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,' etc.

   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 bedclothes or the woodwork 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 off 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

tea-time: 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 off the moment he had breakfast! 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 dependant 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 hues, 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.