“No： you are very well； and much improved of late； and Mr. Rochester， I daresay， is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of pet of his. There are times when， for your sake， I have been a little uneasy at his marked preference， and have wished to put you on your guard： but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I knew such an idea would shock， perhaps offend you； and you were so discreet， and so thoroughly modest and sensible， I hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself. Last night I cannot tell you what I suffered when I sought all over the house， and could find you nowhere， nor the master either； and then， at twelve o’clock， saw you come in with him.”
“Well， never mind that now，” I interrupted impatiently；“it is enough that all was right.”
“I hope all will be right in the end，” she said：“but believe me， you cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance： distrust yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses.”
I was growing truly irritated： happily， Adèle ran in.
“Let me go，—let me go to Millcote too！” she cried. “Mr. Rochester won’t： though there is so much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go mademoiselle.”
“That I will， Adèle；” and I hastened away with her， glad to quit my gloomy monitress. The carriage was ready： they were bringing it round to the front， and my master was the pavement， Pilot following him backwards and forwards.
“Adèle may accompany us， may she not， sir？”
“I told her no. I’ll have no brats！—I’ll have only you.”
“Do let her go， Mr. Rochester， if you please： it would be better.”
“Not it： she will be a restraint.”
He was quite peremptory， both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs. Fairfax’s warnings， and the damp of her doubts were upon me： something of unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense of power over him. I was about mechanically to obey him， without further remonstrance； but as he helped me into the carriage， he looked at my face.
“What is the matter？” he asked；“all the sunshine is gone. Do you really wish the bairn to go？ Will it annoy you if she is left behind？”
“I would far rather she went， sir.”
“Then off for your bonnet， and back like a flash of lightning！”cried he to Adèle.
She obeyed him with what speed she might.
“After all， a single morning’s interruption will not matter much，” said he， “when I mean shortly to claim you—your thoughts， conversation， and company—for life.”
Adèle， when lifted in， commenced kissing me， by way of expressing her gratitude for my intercession： she was instantly stowed away into a corner on the other side of him. She then peeped round to where I sat； so stern a neighbour was too restrictive to him， in his present fractious mood， she dared whisper no observations， nor ask of him any information.
“Let her come to me，” I entreated：“she will， perhaps， trouble you， sir： there is plenty of room on this side.”
He handed her over as if she had been a lapdog. “I’ll send her to school yet，” he said， but now he was smiling.
Adèle heard him， and asked if she was to go to school “sans mademoiselle？”
“Yes，” he replied， “absolutely sans mademoiselle； for I am to take mademoiselle to the moon， and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white valleys among the volcano-tops， and mademoiselle shall live with me there， and only me.”
“She will have nothing to eat： you will starve her，” observed Adèle.
“I shall gather manna for her morning and night： the plains and hillsides in the moon are bleached with manna， Adèle.”
“She will want to warm herself： what will she do for a fire？”
“Fire rises out of the lunar mountains： when she is cold， I’llcarry her up to a peak， and lay her down on the edge of a crater.”
“Oh， qu’ elle y sera mal—peu comfortable！ And her clothes，they will wear out： how can she get new ones？”
Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. “Hem！” said he. “What would you do， Adèle？ Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown， do you think？ And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out of a rainbow.”
“She is far better as she is，” concluded Adèle， after musing some time：“besides， she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I were mademoiselle， I would never consent to go with you.”
“She has consented： she has pledged her word.”
“But you can’t get her there； there is no road to the moon： it is all air； and neither you nor she can fly.”
“Adèle， look at that field.” We were now outside Thornfield gates， and bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote， where the dust was well laid by the thunderstorm， and， where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on each side glistened green and rain-refreshed.
“In that field， Adèle， I was walking late one evening about a fortnight since—the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows； and， as I was tired with raking swaths， I sat down to rest me on a stile； and there I took out a little book anda pencil， and began to write about a misfortune that befell me long ago， and a wish I had for happy days to come： I was writing away very fast， though daylight was fading from the leaf， when something came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come near me； it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it， and it never spoke to me， in words； but I read its eyes， and it read mine； and our speechless colloquy was to this effect—
“It was a fairy， and come from Elf-land， it said； and its errandwas to make me happy： I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place—such as the moon， for instance—and it nodded its head towards her horn， rising over Hay-hill： it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. I said I should like to go； but reminded it， as you did me， that I had no wings to fly.
