第 十六 章 · I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed

. 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 Adèle’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 dependents; 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; Adèle 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, Adèle, 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 Adèle 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 Adèle 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-fatuus_-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 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,

aërial 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.