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:
maïs, 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 off 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: to-morrow, 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 linéaments, 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.