And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that flittered across my brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration rather than a temptation: it was very genial, very soothingI know that. Here it comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart.Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal thronebetween a guide and a seducer?I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said the suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more misery if you listen to it.Not at allit bears the most gracious message in the world: for the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so dont make yourself uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wanderer!He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.Now, he continued, again addressing me, I have received the pilgrima disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good: my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine.
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About Charlotte Bront, Jane Eyre
Charlotte Bront, Jane Eyre.