 14 For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he seemed much engaged with business, and in the afternoon gentlemen from Milkit or the neighborhood called, and sometimes stayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse exercise, he rode out a good deal, probably to return these visits, as he generally did not come back till late at night. During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence, and all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional ronkontra in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he would sometimes pass me hortily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod, or a cool glance, and sometimes bow and smile with gentlemen-like affability. His changes of mood did not offend me, because I saw that I had nothing to do with their alternation. The airb and flow depended on causes quite disconnected with me. One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio. In order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents, the gentlemen went away early to attend a public meeting at Milkit, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me. But the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany them. Soon after they were gone he rang the bell. A message came that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed Adele's hair and made her neat, and having ascertained that I was myself in my usual Quaker trim, where there was nothing to retouch, all being too close and plain, braided locks included to admit of disarrangement, we descended. Adele wondering whether the petit coffre was at length come, for owing to some mistake its arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified. There it stood, a little carton, on the table, and me entered the dining-room. She appeared to know it by instinct. Ma boite! Ma boite! exclaimed she, running towards it. Yes, there is your boite at last. Take it into a corner, you genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disemboweling it. Said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the depths of an immense easy chair at the fireside. And mind!" he continued, "'Don't bother me with any details of the anatomical process, or any notice of the condition of the entrails. Let your operation be conducted in silence. Tiens-toi tranquille, enfant. Comprends-tu?" Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning. She had already retired to a sofa with her treasure, and was busy untieing the cord which secured the lid. Having removed this impediment, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed, "'Oh, s'yelle! Coussé beau!' and then remained absorbed in ecstatic contemplation." "'Is Miss Ere there?' now demanded the master, half-rising from his seat to look round to the door, near which I still stood. "'Ah! well, come forward! Be seated here!' he drew a chair near his own. "'I am not fond of the prattle of children,' he continued. "'Four old bachelors I am. I have no pleasant associations connected with their lisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening tet-à-tet with a brat. "'Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss Ere. Sit down exactly where I placed it. "'If you please, that is.' "'Can't found these civilities. I continually forget them. Nor do I particularly affect simple-minded old ladies. By the by I must have mine in mind. It won't do to neglect her. She is a fairfax—or wed to one—and blood is said to be thicker than water." He rang, and dispatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon arrived, knitting basket in hand. "'Good evening, madame. I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presence, and she is bursting with repletion. Have the goodness to serve her as an auditress and interlocutrice. It will be one of the most benevolent acts you ever performed.'" Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, then she summoned her to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory, the wax and contents of her boate. Pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures, in such broken English as she was mistress of. "'Now I have performed the part of a good host,' pursued Mr. Rochester, "'put my guests into the way of amusing each other. I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure.' "'Miss Fair, draw your chair still a little farther forward. You are yet too far back. I cannot see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair, which I have no mind to do.'" I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat in the shade. But Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly. We were, as I have said, in the dining-room. The luster, which had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light. The large fire was all red and clear. The purple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch. Everything was still—save the subdued chat of Adele, she dared not speak loud—and filling up each pause the beating of winter rain against the pains. Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his dams-covered chair, looked different to what I had seen him look before—not quite so stern, much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled—whether with wine or not, I am not sure—but I think it very probable. He was, in short, in his after-dinner mood, more expanded and genial, and also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning. Still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hune features, and in his great dark eyes—for he had great dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too—not without a certain change in their depth sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you at least of that feeling. He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the same length of time at him, when turning suddenly he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy. "'You examine me, Miss Eyre,' said he, "'do you think me handsome?' I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite, but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware. No, sir.' "'Ah! by my word! there is something singular about you,' said he. You have the air of a little known net—quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes generally bent on the carpet—except, by the by, when they are directed piercingly to my face, as just now, for instance. And when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you wrap out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least brusque. What do you mean by it?" "'Sir, I was too plain. I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about appearances. That tastes mostly differ, and that beauty is of little consequence—or something of that sort.' "'You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little consequence, indeed. And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage, of stroking and soothing me into plercidity, you stick a sly pen-knife under my ear. Go on. What fault do you find with me, pray? I suppose I have all my limbs and all my features like any other man?" "'Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer. I intended no pointed repartee. It was only a blunder.' "'Just so? I think so, and you shall be answerable for it. Criticise me. Does my forehead not please you?' He lifted up the sable-waves of hair which lay horizontally over his brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs, but an abrupt efficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should have risen. Now, mum, am I a fool?' "'Far from it, sir. You would perhaps think me rude if I inquired in return whether you are a philanthropist?' "'There again! Another stick of the pen-knife, when she pretended to pat my head. And that is because I said I did not like the society of children and old women, lo be it spoken. No, young lady, I am not a general philanthropist, but I bear a conscience.' Anty pointed to the prominences which are said to indicate that faculty, and which, fortunately for him, were sufficiently conspicuous. Having indeed a marked breadth to the upper part of his head. And besides, I once had a kind of rude tenderness of heart. When I was as old as you, I was a feeling-fellow enough, partial to the un-fledged, unfostered and unlucky. But fortune has knocked me about since. She has even kneaded me with her knuckles, and now I flatter myself, I am as hard and tough as an India rubber-ball—pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with one sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes, does that leave hope for me? Hope of what, sir? Of my final re-transformation from India rubber back to flesh. Decidedly, he has had too much wine, I thought, and I did not know what answer to make to his queer question. How could I tell whether he was capable of being re-transformed? You look very much puzzled, Miss Eyre. And though you are not pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled Eyre becomes you. Besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from my physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug. So, puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night. With this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning his arm on the marble mental-piece. In this attitude his shape was seen plainly as well as his face, his unusual breadth of chest, disproportionate almost to his length of limb. I am sure most people would have thought him an ugly man. Yet there was so much unconscious pride in his port, so much ease in his demeanour, such a look of complete indifference to his own external appearance, so haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic or advantageous, to atone for the lack of mere personal attractiveness, that in looking at him one inevitably shared the indifference, and even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the confidence. I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night. He repeated, And that is why I sent for you. The fire and the chandelier were not sufficient company for me, nor would pilot have been, for none of these can talk. Adele is a degree better, but still far below the mark. Mrs. Fairfax, ditto. You, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will. You puzzled me the first evening I invited you down here. I have almost forgotten you since. Other ideas have driven yours from my head. But tonight I am resolved to be at ease, to dismiss what importunes and recall what pleases. It would now please me to draw you out, to learn more of you. Therefore, speak." Instead of speaking, I smiled, and not a very complacent or submissive smile, either. Speak! he urged. What about, sir? Whatever you like, I leave both the choice of subject and the manner of treating it entirely to yourself. Accordingly I sat and said nothing. If he expects me to talk for the mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has addressed himself to the wrong person, I thought. You are dumb, Missair! I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me, and with a single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes. Stubborn! he said, and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put my request in an absurd and almost insolent form. Missair, I beg your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you as an inferior—that is, correcting himself. I claim only such superiority as must result from twenty years difference in age and a century's advance in experience. This is legitimate. Égitien, as Adele would say, and it is by virtue of this superiority, and this alone, that I desire you to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on one point, cankering as a rusty nail. He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not feel insensible to his condescension, and would not seem so. I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir, quite willing, but I cannot introduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest you? Ask me questions, and I will do my best to answer them. Then in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your father, and that I have battled through a varied experience with many men of many nations, and roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house? Do as you please, sir. That is no answer. Or rather, it is very irritating, because a very invasive one. Reply clearly. I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have. Your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your timed experience. Hmm! Promptly spoken! But I won't allow that, seeing it would never suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to say a bad, use of both advantages. Leaving superiority out of the question, then, you must still agree to receive my orders now and then, without being peaked or hurt by the tone of command. Will you? I smiled. I thought to myself, Mr. Rochester is peculiar. He seems to forget that he pays me thirty pounds per annum for receiving his orders. The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing expression, but speak too. I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves to inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were peaked and hurt by their orders. Paid subordinates? What? You are my paid subordinate, are you? Oh, yes, I had forgotten the salary. Well then, on that mercenary ground, will you agree to let me hectare a little? No, sir, not on that ground. But on the ground that you did forget it, and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in his dependency, I agree heartily. And will you consent to dispense with the great many conventional forms and phrases, not thinking that the omission arises from insolence? I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence. One I rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to even for a salary. Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary. Therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of which you are intensely ignorant. However, I mentally shake hands with you for your answer, despite its inaccuracy, and as much for the manner in which it was said, as for the substance of the speech, the manner was frank and sincere. One does not often see such a manner. No, on the contrary, affectation or coldness or stupid, course-minded misapprehension of one's meaning are the usual rewards of candour. Not three in three thousand raw schoolgirl governesses would have answered me as you have just done. But I don't mean to flatter you. If you are cast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours. Nature did it. And then, after all, I go too fast in my conclusions. For what I yet know, you may be no better than the rest. You may have intolerable defects to counterbalance your few good points. And so may you, I thought. My eye met his, as the idea crossed my mind. He seemed to read the glance, answering as if its import had been spoken as well as imagined. Yes, yes, you are right," said he. I have plenty of faults of my own. I know it, and I don't wish to palliate them, I assure you. God what! I need not to be too severe about others. I have a past experience, a series of deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within my own breast, which I might well call my snares and censures from my neighbours to myself. I started, or rather, for like other defaulters, I like to lay half the blame on ill-fortune and adverse circumstances, was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of when and twenty, and have never recovered the right course since. But I might have been very different. I might have been as good as you, wiser, almost disdainless. I envy you, your peace of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a memory without blot, or contamination must be an exquisite treasure, an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment. Is it not? How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir? All right then? Limpid, salubrious! No gush of bilge water had turned it to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen, quite your equal. Nature meant me to be on the whole a good man, Miss Eyre, one of the better kind, and you see I am not so. You would say you don't see it, at least I flatter myself, I read as much in your eye. Beware, by the by, what you express with that organ, I am quick at interpreting its language. Then take my word for it. I am not a villain, you are not to suppose that. Not to attribute to me any such bad eminence. But owing, I verily believe, rather to circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with which the rich and worthless try to put on life. Do you wonder that I avow this to you? Know that in the course of your future life, you will often find yourself elected the involuntarily confidant of your acquaintances' secrets. People will instinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte to tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of themselves. They will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sympathy, not the less comforting and encouraging, because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations. How do you know? How can you guess all this, sir? I know it well. Therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say I should have been superior to circumstances. So I should. So I should. But you see, I was not. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool. I turned desperate. Then I degenerated. Now when any vicious simpleton excites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that I am better than he. I am forced to confess that he and I are on a level. I wish I had stood firm. God knows I do. Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre. Remorse is the poison of life. Repentance is said to be its cure, sir. It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure. And I could reform. I have strength yet for that, if—but where is the use of thinking of it—hampard, burdened, cursed as I am. Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life, and I will get it, cost what it may. Then you will degenerate still more, sir. Possibly. It why should I if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure? And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor. It will sting. It will taste bitter, sir. How do you know? You never tried it. How very serious! How very solemn you look! And you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head, taking one from the mantelpiece. You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely unequated with this mysteries. I only remind you of your own words, sir. You said error brought remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence. And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that flitted across my brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration, rather than a temptation. It was very genial, very soothing. I know that. Here it comes again. It is no devil, I assure you. Or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart. Distrust it, sir. It is not a true angel. Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen sheriff of the abyss, and a messenger from the eternal throne, between a guide and a seducer? I judge by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said the suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more misery if you listen to it. Not at all. It bears the most gracious message in the world. For the rest you are not my conscience-keeper, so don't make yourself uneasy. Here, come in, Bonnie Wanderer." He said this as if he spoke to a vision, few-less to any eye but his own. Then folding his arms, which he had half-extended on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being. Now, he continued again addressing me, I have received the pilgrim, a disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good. My heart was a sort of charnel. It will now be a shrine. To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all. I cannot keep up the conversation because it has got out of my depth. Only one thing I know. You said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your own imperfection. One thing I can comprehend. You intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane. It seems to me that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve, and that if from this day you began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which you might revert with pleasure. Rightly thought, rightly said me, sir, and at this moment I am paving hell with energy. Sir, I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable is flint. Certainly my associates and pursuit shall be other than they have been. And better? And better! So much better as pure or as then foul dross. You seem to doubt me. I don't doubt myself. I know what my aim is, what my motives are, and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes and Persians, that both are right. They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalize them. They are, monsieur, though they absolutely require a new statute, unheard of combinations of circumstances demand unheard of rules. That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir, because one can see at once that it is liable to abuse. Sententious sage! So it is, but I swear by my household gods not to abuse it. You are human and fallible. I am. So are you. What then? The human and fallible should not irrigate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely entrusted. What power? That of saying of any strange unsanctioned line of action, let it be right. Let it be right. The very words. You have pronounced them. May it be right, then? I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to continue a discourse which is all darkness to me, and besides, sensible that the character of my interlocutor is beyond my penetration, at least beyond its present reach, and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity which accompanies a conviction of ignorance. Where are you going? To put a dell to bed. It is past her bedtime. You are afraid of me, because I talk like a sphinx. Your language is enigmatic, sir, but though I am bewildered, I am certainly not afraid. You are afraid. Your self-loved dreads are blunder. In that sense I do feel apprehensive. I have no wish to talk nonsense. If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner I should mistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't trouble yourself to answer. I see you laugh rarely, but you can laugh very merrily. Believe me, you are not naturally your stare any more than I am naturally vicious. The low wood constraint still clings to you somewhat, controlling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs, and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother, or father, or master, or what-do-you-will, to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly. But in time I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you, and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see it infills the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage, a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there. Were it but free, it would soar cloud high. You are still bent on going. It has struck nine, sir. Never mind. Wait a minute. Adele is not ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire and my face to the room, favours observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched Adele. I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious study, reasons that I may, nay that I shall impart to you some day. She pulled out of her box about ten minutes ago a little pink silk frock. Rapture lit her face as she unfolded it. Coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. Il faut que je sais, cried she. Et à l'instant même, she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a roving process. In a few minutes she will re-enter, and I know what I shall see. A miniature of Celine Varene as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of—but never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about to receive a shock, such as my presentiment. Stay now to see whether it will be realised. Air-long, Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full and as skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn. A wreath of rose-bud circled her forehead. Her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals. « Est-ce que ma robe va bien? — cried she, bounding forwards. — Aimez-vous-liez! Aimez-broit! Tenez, je crois que je vais danser! — And, spreading out her dress, she chasséed across the room. Till, having reached Mr. Rochester, she weir'd lightly round before him on tiptoe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming, — Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte, — then rising, she added. — C'est comme cela que ma mauvaise, n'est-ce pas, monsieur? — Precisely — was the answer. — And, comme cela, she charmed my English gold out of my British breech's pocket. — I have been green, too, monsieur. I — grass-green. Not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me. My spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French flower-it on my hands, which in some moods I would feign be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang. Having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all this some day. Good night. Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one afternoon when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds, and while she played with Pilate and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and down a long beach avenue within sight of her. He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, Celine Varen, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a grand passion. This passion Celine had professed to return with even superior ardour. He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was. He believed, as he said, that she preferred his « taille d'athlète » to the elegance of the Apollo Belvedere. And so, miss Air, so much was I flattered by this preference of the gallic silk for her British gnome, that I installed her in hotel. I gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage, cashmere, diamonds, don-tail, etc. In short, I began the process of ruining myself and the received style, like any other spoony. I had not, it seemed, the originality to chalk out a new row to shame and destruction, but trod the old track with stupid exactness not to deviate an inch from the beaten centre. I had, as I deserved to have, the fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening when Celine did not expect me, I found her out. But it was a warm night, and I was tired with strolling through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir, happy to breathe the air consecrated so lately by her presence. No, I exaggerate. I never thought that there was any consecrating virtue about her. It was rather a sort of pastel perfume she had left, a scent of musk and amber than an odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fumes of conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences, when I bethought myself to open the window and step out onto the balcony. It was moonlight and gaslight besides, and very still and serene. The balcony was furnished with a chair or two. I sat down and took out a cigar. I will take one now, if you will excuse me. Here in pseudo-pawls, filled up by the producing and lighting of a cigar, having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havana incense on the freezing and sunless air, he went on. I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Air, and I was croquant, overlooked the barbarism, croquant chocolat confit, and smoking alternately, and watching, meantime, the equipage that rolled along the fashionable streets toward the neighbouring opera-house, when in an elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I recognised the voiture I had given Celine. She was returning. Of course, my heart thumped with impatience against the iron rails I lent upon. The carriage stopped as I had expected at the hotel door. My flame—that is the very word for an opera in Amorata—allighted. Though muffled in a cloak, in unnecessary encumbrance by the by on so warm a dune evening, I knew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from the skirt of her dress as she skipped from the carriage-step. Bending over the balcony, I was about to murmur, « Monge! In a tone, of course, which should be audible to the ear of love alone, when a figure jumped from the carriage after her, cloaked also—but that was a spurred heel which had wrung on the pavement, and that was a hattered head which now passed under the arched port-co-sher of the hotel. You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not. I need not ask you, because you have never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to experience. Your soul sleeps. The shock is yet to be given which awaken it. You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hid the two slid away. Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base. But I tell you, and you may mark my words, you will come some day to a craggy pass in the channel, where the whole of life's stream will be broken up into whirl-and-tummeled foam and noise. Either you will be dashed to atoms on crag-points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave into a calmer current, as I am now. I like this day. I like that sky of steel. I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield, its antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its gray façade and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin. And yet how long have I abhorred the very thought of it, shundered like a great plague-house? How do I still abhor?" He ground his teeth and was silent. He arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in its grip, and to hold him so tightly that he could not advance. We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused. The hall was before us. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over the maglare such as I never saw before us since. Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, detestation seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupil, dilating under his ebb and eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount, but another feeling rose and triumphed. Something hard and cynical, self-willed in resolute, it settled his passion and petrified his countenance. He went on. During the moment I was silent, Mizzere, I was arranging a point with my destiny. She stood there by that beach-trunk, a hag like one of those who appeared to Macbeth on the heath of forest. "'You like Thornfield?' she said, lifting her finger. And then she wrote in the air a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front, between the upper and lower row of windows. Like it, if you can. Like it, if you dare.' "'I will like it,' said I. I dare like it. And,' he said, joined mudally, "'I will keep my word. I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness, yes, goodness. I wish to be a better man than I have been, than I am. As Job's Leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habagian, tinderances which others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten wood.' Adel here ran before him with her shuttlecock. "'Away!' he cried harshly. Keep at a distance, child, or go in the Sophie.' Continuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the point where he had abruptly diverged. "'Did you leave the balcony, sir?' I asked. When man was Elvaren entered. I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed question, but on the contrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he turned his eyes towards me, and the shade seemed to clear off his brow. "'Oh!' I had forgotten, Saline. Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in accompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss, and the green snake of jealousy rising on undulating coils from the moonlit balcony, glided within my waist-guit, and ate its way in two minutes to my heart's core. "'Strange!' he exclaimed, suddenly starting again from the point. "'Strained that I should choose you for the confidant of all this young lady. Passing strange that you should listen to me quietly, as if it were the most usual thing in the world for a man like me to tell stories of his opera mistress, to acquaint inexperienced girl like you. But the last singularity explained the first, as I intimated once before. You, with your gravity, considerateness, and caution, were made to be the recipient of secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a mind I have placed in communication with my own. I know it is one not liable to take infection. It is a peculiar mind. It is a unique one. Happily I do not mean to harm it. But if I did, it would not take harm from me. The more you and I converse, the better. For while I cannot blight you, you may refresh me." After this digression, he proceeded, "'I remained in the balcony. They will come to her boot while no doubt,' thought I, "'let me prepare an ambush. So, putting my hand in through the open window, I drew the curtain over it, leaving only an opening through which I could take observations. Then I closed the casement, all but a chink just wide enough to furnish an outlet to lover's whispered vows. Then I stole back to my chair, and as I resumed it the pair came in. My eye was quickly at the aperture. Celine's chambermaid entered, lit a lamp, left it on the table, and withdrew. The couple were thus revealed to me clearly. Both removed their cloaks. And there was the Varene shining in satin and jewels—my gifts, of course—and there was a companion in an officer's uniform. And I knew him for a young roux of a V. Combe. A brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society, and I never thought of hate him, because I despised him so absolutely. On recognizing him, the fang of the snake jealousy was instantly broken, because at the same moment my love for Celine sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for, she deserved only scorn—less, however, than I who had been her dupe. They began to talk. Their conversation eased me completely—frivolous, mercenary, heartless, and senseless. It was rather calculated to weary than enrage a listener. A card of mine lay on the table. This, being perceived, brought my name under discussion. Neither of them possessed an energy or wit to belabor me soundly, but they insulted me as coarsely as they could in their little way. Especially, Celine, who even waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects, deformities, she termed them. Now it had been her custom to launch out into fervent admiration of what she called my boutée mal, wherein she differed diametrically from you, who told me point-blank at the second interview that you did not think me handsome. The contrast struck me at the time, and—Adèle, here came running up again. Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and wished to see you. Ah! In that case I must abridge. Opening the window, I walked in upon them. Liberated Celine, for my protection, gave her notice to vacate her hotel, offered her a purse for immediate exigencies, disregarded screams, hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions, made an appointment with the Fécalme for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him, left a bullet in one of his poor, eti-lated arms, feeble as the wing of a chicken in the pip, and then thought I had done with the whole crew. But unluckily the barren, six months before, had given me this fiet, Adèle, who she affirmed was my daughter. And perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs of such grim paternity written in her countenance, pilot is more like me than she. Some years after I had broken with the mother she abandoned her child, and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I acknowledged no natural claim on Adèle's part to be more supported by me, nor do I now acknowledge any, for I am not her father. But hearing that she was quite destitute, i.e., and took the poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up a clean and the wholesome soil of an English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it. But now you know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and protégé. You will be coming to me some day with notice that you have found another place, that you beg me to look out for a new governess, etcetera. Eh? No. Adèle is not answerable for either her mother's faults or yours. I have a regard for her. And now that I know she is, in a sense, parentless, forsaken by her mother and disowned by you, sir, I shall cling closer to her than before. How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess as a nuisance to a lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend? Oh! that is the light in which you view it. Well, I must go in now, and you too. It darkens. But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adèle and Pilate, ran a race with her, and played a game of battle-door and shuttle-cock. When we went in, and I had removed her bonnet and coat, I took her on my knee, kept her there an hour, allowing her to prattle as she liked, nor tributing even some little freedoms and trivialities into which she was apt to stray when much noticed, and which betrayed in her a superficiality of character, inherited probably from her mother, hardly congenial to an English mind. Still she had her merits, and I was disposed to appreciate all that was good in her to the utmost. I sought in her countenance and features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none. No trait, no turn of expression announced relationship. It was a pity. If she could but have been proved to resemble him, he would have thought more of her. It was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the night that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me. As he had said, there was probably nothing at all extraordinary in the substance of the narrative itself. A wealthy Englishman's passion for a French dancer, and a treasury to him, were every day matters enough, no doubt, in society. But there was something decidedly strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him when he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of his mood, and his newly revived pleasure in the old hall and its environs. I meditated wonderingly on this incident. But gradually quitting it, as I found it for the present inexplicable, I turned to the consideration of my master's man to myself. The confidence he had thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute to my discretion. I regarded and accepted it as such. His deportment had now, for some weeks, been more uniform towards me than at the first. I never seemed in his way. He did not take fits of chilling auteur. When he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome. He had always a word and sometimes a smile for me. When summoned by formal invitation to his presence, I was honoured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power to amuse him, and that these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for my benefit. I indeed talked comparatively little, but I heard him talk with relish. It was his nature to be communicative. He liked to open to a mind unacquainted with the world glimpses of its scenes and ways. I do not mean its corrupt scenes and wicked ways, but such as derived their interest from the great scale on which they were acted, the strange novelty by which they were characterised. And I had a keen delight in receiving the new ideas he offered, in imagining the new pictures he portrayed, and following him in thought through the new regions he disclosed, never startled or troubled by one noxious illusion. The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint. The friendly frankness, as correct, cordial, with which he treated me, drew me to him. I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than my master. Yet he was imperious sometimes still. But I did not mind that. I sought was his way. So happy, so gratified, did I become with this new interest added to life, that I ceased to pine after kindred. My thin, crescent destiny seemed to enlarge. The blanks of existence were filled up. My bodily health improved. I gathered flesh and strength. And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes. No reader. Gratitude and many associations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face the object I best liked to see. His presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his faults. Yet I could not, for he brought them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, harsh to inferiority of every description. In my secret soul I knew that his great kindness to me was balanced by unjust severity to many others. He was moody, too, unaccountably so. I more than once, when sent for to read to him, found him sitting in his library alone, with his head bent on his folded arms. And when he looked up, a morose, almost a malignant scowl blackened his features. But I believed that his moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of morality—I say former, for now he seemed corrected of them—had their source in some cruel cross of fate. I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher principles, and purer taste than such as circumstances had developed, education instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there were excellent materials in him, though for the present they hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled. I cannot deny that I grieved for his grief whatever that was, and would have given much to assuage it. Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed, I could not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue, and told how his destiny had risen up before him, and dared him to be happy at Thornfield. Why not? I asked myself. What alienates him from the house? Will he leave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here long within a fortnight at a time, and he's now been resident eight weeks. If he does go, the change will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent spring, summer, and autumn? How joyless sunshine and fine days will seem. I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing. At any rate I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and legubrious, which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I had kept my candle burning. The night was drearily dark. My spirits were depressed. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed. I tried again to sleep, but my heart beat anxiously. My inward tranquility was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seemed my chamber door was touched, as if fingers had swept the panels and groping away along the dark gallery outside. I said, Who is there? Nothing answered. I was chilled with fear. All at once I remembered that it might be Pilate, who, when the kitchen door chanced to be left open, not had frequently found his way up to the threshold of Mr. Ropchester's chamber. I had seen him lying there myself in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat. I lay down. Silence composes the nerves, and as an unbroken harsh now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel the return of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached my ear, when it fled, affrighted, scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough. This was a demonic laugh, low, suppressed, and deep, uttered as it seemed at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin laugher stood at my bedside, or rather crouched by my pillow. But I rose, looked round, and could see nothing. While as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated, and I knew it came from behind the panels. My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt, my next again to cry out, "'Who is there?' something gurgled and moaned. Air-long steps retreated up the gallery towards the third-story staircase. A door had lately been made to shut in that staircase. I heard it open and close, and all was still. "'Was that Grace Poole? And is she possessed with a devil?' thought I. "'Impossible now to remain longer by myself. I must go to Mrs. Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and ashore. I withdrew the bolt and opened the door with a trembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside and on the matting in the gallery. I was surprised at the circumstance, but still more was I amazed to perceive the air quite dim as if filled with smoke. And while looking to the right hand and left to find whence these blue reeds issued, I became further aware of a strong smell of burning. Something creaked. It was a door, a jar, and that door was Mr. Rochester's, and the smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax. I thought no more of Grace Poole or the Laugh. In an instant I was within the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed. The curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless in deep sleep. Wake! Wake! I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned. The smoke had stupefied him. Not one moment could be lost. The very sheets were kindling. I rushed to his basin and ewer. Fortunately one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed in its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water jug, baptized the couch afresh, and by God's aid succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it. The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it, and above all the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake, because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water. "'Is there a flood?' he cried. "'No, sir,' I answered. "'But there has been a fire. Get up! Do! You are quenched now. I will fetch you a candle.' "'In the names of all the elves and christened them, is that Jane Eyre?' he demanded. "'What have you done with me? Which sorceress? Who was in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?' "'I will fetch you a candle, sir, and in Heaven's name, get up! Somebody has plotted something. You cannot too soon find out who and what it is.' "'There! I am up now. But at your peril you fetch a candle yet. Wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be. Yes, here is my dressing-gown. Now run!' "'I did run. I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round swimming in water. "'What is it? And who did it?' he asked. "'I briefly related to him what had transpired, the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery, the step presending to the third story, the smoke, the smell of fire which had conducted me to his room, in what state I had found matters there, and how I had deluged him with all the water I could lay hands on. He listened very gravely. His face, as I went on, expressed more concern than astonishment. He did not immediately speak when I had concluded. "'Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?' I asked. "'Mrs. Fairfax? No. What the deuce would you call her for? What can she do? Let her sleep, unmolested.' "'Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife.' "'Not at all. Just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder. Wrap it about you and sit down in the armchair. There, I will put it on. Now place your feet on the stool to keep them out of the wet. I am going to leave you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are till I return, be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second story. Don't move, remember, or call any one.' He went. I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible. Shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I was left in total darkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing. A very long time elapsed. I grew weary. It was cold in spite of the cloak, and then I did not see the use of staying as I was not to rouse the house. I was at the point of risking Mr. Rochester's displeasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the matting. I hope it is he, thought I, and not something worse. He re-entered, pale, and very gloomy. I have found it all out," said he, setting his candle down on the wash stand. It is as I thought. How, sir? He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking at the ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather a peculiar tone. I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chamber door. No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground. But you heard an odd laugh. You have heard that laugh before, I should think, or something like it. Yes, sir. There is a woman who sews here called Grace Poole. She laughs in that way. She is a singular person. Just so. Grace Poole, you have guessed it. She is, as you say, singular. Very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am glad that you were the only person besides myself acquainted with the precise details of tonight's incident. You are no talking fool, say nothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs," pointing to the bed, and now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the sofa and the library for the rest of the night. It is near four. In two hours the servants will be up. Good night, then, sir. Said I, departing. He seemed surprised, very inconsistently so as he had just told me to go. What? he exclaimed. Are you quitting me already, and in that way? You said I might go, sir. But not without taking leave, not without a word or two of acknowledgement and goodwill, not in short in that brief dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life, snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death, and you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers. At least shake hands. He held out his hand. I gave him mine. He took it first in one, then in both his own. You have saved my life. I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has been would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation, but you. It is different. I feel your benefits no burden, Jane. He paused, gazed at me. Words almost visible trembled on his lips, but his voice was checked. Good night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation in the case. I knew—he continued—you would do me good in some way, at some time. I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you. Their expression and smile did not—again, he stopped—did not. He proceeded hastily. Strike delight to my very inmost heart, so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies. I have heard of good geni. There are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver—good night. Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look. I am glad I happened to be awake, I said, and then I was going. What! You will go! I am cold, sir. Cold? Yes, and standing in a pool. Go, then, Jane! Go! But still he retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself an expedient. I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir, said I. Well, leave me. He relaxed his fingers, and I was gone. I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned, I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters ashore, sweet as the hills of Bueller, and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the borne. But I could not reach it, even in fancy. A counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist lairium, judgment would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned. CHAPTER XVI I both wished and fared 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, etc. Too 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 sowing rings to new curtains. That woman was no other than Grace Poole. There she sat, staid and taciturn looking as usual in her brown stuffed gown, her Czech 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 late 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 flagmatic and brief manner, and taking up another ring and more tape, went on with her sowing. 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 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 raced her eyes to me, and this time there was something of consciousness in her 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 were 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 pains, could not hear me. And at first I thought it was Pilate. But Pilate cannot laugh, and I am certain I had a laugh, and a strange one. She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her needle with 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. He 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 heard 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 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 were 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. Here the two 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 to do so, 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 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 rang—a long one for her—and uttered with the demureness of a quakeress. I still stood absolutely dumbfounded at what appeared to be her miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy when the cook entered. Mrs. Pool, said she, addressing Grace, the servants' dinner will soon be ready. Will you come down? No. Just put my pint of porter and a 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 say-go—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 as I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatic character of Grace Pool, 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 all 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 of 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 as 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 on 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. Cavez-vous, mademoiselle? said she, faut-toi tremble comme la feuille, et vos jus sont rouges, mais rouges comme des cerises. I am hot Adele was stooping. She went on sketching. I went on thinking. I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I'd been conceiving respected Grace Poole. It disgusted me. I compared myself with her, and found we were different. Bessie Levin 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 color 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 had never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step at 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 has 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 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. Lither I repaired, glad at least to go down stairs, 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 today, you look flushed and feverish. Oh, quite well, I never felt better. Then you must prove it by even singing a good appetite. Will you fill the tea-pot 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 pains, 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 has gone to the Lees, Mr. Weston's place, ten miles on the other side milk-it. 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 say a week or more. With 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 a 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 Lees? 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 bell of the evening. You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax. What was she like? Oh, 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, and never saw a most 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 becoming the arranged, a crown of thick plaques behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white, an amber-colored scarf was passed over her shoulders and across her breast, tied at the side, and descending in a long fringed end below her knee. She wore an amber-colored 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 accompanying her on the piano. She, 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 his sister have very large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram's estates was 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 contain 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. Arrayed 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 surfered at 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 were 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 igneous fatus-like into myry 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 regularity, right 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 suffice to sketch my own portrait and 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 and 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. Air long, I had reason to congratulate myself in 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.