I both
wished and feared to see Mr.
Rochester on the day which followed
this sleepless night: I wanted
to hear his voice again, yet
feared to meet his eye. During
the early part of the morning,
I momentarily expected his coming;
he was not in the frequent habit
of entering the schoolroom, but
he did step in for a few minutes
sometimes, and I had the impression
that he was sure to visit it
that day.
But
the morning
passed just
as usual: nothing happened to
interrupt the quiet course of
Adele's studies; only soon after
breakfast, I heard some bustle
in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester's
chamber, Mrs. Fairfax's voice,
and Leah's, and the cook's--that
is, John's wife--and even John's
own gruff tones. There were exclamations
of "What a mercy master was not
burnt in his bed!" "It is always
dangerous to keep a candle lit
at night." "How providential
that he had presence of mind
to think of the water-jug!" "I
wonder he waked nobody!" "It
is to be hoped he will not take
cold with sleeping on the library
sofa," &c.
To much confabulation succeeded
a sound of scrubbing and setting
to rights; and when I passed
the room, in going downstairs
to dinner, I saw through the
open door that all was again
restored to complete order; only
the bed was stripped of its hangings.
Leah stood up in the window-seat,
rubbing the panes of glass dimmed
with smoke. I was about to address
her, for I wished to know what
account had been given of the
affair: but, on advancing, I
saw a second person in the chamber--a
woman sitting on a chair by the
bedside, and sewing rings to
new curtains. That woman was
no other than Grace Poole.
There
she sat, staid
and taciturn-looking,
as usual, in her brown stuff
gown, her check apron, white
handkerchief, and cap. She was
intent on her work, in which
her whole thoughts seemed absorbed:
on her hard forehead, and in
her commonplace features, was
nothing either of the paleness
or desperation one would have
expected to see marking the countenance
of a woman who had attempted
murder, and whose intended victim
had followed her last night to
her lair, and (as I believed),
charged her with the crime she
wished to perpetrate. I was amazed--confounded.
She looked up, while I still
gazed at her: no start, no increase
or failure of colour betrayed
emotion, consciousness of guilt,
or fear of detection. She said "Good
morning, Miss," in her usual
phlegmatic and brief manner;
and taking up another ring and
more tape, went on with her sewing.
"I will put her to some test," thought
I: "such absolute impenetrability
is past comprehension."
"Good morning, Grace," I said. "Has
anything happened here? I thought
I heard the servants all talking
together a while ago."
"Only
master had
been reading
in his bed last night; he fell
asleep with his candle lit, and
the curtains got on fire; but,
fortunately, he awoke before
the bed-clothes or the wood-work
caught, and contrived to quench
the flames with the water in
the ewer.
"A strange affair!" I said,
in a low voice: then, looking
at her fixedly--"Did Mr. Rochester
wake nobody? Did no one hear
him move?"
She again raised her eyes to
me, and this time there was something
of consciousness in their expression.
She seemed to examine me warily;
then she answered -
"The servants sleep so far
off, you know, Miss, they would
not be likely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax's
room and yours are the nearest
to master's; but Mrs. Fairfax
said she heard nothing: when
people get elderly, they often
sleep heavy." She paused, and
then added, with a sort of assumed
indifference, but still in a
marked and significant tone--"But
you are young, Miss; and I should
say a light sleeper: perhaps
you may have heard a noise?"
"I did," said I, dropping my
voice, so that Leah, who was
still polishing the panes, could
not hear me, "and at first I
thought it was Pilot: but Pilot
cannot laugh; and I am certain
I heard a laugh, and a strange
one."
She took a new needleful of
thread, waxed it carefully, threaded
her needle with a steady hand,
and then observed, with perfect
composure -
"It
is hardly likely
master would
laugh, I should
think,
Miss, when he was in such danger:
You must have been dreaming."
"I was not dreaming," I
said, with
some warmth,
for her brazen
coolness provoked me. Again she
looked at me; and with the same
scrutinising and conscious eye.
"Have you told master that
you heard a laugh?" she inquired.
"I
have not had
the opportunity
of speaking to him this morning."
"You did not think of opening
your door and looking out into
the gallery?" she further asked.
She appeared to be cross-questioning
me, attempting to draw from me
information unawares. The idea
struck me that if she discovered
I knew or suspected her guilt,
she would be playing of some
of her malignant pranks on me;
I thought it advisable to be
on my guard.
"On the contrary," said I, "I
bolted my door."
"Then
you are not
in the habit
of bolting your door every night
before you get into bed?"
"Fiend! she wants to know my
habits, that she may lay her
plans accordingly!" Indignation
again prevailed over prudence:
I replied sharply, "Hitherto
I have often omitted to fasten
the bolt: I did not think it
necessary. I was not aware any
danger or annoyance was to be
dreaded at Thornfield Hall: but
in future" (and I laid marked
stress on the words) "I shall
take good care to make all secure
before I venture to lie down."
"It will be wise so to do," was
her answer: "this neighbourhood
is as quiet as any I know, and
I never heard of the hall being
attempted by robbers since it
was a house; though there are
hundreds of pounds' worth of
plate in the plate-closet, as
is well known. And you see, for
such a large house, there are
very few servants, because master
has never lived here much; and
when he does come, being a bachelor,
he needs little waiting on: but
I always think it best to err
on the safe side; a door is soon
fastened, and it is as well to
have a drawn bolt between one
and any mischief that may be
about. A deal of people, Miss,
are for trusting all to Providence;
but I say Providence will not
dispense with the means, though
He often blesses them when they
are used discreetly." And here
she closed her harangue: a long
one for her, and uttered with
the demureness of a Quakeress.
I still stood absolutely dumfoundered
at what appeared to me her miraculous
self-possession and most inscrutable
hypocrisy, when the cook entered.
"Mrs. Poole," said she, addressing
Grace, "the servants' dinner
will soon be ready: will you
come down?"
"No;
just put my
pint of porter
and bit of pudding on a tray,
and I'll carry it upstairs."
"You'll
have some meat?"
"Just
a morsel, and
a taste of
cheese, that's
all."
"And
the sago?"
"Never
mind it at
present: I
shall be coming
down before
teatime: I'll make it myself."
The cook here turned to me,
saying that Mrs. Fairfax was
waiting for me: so I departed.
I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's
account of the curtain conflagration
during dinner, so much was I
occupied in puzzling my brains
over the enigmatical character
of Grace Poole, and still more
in pondering the problem of her
position at Thornfield and questioning
why she had not been given into
custody that morning, or, at
the very least, dismissed from
her master's service. He had
almost as much as declared his
conviction of her criminality
last night: what mysterious cause
withheld him from accusing her?
Why had he enjoined me, too,
to secrecy? It was strange: a
bold, vindictive, and haughty
gentleman seemed somehow in the
power of one of the meanest of
his dependants; so much in her
power, that even when she lifted
her hand against his life, he
dared not openly charge her with
the attempt, much less punish
her for it.
Had
Grace been
young and handsome,
I should have been tempted to
think that tenderer feelings
than prudence or fear influenced
Mr. Rochester in her behalf;
but, hard-favoured and matronly
as she was, the idea could not
be admitted. "Yet," I reflected, "she
has been young once; her youth
would be contemporary with her
master's: Mrs. Fairfax told me
once, she had lived here many
years. I don't think she can
ever have been pretty; but, for
aught I know, she may possess
originality and strength of character
to compensate for the want of
personal advantages. Mr. Rochester
is an amateur of the decided
and eccentric: Grace is eccentric
at least. What if a former caprice
(a freak very possible to a nature
so sudden and headstrong as his)
has delivered him into her power,
and she now exercises over his
actions a secret influence, the
result of his own indiscretion,
which he cannot shake off, and
dare not disregard?" But, having
reached this point of conjecture,
Mrs. Poole's square, flat figure,
and uncomely, dry, even coarse
face, recurred so distinctly
to my mind's eye, that I thought, "No;
impossible! my supposition cannot
be correct. Yet," suggested the
secret voice which talks to us
in our own hearts, "you are not
beautiful either, and perhaps
Mr. Rochester approves you: at
any rate, you have often felt
as if he did; and last night--remember
his words; remember his look;
remember his voice!"
I well remembered all; language,
glance, and tone seemed at the
moment vividly renewed. I was
now in the schoolroom; Adele
was drawing; I bent over her
and directed her pencil. She
looked up with a sort of start.
"Qu' avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said
she. "Vos doigts tremblent comme
la feuille, et vos joues sont
rouges: mais, rouges comme des
cerises!"
"I am hot, Adele, with stooping!" She
went on sketching; I went on
thinking.
I hastened to drive from my
mind the hateful notion I had
been conceiving respecting Grace
Poole; it disgusted me. I compared
myself with her, and found we
were different. Bessie Leaven
had said I was quite a lady;
and she spoke truth--I was a
lady. And now I looked much better
than I did when Bessie saw me;
I had more colour and more flesh,
more life, more vivacity, because
I had brighter hopes and keener
enjoyments.
"Evening approaches," said
I, as I looked towards the window. "I
have never heard Mr. Rochester's
voice or step in the house to-day;
but surely I shall see him before
night: I feared the meeting in
the morning; now I desire it,
because expectation has been
so long baffled that it is grown
impatient."
When dusk actually closed,
and when Adele left me to go
and play in the nursery with
Sophie, I did most keenly desire
it. I listened for the bell to
ring below; I listened for Leah
coming up with a message; I fancied
sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester's
own tread, and I turned to the
door, expecting it to open and
admit him. The door remained
shut; darkness only came in through
the window. Still it was not
late; he often sent for me at
seven and eight o'clock, and
it was yet but six. Surely I
should not be wholly disappointed
to- night, when I had so many
things to say to him! I wanted
again to introduce the subject
of Grace Poole, and to hear what
he would answer; I wanted to
ask him plainly if he really
believed it was she who had made
last night's hideous attempt;
and if so, why he kept her wickedness
a secret. It little mattered
whether my curiosity irritated
him; I knew the pleasure of vexing
and soothing him by turns; it
was one I chiefly delighted in,
and a sure instinct always prevented
me from going too far; beyond
the verge of provocation I never
ventured; on the extreme brink
I liked well to try my skill.
Retaining every minute form of
respect, every propriety of my
station, I could still meet him
in argument without fear or uneasy
restraint; this suited both him
and me.
A tread creaked on the stairs
at last. Leah made her appearance;
but it was only to intimate that
tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax's
room. Thither I repaired, glad
at least to go downstairs; for
that brought me, I imagined,
nearer to Mr. Rochester's presence.
"You must want your tea," said
the good lady, as I joined her; "you
ate so little at dinner. I am
afraid," she continued, "you
are not well to-day: you look
flushed and feverish."
"Oh,
quite well!
I never felt
better."
"Then you must prove it by
evincing a good appetite; will
you fill the teapot while I knit
off this needle?" Having completed
her task, she rose to draw down
the blind, which she had hitherto
kept up, by way, I suppose, of
making the most of daylight,
though dusk was now fast deepening
into total obscurity.
"It is fair to-night," said
she, as she looked through the
panes, "though not starlight;
Mr. Rochester has, on the whole,
had a favourable day for his
journey."
"Journey!--Is
Mr. Rochester
gone anywhere? I did not know
he was out."
"Oh,
he set of the
moment he had
breakfasted!
He is gone
to
the Leas, Mr. Eshton's place,
ten miles on the other side Millcote.
I believe there is quite a party
assembled there; Lord Ingram,
Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent,
and others."
"Do
you expect
him back to-night?"
"No--nor
to-morrow either;
I should think he is very likely
to stay a week or more: when
these fine, fashionable people
get together, they are so surrounded
by elegance and gaiety, so well
provided with all that can please
and entertain, they are in no
hurry to separate. Gentlemen
especially are often in request
on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester
is so talented and so lively
in society, that I believe he
is a general favourite: the ladies
are very fond of him; though
you would not think his appearance
calculated to recommend him particularly
in their eyes: but I suppose
his acquirements and abilities,
perhaps his wealth and good blood,
make amends for any little fault
of look."
"Are
there ladies
at the Leas?"
"There
are Mrs. Eshton
and her three
daughters--very
elegant
young ladies indeed; and there
are the Honourable Blanche and
Mary Ingram, most beautiful women,
I suppose: indeed I have seen
Blanche, six or seven years since,
when she was a girl of eighteen.
She came here to a Christmas
ball and party Mr. Rochester
gave. You should have seen the
dining-room that day--how richly
it was decorated, how brilliantly
lit up! I should think there
were fifty ladies and gentlemen
present--all of the first county
families; and Miss Ingram was
considered the belle of the evening."
"You
saw her, you
say, Mrs. Fairfax:
what was she
like?"
"Yes,
I saw her.
The dining-room
doors were thrown open; and,
as it was Christmas-time, the
servants were allowed to assemble
in the hall, to hear some of
the ladies sing and play. Mr.
Rochester would have me to come
in, and I sat down in a quiet
corner and watched them. I never
saw a more splendid scene: the
ladies were magnificently dressed;
most of them--at least most of
the younger ones--looked handsome;
but Miss Ingram was certainly
the queen."
"And
what was she
like?"
"Tall,
fine bust,
sloping shoulders;
long, graceful neck: olive complexion,
dark and clear; noble features;
eyes rather like Mr. Rochester's:
large and black, and as brilliant
as her jewels. And then she had
such a fine head of hair; raven-black
and so becomingly arranged: a
crown of thick plaits behind,
and in front the longest, the
glossiest curls I ever saw. She
was dressed in pure white; an
amber-coloured scarf was passed
over her shoulder and across
her breast, tied at the side,
and descending in long, fringed
ends below her knee. She wore
an amber-coloured flower, too,
in her hair: it contrasted well
with the jetty mass of her curls."
"She
was greatly
admired, of
course?"
"Yes,
indeed: and
not only for
her beauty,
but for her
accomplishments.
She was one of the ladies who
sang: a gentleman accompanied
her on the piano. She and Mr.
Rochester sang a duet."
"Mr.
Rochester?
I was not aware
he could sing."
"Oh!
he has a fine
bass voice,
and an excellent taste for music."
"And
Miss Ingram:
what sort of
a voice had
she?"
"A
very rich and
powerful one:
she sang delightfully; it was
a treat to listen to her;--and
she played afterwards. I am no
judge of music, but Mr. Rochester
is; and I heard him say her execution
was remarkably good."
"And
this beautiful
and accomplished
lady, she is not yet married?"
"It
appears not:
I fancy neither
she nor her sister have very
large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram's
estates were chiefly entailed,
and the eldest son came in for
everything almost."
"But
I wonder no
wealthy nobleman
or gentleman has taken a fancy
to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance.
He is rich, is he not?"
"Oh!
yes. But you
see there is
a considerable
difference
in age: Mr. Rochester is nearly
forty; she is but twenty-five."
"What
of that? More
unequal matches
are made every
day."
"True:
yet I should
scarcely fancy
Mr. Rochester
would entertain
an idea of the sort. But you
eat nothing: you have scarcely
tasted since you began tea."
"No:
I am too thirsty
to eat. Will
you let me
have another
cup?"
I was about again to revert
to the probability of a union
between Mr. Rochester and the
beautiful Blanche; but Adele
came in, and the conversation
was turned into another channel.
When once more alone, I reviewed
the information I had got; looked
into my heart, examined its thoughts
and feelings, and endeavoured
to bring back with a strict hand
such as had been straying through
imagination's boundless and trackless
waste, into the safe fold of
common sense.
Arraigned at my own bar, Memory
having given her evidence of
the hopes, wishes, sentiments
I had been cherishing since last
night--of the general state of
mind in which I had indulged
for nearly a fortnight past;
Reason having come forward and
told, in her own quiet way a
plain, unvarnished tale, showing
how I had rejected the real,
and rabidly devoured the ideal;--I
pronounced judgment to this effect:-
That a greater fool than Jane
Eyre had never breathed the breath
of life; that a more fantastic
idiot had never surfeited herself
on sweet lies, and swallowed
poison as if it were nectar.
"YOU," I said, "a
favourite with
Mr. Rochester?
YOU gifted
with the power of pleasing him?
YOU of importance to him in any
way? Go! your folly sickens me.
And you have derived pleasure
from occasional tokens of preference--equivocal
tokens shown by a gentleman of
family and a man of the world
to a dependent and a novice.
How dared you? Poor stupid dupe!--Could
not even self- interest make
you wiser? You repeated to yourself
this morning the brief scene
of last night?--Cover your face
and be ashamed! He said something
in praise of your eyes, did he?
Blind puppy! Open their bleared
lids and look on your own accursed
senselessness! It does good to
no woman to be flattered by her
superior, who cannot possibly
intend to marry her; and it is
madness in all women to let a
secret love kindle within them,
which, if unreturned and unknown,
must devour the life that feeds
it; and, if discovered and responded
to, must lead, ignis-fatus-like,
into miry wilds whence there
is no extrication.
"Listen,
then, Jane
Eyre, to your
sentence: tomorrow,
place
the glass before you, and draw
in chalk your own picture, faithfully,
without softening one defect;
omit no harsh line, smooth away
no displeasing irregularity;
write under it, 'Portrait of
a Governess, disconnected, poor,
and plain.'
"Afterwards,
take a piece
of smooth ivory--you
have one prepared
in your drawing-box: take your
palette, mix your freshest, finest,
clearest tints; choose your most
delicate camel-hair pencils;
delineate carefully the loveliest
face you can imagine; paint it
in your softest shades and sweetest
lines, according to the description
given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche
Ingram; remember the raven ringlets,
the oriental eye;--What! you
revert to Mr. Rochester as a
model! Order! No snivel!--no
sentiment!--no regret! I will
endure only sense and resolution.
Recall the august yet harmonious
lineaments, the Grecian neck
and bust; let the round and dazzling
arm be visible, and the delicate
hand; omit neither diamond ring
nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully
the attire, aerial lace and glistening
satin, graceful scarf and golden
rose; call it 'Blanche, an accomplished
lady of rank.'
"Whenever,
in future,
you should
chance to fancy
Mr. Rochester
thinks well of you, take out
these two pictures and compare
them: say, 'Mr. Rochester might
probably win that noble lady's
love, if he chose to strive for
it; is it likely he would waste
a serious thought on this indigent
and insignificant plebeian?'"
"I'll do it," I
resolved: and
having framed this determination,
I grew calm, and fell asleep.
I kept my word. An hour or
two sufficed to sketch my own
portrait in crayons; and in less
than a fortnight I had completed
an ivory miniature of an imaginary
Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely
face enough, and when compared
with the real head in chalk,
the contrast was as great as
self-control could desire. I
derived benefit from the task:
it had kept my head and hands
employed, and had given force
and fixedness to the new impressions
I wished to stamp indelibly on
my heart.
Ere long, I had reason to congratulate
myself on the course of wholesome
discipline to which I had thus
forced my feelings to submit.
Thanks to it, I was able to meet
subsequent occurrences with a
decent calm, which, had they
found me unprepared, I should
probably have been unequal to
maintain, even externally.
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