JANE EYRE
PART 11
CHAPTER XVI
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 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; 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-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 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.
To be continued
