child, you'll see Mr. Rochester soon
enough.

He's promised her a present apparently.

Her boîte, she calls it.

Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and
your pupil will take tea with him.

He has been so much engaged today that he
couldn't ask to see you before.

When is his tea time?

Six o 'clock.

He keeps early hours in the country.

You'd better change your frock.

So in life, for Mr. Rochester,
be like Grand Cuckoo.

Adela, you must not speak so.

Is it necessary to change?

Oh, yes.

I always dress for the evening when Mr.
Rochester is here.

This additional ceremony seems somewhat
stately.

However, I replaced my black stuff dress
by another of black silk.

The only additional one I had,
except one of light gray, which in my

low-wood notions of
toilette, I thought too

fine to be worn except
on first-rate occasions.

Here is Miss Eyre, sir.

Let Miss Eyre be seated.

I sat down quite disembarrassed.

A reception of Finnish politeness would
probably have confused me, but harsh

caprice such as this laid me under no
obligation.

The eccentricity of the proceedings was
piquant.

I simply studied my traveler of the night
before.

Pray accept my condolences, sir,
on the pressure of business you have had

to endure today, particularly
as your Clearly, Mrs.

Fairfax's kindly but trite
observations pained him more.

Madam, I should like some tea.

Oh, of course, sir.

You've been resident in my house three
months.

Miss Eyre.

Yes, sir.

Mrs. Fairfax, have the goodness to amuse
this child.

She thinks of naught but presence.

Come, Adele.

Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre?

No, sir.

I have little experience of them.

And like Adele, I have
less confidence in my

desserts and no claim
being a stranger to you.

Oh, don't fall back on over, Modesty.

I've examined Adele and find you've taken
great pains with her.

She has no talents, but she's made much
improvement.

Sir, you have given me my present.

The mead teachers covered most praise of
their pupils' progress.

And you come from where?

Lowood School, sir, in the West Riding.

Oh, a charitable concern.

How long were you there?

Eight years.

Eight?

You must be tenacious of life.

I'd have thought half the time in such a
place would have done up any Constitution.

No wonder you have the look of another
world.

Bring Miss Eyre her cup, too, if you
please.

Adele?

When you came on me in Hay Lane last night,
I thought unaccountably of fairy tales.

I had half a mind to demand whether you
had bewitched my horse, had you?

No, sir.

I've promptly spoken.

Do I believe you?

Who are your parents?

I have none.

Nor ever had, I suppose.

Do you remember them?

No, sir.

I thought not.

So you were waiting for your people when I
saw you in the Lane.

For whom, sir?

For the men in green.

It was a proper moonlight evening for
them.

Did I break through
one of your rings that

you spread that damn
dice on the courseway?

The men in green, all for silk England a
hundred years ago.

Not even in Hay Lane or the fields about
it would you find a trace of them.

I don't think summer, harvest or winter
moon will ever shine on their revels more.

So no kinsfolk of any sort?

No, sir.

No aunts, uncles, cousins?

No.

Who recommended you to come here?

I advertised and Mrs Fairfax answered my
advertisement.

Yes, and I am daily thankful for the
choice Providence led me to make.

Miss Eyre has been an
invaluable companion to

me and a kind and
careful teacher to Adele.

Oh don't trouble yourself to give her a
character.

I shall judge for myself.

She began by felling my horse.

Sir?

I have to thank her for this sprain.

Oh, I'm sure not.

No, but I am.

Monsieur, I just... Mrs Fairfax,
I charged you to amuse Adele.

Oh yes, come, come, child.

I cannot endure her prattle.

Too like a mother.

Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?

No, sir.

Have you seen much of society?

None but the pupils and teachers at
Lowood.

And now the inmates of Thornfield.

Have you read much?

Only such books as came my way.

They have not been numerous or very
learned.

You've lived the life of a nun.

No doubt you're well drilled in religious
forms.

Brocklehurst, who I understand erects
Lowood, is a parson, is he not?

Yes.

You girls probably worshipped him as a common
religious would worship their director.

Oh no.

You're very cool.

No.

What, a novice not worship her priest?

That sounds blasphemous.

He starved us when he
had sold superintendents

of the school before the
committee was appointed.

And he bored us with long lectures once a
week.

He is a harsh man at once pompous and
meddling.

I disliked him.

I was not alone in the feeling.

Hold it straight, child.

Hold it straight.

How old are you, Miss Eyre?

18, sir.

Point difficult to fix in your case.

Such freshness of feature.

Alive to so decisive a spirit.

Now, what did you learn at school?

Can you play the piano?

A little, sir.

And the established answer?

Go into the library.

I mean, if you please.

You must excuse my tone of command.

I'm used to saying, do this and it's done.

I cannot alter my customary habits for one
new inmate of Thornfield.

And take a candle with you.

Leave the door open.

Sit down at the piano and play a tune.

Like any other English schoolgirl?

Perhaps you play better than some
schoolgirls, but not well.

I said I played a little, sir.

Yes.

Adele showed me some sketches this
morning.

She said they were yours.

I don't know whether they were entirely
your doing.

Probably a master aided you.

No, indeed.

Ah, that pricks pride.

Well, fetch your portfolio, if you can
vouch for its contents being original.

I warn you, I can recognize patchwork.

I did not doubt him.

He seemed at some pains to expose his
worldliness to my inexperience.

No crowding.

Mrs Fairfax, take these others to the
table.

You may look at them with Adele.

Thank you.

Where did you get your copies?

Out of my head, sir.

And that head I see on your shoulders?

I have no other.

Has it more furniture of the same kind
within?

I should think it may have.

I should Yes, it was the vacation.

I sat at them from morning till noon and
from noon till night.

The length of the midsummer days favored
my inclination to apply.

And were you happy?

I was absorbed, sir.

Yes, I was happy.

To paint them was to enjoy one of the
keenest pleasures I've ever known.

That's not saying much.

Your pleasures by your own account have
been few.

I dare say you did exist in a kind of
artist dreamland.

Did you feel self-satisfied with these
results of your long labors?

Far from it.

I was tormented between my idea and my
handiwork.

In each case I'd imagine something...
something I was quite powerless to realize.

Not quite.

You've secured the shadow of your thought.

You've not enough skill to give it full
being.

Yet these are for a cool girl,
peculiar.

As to the thoughts, they are elfish.

And who taught you to paint wind?

There's a high Gale in that sky.

And that hilltop is Latmos.

Where did you see Latmos?

There.

Put them away.

It's nine o'clock.

What are you about, Miss Eyre?

To let Adele sit up so long?

Take her to bed.

I wish you all good night.

Off with you.

I am so accustomed to his manner I never
think of it.

You find him changeful and abrupt.

Then?

No doubt to a stranger he would appear so.

But allowances should be made.

Why?

He has had family troubles which no doubt
harass him.

But he has no family.

Not now.

He lost both his father and his elder
brother a few years since.

His elder brother?

Yes.

The present Mr. Rochester hasn't been long
in possession of the property.

Some nine years.

But nine years is a tolerable time.

Was he so very fond of his brothers to be
inconsolable at his loss?

Well perhaps not.

I believe there were some
misunderstandings between them.

His brother Mr. Rowland
Rochester was not quite just to our

Mr. Edward and perhaps he
prejudiced his father against him.

The old gentleman was fond of money and
anxious to keep the family estate together.

He didn't like to diminish the property by
division and yet he was anxious that Mr.

Edward should have wealth too.

So soon after he came of age some steps
were taken which weren't quite fair to Mr.

Edward and greatly affected his future.

In what way?

I've never clearly known.

He broke with his family, led an unsettled
life.

I don't think he's been
resident here for a fortnight

together since he became
master of the estate.

He shuns the old place.

But why should he own it?

Perhaps he finds it gloomy.

Good night, madame.

Monsieur de Rochester!

Monsieur de Rochester!

Sometimes he acknowledged my presence.

Sometimes not.

His changes of mood did
not offend me because I

saw that I had nothing
to do with their alteration.

He did not see me.

Oh, he had company.

Adele, you mustn't cry.

He is not my friend anymore and next time
I see him I won't see him.

Yes, your cadeau at last, you genuine
daughter of Paris.

Take it into a corner and amuse yourself
disemboweling it and don't bother me with

any of the anatomical details now nor the
condition of the entrails.

Tiens, toi, tranquille, enfant.

Come forward, misère.

Why hang back?

Be seated.

Old bachelor that I am, I do not care for
this whole company of children.

But don't draw that chair further off.

Sit down exactly where I placed it.

If you please, that is.

Confound these civilities.

I'm continually forgetting them.

Nor do I affect simple-minded old ladies
but it won't do to neglect Mrs. Fairfax.

I dare say you believe in propriety,
misère.

We've not spoken once.

No, sir.

Why not?

You did not appear to require an answer.

Till now.

Madam, I sent you for a charitable
purpose.

I forbidden Adele to talk to me about her
presence and she's bursting with repletion.

Have the goodness to entertain and absorb
her enthusiasm.

It will be one of the most benevolent acts
you've ever performed.

With pleasure, sir.

Mrs. Fairfax, please, you must help me.

Oh yes, child, yes.

Now, having performed
the part of host, I ought

to be at Liberty to attend
to my own pleasures.

Miser, you're yet too far back.

I cannot see you without disturbing my
position in this comfortable chair,

which I have There.

You've been examining me all this while,
have you not?

Do not demur, you have.

Well, do you find me handsome?

Oh, no, sir.

Ah.

By my word, there's something singular
about you.

You have the air of a little nonet.

Quaint, quiet, grave.

You sit there, your hands before you and
your eyes generally bent upon the carpet,

except just now when they were directed
piercingly to my face.

And when one asks a question or makes a
remark to which you're bound to reply,

you rap out a rejoinder, which if not
blunt is at least brusque.

What do you mean by it?

Sir, I was too plain.

I beg your pardon.

Do you?

I ought to have replied that it is not
easy to give an impromptu answer about

appearances, that tastes mostly different,
that beauty is of little consequence.

Something of that sort?

You ought to Instead of softening the
previous outrage, of stroking and soothing

me into placidity, you stick a sly
penknife under my ear.

Oh, go on.

What fault do you find with me,
pray?

I suppose I have all my limbs and features
like any other man.

Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first
answer.

I intended no pointed repartee.

It was only a blunder.

Just so, and you should be answerable for
it.

Decidedly, he's had too much wine,
I thought.

He's more expansive and genial than in his
frigid and rigid temper of the mornings.

He still looked preciously grim,
however.

Criticise me.

Does my forehead please you or not?

Is it low enough to prove me a fool?

Far from it, sir.

You would perhaps think
me rude if I inquired in return

whether those bumps indicate
that you are a philanthropist.

There, again.

Another stick of the penknife.

And she pretended to pat my head.

And that because lobby had spoken.

I said I did not like the society of
children and old women.

No, young lady, I'm not a general
philanthropist.

Though I do bear a conscience.

And I once had a kind of rude tenderness
of heart when I was as old as you.

But fortune has since kneaded me with her
knuckles.

And now I flatter myself I am as tough as
an Indian rubber ball.

But with one point of feeling left in the
middle of the lump.

Yes.

Does that leave hope for me?

Hope of what, sir?

A puzzled air becomes you.

Though you are no more pretty than I am
handsome.

Miss Eyre, you puzzled me the first
evening I invited you down.

I'd almost forgotten you since.

Other ideas have driven yours from my
head.

But tonight I'm resolved to be at ease.

Gregarious, communicative.

To dismiss what importunes and to recall
what pleases.

It would please me now to draw you out.

To learn more of you.

Therefore speak.

Instead of speaking I smiled.

Not a very submissive smile either.

Speak.

What about, sir?

Whatever you like.

I leave the choice of subject and the
manner of treating it entirely to yourself.

Accordingly I sat and said nothing.

If he expects me to talk for
the mere sake of talking and

showing off, you will find he
has addressed the wrong person.

You are dumb, Miss Eyre.

Kelly Bell!

Hmm.

Stubborn and annoyed.

It is consistent.

Miss Eyre, I beg your pardon.

The fact is I don't wish to treat you as
an inferior.

At least I only claim such
superiority as must result from 20

years' difference in age and a
century's advance in experience.

That is legitimate, surely.

He had designed an explanation,
almost an apology.

To such I would reply.

Sir, I am willing to amuse you if I can.

But I cannot introduce a topic since I do
not know what will interest you.

Ask me questions and I will do my best to
answer them.

Yes, I shall.

In the first place, do you
agree that my superiority in age

and experience grants me
the right to be a little masterful?

Abrupt sometimes.

Do as you please.

That's no answer.

At least if it is, it is irritating and
evasive.

Reply clearly.

I do not think you have the right to command
me merely because you are older than I.

Do you not?

No, more because you have seen more of the
world than I have.

Your claim to superiority
must depend on the

use you have made of
that time and experience.

Pointedly spoken.

But it would never suit my case to allow
it.

Since I have made an indifferent,
not to say bad, use of both advantages.

Or leaving superiority to one side.

Do you agree to receive my orders without
being piqued by the tone of command?

Mr. Rochester was certainly peculiar.

He seemed to forget he paid me £30 per
annum for receiving his orders.

The smile is all very well, but speak too.

I was thinking that few masters would
trouble to inquire whether their paid

subordinates were hurt or piqued by their
orders.

Sir?

Paid subordinates?

I've forgotten your salary.

Well, on that mercenary ground, will
you agree to let me Hector you a little?

No, not on that ground, but on the other.

That you did forget the salary
and that you do care whether

or not a dependent is
comfortable in his dependency.

I agree heartily.

Then you consent to dispense with the
great many conventional forms and phrases

without thinking the omission arises from
insolence.

Oh, I'm sure, sir, I should never mistake
informality for insolence.

One I rather like.

The other?

Nothing free-born would submit to,
even for a salary.

Humbug!

Most things free-born will submit to
anything for a salary.

That may be your experience, sir.

It will not be mine.

You venture on generalities of which you
are intensely ignorant.

Keep them to yourself.

But I mentally shake hands with you for
your answer, despite its inaccuracy.

Not three in three thousand
raw schoolgirl governesses

would have answered
me as you've just done.

Stupid, coarse-minded misunderstanding is
the usual reward of candour.

Or affectation.

Your manner was frank and sincere.

But I don't want to flatter you.

If you were cast in a different mould from
the majority, it's no merit of yours.

Nature did it.

Oh, of course, sir.

Naturally.

Ah, the penknife again.

Perhaps I go too fast in my conclusions
about you.

For all I yet know, you
may have intolerable

defects to counterbalance
your good points.

And so may you, I thought.

Oh, sir, it is past Adelle's bedtime.

But she's gone.

She would not go.

And I can tell you where and what to do.

Her toilette, as she calls it.

She pulled out of the box a few moments
ago.

A pink frock.

A rapture lit her face.

Cocketry runs in her blood, blends with her
brains and seasons the marrow of her bones.

She's now with Sophie undergoing a robing
process.

Soon she will re-enter a miniature of her
mother, Céline Varon.

As she used to appear on the boards at the
rising of...

Never mind that.

However, my tenderest feelings are about
to receive a shock.

I require you, if you will, to help me
support it.

Is that an order, sir?

Yes.

But put as considerably as I may be able.

Then I will stay.

Thank you.

You were thinking that I, too,
might have defects, were you not?

Ah, yes.

I begin to read you, Miss Eyre.

You're right.

I have plenty.

Like other defaulters, I like to lay the
blame on ill fortune, adverse circumstances.

I was thrust on the wrong
tack at one and twenty

and have never recovered
the right course since.

I envy you, your peace of mind, your
unpolluted memory, your clean conscience.

How was your memory when you were
eighteen, sir?

Limpid.

No gush of bilge water had turned it into
a foetid puddle.

I was your equal at eighteen.

Quite your equal, Miss Eyre.

You would say I should have been superior
to my circumstances.

At least I see as much in your eye.

Beware, by the way, what you express with
that organ.

I'm quick to interpret its language.

And so I should have been superior to my
circumstances.

But I was not.

When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom
to remain cool.

I turned desperate, then degenerate.

Dread remorse when you were tempted to
err.

Remorse is the poison of life,
Miss Eyre.

Repentance is said to be its cure.

Reformation may be.

Yet what is the use of thinking of it?

Burdened, cursed as I am.

But since happiness is denied me, I
have the right to get pleasure out of life.

And I will get it, cost what it may.

Then you will degenerate still more,
sir?

Possibly.

Yet why should I when I can get fresh,
sweet pleasure?

As sweet and fresh as the honey of the
wild bee gathers on the moor.

It will sting.

It will taste bitter.

How do you know?

You never tried it.

I only remind you of your own words.

You said error brings remorse.

Who talks of error now?

I scarcely think the notion that flitted
across my brain was in error.

No, it's an inspiration, not a temptation.

No devil.

Or if it be, it is put on the robes of an
angel of light.

It is not a true angel, sir.

Distrust it.

No, I must admit.

So fair a guess to my heart.

Come in, Bonnie Wanderer.

To speak truth, sir, I don't understand
you at all.

I'm sure not.

Yet from this moment, Miss Eyre,
my pursuits and associates will be other.

Better than they have been.

I know now what my aim is and what my
motives are.

And I pass a law unalterable that both are
right.

They cannot be, sir, if they require a new
statute to legalize them.

Unheard of circumstances demand unheard of
rules.

A dangerous Maxim.

One can see at once it is liable to abuse.

We are human and fallible, sir,
and should not arrogate a power.

Power?

What power?

That of saying of any strange,
unsanctioned line of action.

Let it be right.

Such power belongs only to God.

Let it be right.

The very words.

You have pronounced them.

You shrink me, sir.

Are you afraid of me because I talk like a
sphinx?

You are enigmatical, sir.

Your words bewilder me, but I'm not
afraid.

You are?

You are.

Your self-love dreads a blunder.

In that sense, I do feel apprehensive.

I have no wish to talk nonsense.

If you did, it would be in such a quiet,
grave manner.

I should probably mistake it for sense.

Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre?

Believe me, you're not naturally austere.

Your schooling clings to you.

But I believe in time you will be natural
with me.

I see in you at intervals a vivid,
restless soul.

Now caged about with close-set bars.

But were it set free, it would soar
cloud-high.

Adieu.

Precisely.

And, comme cela,
your mother charmed my

English gold out of my
British breech's pocket.

Good night, ladies.

I took so much care to please him.

Good night, Grace.

Good night, sir.

Good night.

Though Mr Rochester talked strangely at
times, I always felt I understood him.

Not in the mere matter of his words.

There I was frequently at a loss,
but in their innermost beginnings.

His manner to Adele certainly puzzled me.

He appeared to abhor an object he had
suckered.

And his talk of his earlier life was an
enigma still.

He did not seem to be a good man.

And yet...

Vous l'aimez?

Oui, c'est joli.

Mais... où est le Nez?

Did you hear that strange laugh,
Mrs Fairfax?

It seemed to come from above.

Then a door slammed.

Leah and Grace Poole probably.

But Leah's behind you.

Oh, so she is.

There's no... there's no ghost at
Thornfield.

None that I've ever heard of.

Nor any traditions of one.

No legends or stories.

I believe not.

Though it is said that the Rochester's
have been rather violent in their time.

Grace.

Ma'am.

Too much noise.

Remember your directions.

Yes, ma'am.

Mrs Poole sleeps above.

I thought all the servants... She's
not popular with the other servants.

Though she does well enough.

Plain sewing.

Would she laugh in that fashion?

I dare say.

Leah, take Mrs Poole's bedding down.

Mademoiselle Jeanette, c'est fini.

Her mother deceived me as she'd deceived
others before me.

My rival for her costly charms was, I
discovered, a young... rouet of a vicante.

Brainless.

Vicious.

I encountered him the following morning in
the Bois de Boulogne.

Where I had the pleasure of leaving a
bullet in one of his poor, etiolated arms.

Viens me voir sur la balançoire,
Sophie.

And then you left Paris?

Yes.

You will now doubtless think differently
of your post and protégé.

Governance to the illegitimate offspring
of a French opera girl.

No.

Adele is not answerable for her mother's
faults.

Or yours, sir.

She's not my fault, Miss Eyre.

I disclaim paternity.

No blood of mine runs in that child's
veins.

I'm not her father.

But her mother abandoned her to the slime
and mud of Paris.

I merely, for charity's sake, implanted
her to grow up clean here.

So, do you now beg me to look out for a
new governance?

Why, sir?

Which should I prefer?

Some spoilt pet of a wealthy family who
despise her governance?

Or an orphan such as Adele, abandoned by
her mother and disowned by you?

Is that how you view it?

It is, sir.

Hmm.

I like this day.

That sky of steel.

I like Thornfield.

Its antiquity, its gray facade.

And yet how long have I abhorred the very
thought of it?

Shunned it like a great plague house.

Now I do still abhor it.

Loathe it.

He was silent.

Within him, pain.

Or was it shame and disgust seemed to hold
a quivering conflict?

I will like it.

I dare like it.

I will break every obstacle to happiness
and...

Yes.

To goodness.

Forgive me, Miss Eyre.

I was arranging a point with my destiny.

She stood there like a witch.

You like Thornfield, she said,
pointing her finger.

And then wrote in air in lurid
hieroglyphics all along the house front.

Like it if you dare.

Do you dare, sir?

I do.

Despite her warning?

Though hell should gape before me,
Miss Eyre.

Good day.

And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes?

No.

The confidence he had thought fit to repose
in me seemed a tribute to my discretion.

His changes of mood, his
harshnesses, were never

directed at me, but at his
former faults and associates.

Yet what alienated him from the house?

Would he leave again soon?

Mrs. Fairfax said he rarely stayed longer
than a fortnight.

He had now remained eight weeks.

Mademoiselle Eyre!

Mademoiselle Eyre!

Suppose he were to go.

How joyless Thornfield would become.

Who is it?

Pilate?

But sleep remained far from me that night,
even though an unbroken hush, save for the

clock in the hall below, now reigned
throughout the house.

Who's there?

Was that Grace Poole?

Is she possessed with a devil?

Mr. Rochester!

Wake!

Wake, sir!

Is there a flood?

No, sir, but there is.

a... In the name of all the elves
in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?

Have you plotted to burn or drown me?

I'll fetch a candle, sir.

What have you done with me, you witch?

You sorceress.

I heard a strange laugh.

I... Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?

What the deuce could she do?

But you must discover who did it,
sir.

Yes.

Can you remain still without a candle?

Yes, sir.

Don't move or call anyone.

I shall not be long.

I did not see the use of staying.

I was on the point of risking Mr.
Rochester's displeasure by disobeying.

I've found it all out.

It's as I thought.

How, sir?

I forget whether you said you saw anything
when you opened your door.

Only a candle.

But you heard an odd laugh.

You've heard that laugh before,
I should think, or something like it.

Yes.

There's a woman who sews here,
Grace Poole.

She laughs in that fashion.

She is a singular person.

Just so, you guessed it, Grace Poole.

Now, you're no talking fool, are you,
so say nothing of this.

I will account for it.

Return to your room.

I shall do very well on the sofa in the
library.

Good night, then, sir.

What, you're quitting me already?

But you said I might go.

But not without a word or two of goodwill.

Not in that short, brief, dry fashion.

Why, you saved my life.

Saved me from a horrible and excruciating
death.

And now you propose to go as if we're
mutual strangers.

At least shake hands.

I have pleasure in owing you so immense a
debt.

Good night, sir.

There is no debt.

I knew.

I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld
you.

What, sir?

That you would revive some goodness in me.

Your eyes.

That expression did not... did not strike
delight to my inmost heart for nothing.

And people talk of natural sympathies.

I've heard of good genie, and there are
grains of truth in the wildest fable.

I Cherish Preserver.

Good night.

You're cold.

Go, then.

I will, sir, when you release my hand.

Your hand.

Good night, sir.

Yes.

Good night.

Jane.