Chapter: I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed
this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to
meet his eye.  During the early part of the morning, I momentarily
expected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit of entering the
schoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had the
impression that he was sure to visit it that day.

But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened to interrupt the
quiet course of Adele's studies; only soon after breakfast, I heard some
bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester's chamber, Mrs. Fairfax's
voice, and Leah's, and the cook's--that is, John's wife--and even John's
own gruff tones.  There were exclamations of "What a mercy master was not
burnt in his bed!"  "It is always dangerous to keep a candle lit at
night."  "How providential that he had presence of mind to think of the
water-jug!"  "I wonder he waked nobody!"  "It is to be hoped he will not
take cold with sleeping on the library sofa," &c.

To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to
rights; and when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I saw
through the open door that all was again restored to complete order; only
the bed was stripped of its hangings.  Leah stood up in the window-seat,
rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke.  I was about to address
her, for I wished to know what account had been given of the affair: but,
on advancing, I saw a second person in the chamber--a woman sitting on a
chair by the bedside, and sewing rings to new curtains.  That woman was
no other than Grace Poole.

There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown stuff
gown, her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap.  She was intent on
her work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard
forehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing either of the
paleness or desperation one would have expected to see marking the
countenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and whose intended
victim had followed her last night to her lair, and (as I believed),
charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate.  I was
amazed--confounded.  She looked up, while I still gazed at her: no start,
no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of
guilt, or fear of detection.  She said "Good morning, Miss," in her usual
phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking up another ring and more tape,
went on with her sewing.

"I will put her to some test," thought I: "such absolute impenetrability
is past comprehension."

"Good morning, Grace," I said.  "Has anything happened here?  I thought I
heard the servants all talking together a while ago."

"Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep with
his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he awoke
before the bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to quench
the flames with the water in the ewer."

"A strange affair!" I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her
fixedly--"Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody?  Did no one hear him move?"

She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something of
consciousness in their expression.  She seemed to examine me warily; then
she answered--

"The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be likely
to hear.  Mrs. Fairfax's room and yours are the nearest to master's; but
Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people get elderly, they often
sleep heavy."  She paused, and then added, with a sort of assumed
indifference, but still in a marked and significant tone--"But you are
young, Miss; and I should say a light sleeper: perhaps you may have heard
a noise?"

"I did," said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still polishing
the panes, could not hear me, "and at first I thought it was Pilot: but
Pilot cannot laugh; and I am certain I heard a laugh, and a strange one."

She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her
needle with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure--

"It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he
was in such danger: You must have been dreaming."

"I was not dreaming," I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolness
provoked me.  Again she looked at me; and with the same scrutinising and
conscious eye.

"Have you told master that you heard a laugh?" she inquired.

"I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning."

"You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the
gallery?" she further asked.

She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me
information unawares.  The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew
or suspected her guilt, she would be playing of some of her malignant
pranks on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard.

"On the contrary," said I, "I bolted my door."

"Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before
you get into bed?"

"Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans
accordingly!"  Indignation again prevailed over prudence: I replied
sharply, "Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten the bolt: I did not
think it necessary.  I was not aware any danger or annoyance was to be
dreaded at Thornfield Hall: but in future" (and I laid marked stress on
the words) "I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture to
lie down."

"It will be wise so to do," was her answer: "this neighbourhood is as
quiet as any I know, and I never heard of the hall being attempted by
robbers since it was a house; though there are hundreds of pounds' worth
of plate in the plate-closet, as is well known.  And you see, for such a
large house, there are very few servants, because master has never lived
here much; and when he does come, being a bachelor, he needs little
waiting on: but I always think it best to err on the safe side; a door is
soon fastened, and it is as well to have a drawn bolt between one and any
mischief that may be about.  A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all
to Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the means,
though He often blesses them when they are used discreetly."  And here
she closed her harangue: a long one for her, and uttered with the
demureness of a Quakeress.

I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her
miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the cook
entered.

"Mrs. Poole," said she, addressing Grace, "the servants' dinner will soon
be ready: will you come down?"

"No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and I'll
carry it upstairs."

"You'll have some meat?"

"Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that's all."

"And the sago?"

"Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime: I'll
make it myself."

The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me:
so I departed.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration during
dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical
character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her
position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into
custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master's
service.  He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her
criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing
her?  Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy?  It was strange: a bold,
vindictive, and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of
the meanest of his dependants; so much in her power, that even when she
lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her with the
attempt, much less punish her for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think
that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in
her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could
not be admitted.  "Yet," I reflected, "she has been young once; her youth
would be contemporary with her master's: Mrs. Fairfax told me once, she
had lived here many years.  I don't think she can ever have been pretty;
but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and strength of
character to compensate for the want of personal advantages.  Mr.
Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccentric
at least.  What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so
sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she
now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own
indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?"  But,
having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat
figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my
mind's eye, that I thought, "No; impossible! my supposition cannot be
correct.  Yet," suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own
hearts, "you are not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves
you: at any rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last
night--remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!"

I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment
vividly renewed.  I was now in the schoolroom; Adele was drawing; I bent
over her and directed her pencil.  She looked up with a sort of start.

"Qu' avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said she.  "Vos doigts tremblent comme la
feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: 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 breakfasted!  He is gone to the Leas,
Mr. Eshton's place, ten miles on the other side Millcote.  I believe
there is quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn,
Colonel Dent, and others."

"Do you expect him back to-night?"

"No--nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay a
week or more: when these fine, fashionable people get together, they are
so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with all that can
please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate.  Gentlemen
especially are often in request on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is
so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a general
favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though you would not think
his appearance calculated to recommend him particularly in their eyes:
but I suppose his acquirements and abilities, perhaps his wealth and good
blood, make amends for any little fault of look."

"Are there ladies at the Leas?"

"There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters--very elegant young ladies
indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram, most
beautiful women, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven
years since, when she was a girl of eighteen.  She came here to a
Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave.  You should have seen the
dining-room that day--how richly it was decorated, how brilliantly lit
up!  I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present--all of
the first county families; and Miss Ingram was considered the belle of
the evening."

"You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?"

"Yes, I saw her.  The dining-room doors were thrown open; and, as it was
Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to
hear some of the ladies sing and play.  Mr. Rochester would have me to
come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them.  I never saw
a more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed; most of
them--at least most of the younger ones--looked handsome; but Miss Ingram
was certainly the queen."

"And what was she like?"

"Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive
complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr.
Rochester's: large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels.  And then
she had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly arranged:
a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest
curls I ever saw.  She was dressed in pure white; an amber-coloured scarf
was passed over her shoulder and across her breast, tied at the side, and
descending in long, fringed ends below her knee.  She wore an
amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair: it contrasted well with the
jetty mass of her curls."

"She was greatly admired, of course?"

"Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments.
She was one of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her on the
piano.  She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet."

"Mr. Rochester?  I was not aware he could sing."

"Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music."

"And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?"

"A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it was a treat to
listen to her;--and she played afterwards.  I am no judge of music, but
Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good."

"And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?"

"It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large
fortunes.  Old Lord Ingram's estates were chiefly entailed, and the
eldest son came in for everything almost."

"But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to her:
Mr. Rochester, for instance.  He is rich, is he not?"

"Oh! yes.  But you see there is a considerable difference in age: Mr.
Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five."

"What of that?  More unequal matches are made every day."

"True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an idea
of the sort.  But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted since you
began tea."

"No: I am too thirsty to eat.  Will you let me have another cup?"

I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between Mr.
Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adele came in, and the
conversation was turned into another channel.

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into
my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring
back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination's
boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes,
wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night--of the general
state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason
having come forward and told, in her own quiet way a plain, unvarnished
tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the
ideal;--I pronounced judgment to this effect:--

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life;
that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies,
and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

"_You_," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester?  _You_ gifted with the
power of pleasing him?  _You_ of importance to him in any way?  Go! your
folly sickens me.  And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens
of preference--equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man
of the world to a dependent and a novice.  How dared you?  Poor stupid
dupe!--Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to
yourself this morning the brief scene of last night?--Cover your face and
be ashamed!  He said something in praise of your eyes, did he?  Blind
puppy!  Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed
senselessness!  It does good to no woman to be flattered by her superior,
who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women
to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and
unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and
responded to, must lead, _ignis-fatuus_-like, into miry wilds whence there
is no extrication.

"Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass
before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without
softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing
irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected,
poor, and plain.'

"Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in your
drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest
tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully
the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and
sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of
Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye;--What! you
revert to Mr. Rochester as a model!  Order!  No snivel!--no sentiment!--no
regret!  I will endure only sense and resolution.  Recall the august yet
harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and
dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond ring
nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, 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.

 The next morning, Jane is shocked to see Grace Poole sitting and sewing rings for the new curtains in Mr. Rochester's room. Grace seems cool and composed. Jane tries to question her, and Grace in turn attempts to cross-examine her. Jane wonders why Mr. Rochester has not had her arrested for the crime. As Jane has not seen Mr. Rochester the whole day, she becomes very impatient by evening. Mrs. Fairfax tells her that he has gone to the Leas, the residence of Mr. Eshton, to stay for a week. She informs Jane that Mr. Rochester is a favorite at such parties because he is "so talented and so lively in society." She also tells her of his attraction for the beautiful and accomplished Blanche Ingram. Mrs. Fairfax had seen her as a girl of eighteen, when she attended a Christmas ball at Thornfield. Hearing this, Jane wants to nip her passion for Mr. Rochester in the bud. She goes up to her room and scolds herself for having indulged in romantic thoughts of her master. As a punishment, she sketches two contrasting portraits: one of herself and the other of Blanche Ingram. While one is plain, the other is done on ivory.

