Iboth wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night. I had lost some of the confidence I had adopted last night, full of control. I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared what either of us would say or do. As I took my lessons with Adele, often distracted, I almost expected him to enter the schoolroom.
But the morning passed just as usual and 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 with exclamations from Mrs. Fairfax’s voice and Leah’s and the cook’s—John’s wife—and even John’s own gruff tones. They gasped, “What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!”—”It is always dangerous to keep a candle lit at night.”—”I wonder he waked nobody!” &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. Leah stood up in the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke and I was about to address her when I saw a second person in the chamber—a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, sewing. That woman was no other than Grace Poole.
She was intent on her work and in her commonplace features, there was nothing either of the paleness or desperation one would have expected to see marking the countenance of a woman who had attempted murder. I was amazed and confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her and I perceived no start, no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion. She said, “Good morning, Miss,” in her usual brief manner, and went on with her sewing.
“Good morning, Grace,” I replied. “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 and he fell asleep with his candle lit. 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 and then looked 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, “Mrs. Fairfax’s room and yours are the nearest to master’s, but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing.” 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. 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, “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 with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.
“You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?”
Her question threw me and I was 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?”
I replied sharply, “I did not think it necessary. I was not aware any danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall, but in future 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.
I was about to say something more when the cook entered.
“Mrs. Poole,” said she, addressing Grace, “the servants’ dinner will soon be ready. Will you come down?”
The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me and 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 s ervice. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? A cold thought went through me that perhaps she too satisfied the master’s needs—perhaps she too was a servant he had first met on the causeway and she had set his curtains alight in a bout of jealous rage. I immediately dismissed it, partly through hurt and partly because deep down, I did not think it possible. Grace Poole was no beauty and though neither was I handsome, I at least had youth. I could not imagine the wild, reckless ways of my master finding solace in the doughy plainness that was Grace. Though I admit, I could not think of another reason why he should protect her.
I waited all day to be called for by Mr. Rochester. I wanted desperately to speak to him and ask him about Grace Poole and . . . continue our love making. When dusk actually closed, and Adele left me to go and play in the nursery with Sophie, I listened keenly for the bell to ring below. I listened for Leah coming up with a message and I fancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester’s own tread. I turned to the door, expecting it to open and admit him, but the door remained shut.
A tread creaked on the stairs at last and 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 at least a little nearer to Mr. Rochester’s presence.
“You must want your tea,” said the good lady, as I joined her, “you are not well to-day, you look flushed and feverish.”
“Oh, I am quite well! I never felt better.”
She did not look convinced but she changed the subject, commenting, “It is fair to-night though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day for his journey.”
I felt a rush of dread run through me.
“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 of Millcote. I believe there is quite a party assembled there with Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and others.”
“Do you expect him back to-night?”
“No, nor to-morrow either and 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 that 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, particularly with the ladies.”
I thought I might drop my cup, since a stab of pain shot through my chest, but I managed to keep myself composed. “Are there ladies at the Leas?” I asked quietly.
“There is Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters—very elegant young ladies indeed and there is the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram—most beautiful women. Blanche came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave some years ago and she was considered the belle of the evening.”
“You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax?” I could not help but ask. “What was she like?”
“Yes, I saw her. She was tall and fine with sloping shoulders, a long, graceful neck, olive complexion and eyes rather like Mr. Rochester’s: large and black. She had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly arranged.”
“She was greatly admired, of course?” I almost choked on my words.
“Yes, indeed, and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She was one of the ladies who sang and a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet.”
“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.”
I was about to elude to the dreaded 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 grieved for what I had heard keenly. That night I wept into my pillow for I had been weak and stupid and wrong. I should not have followed my passions and nor should I ever have. Such men as Mr. Rochester did not fall in love with such plain, ugly beasts as Jane Eyre. It is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it, and if discovered and responded to, must lead, ignis-fatus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no extrication.
I now felt extremely foolish for my behavior of the night before and I endeavored to forget it, for I fully expected Mr. Rochester had.