Jane Eyre (29 page)

“I am tired, sir.”

He looked at me for a minute. Those terrible dark eyes seemed to see too much and I had secrets to keep. How he, the paymaster, would laugh to think of my love when the lovely Miss Ingram, much more his suit, awaited his return.

“And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”

“Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.”

“But I affirm that you are, so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes—indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well, tonight I excuse you, but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing room every evening. It is my wish, don’t neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adèle. Good-night, my—” He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.

 In my room, alone, I ignored the book. The fact that he was back, had sent for me, had enquired after me, had noticed me completely, it was enough. I took my couch and laid on my stomach. Beneath my nightclothes, I unerringly found that damp spot between my thighs. I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to be unfettered. I imagined Mr Rochester touching me, I pictured him ordering me to do the things I’d seen in the book.

Chapter Eighteen

Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall and busy days too, how different from the first three months of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passed beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house, all gloomy associations forgotten. There was life everywhere, movement all day long. You could not now traverse the gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady’s-maid or a dandy valet.

The kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the servants’ hall, the entrance hall, were equally alive and the saloons were only left void and still when the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather called their occupants out into the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and continuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast over enjoyment, indoor amusements only became more lively and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoor gaiety.

I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of entertainment was proposed, they spoke of “playing charades,” but in my ignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called in, the dining room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr Rochester and the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were running up and down stairs ringing for their maids. Mrs Fairfax was summoned to give information respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of any kind and certain wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black modes, lace lappets, etcetera, were brought down in armfuls by the abigails; then a selection was made, and such things as were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the drawing room.

Meantime, Mr Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him, and was selecting certain of their number to be of his party. “Miss Ingram is mine, of course,” said he, afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and Mrs Dent. He looked at me. I happened to be near him, as I had been fastening the clasp of Mrs Dent’s bracelet, which had got loose.

“Will you play?” he asked. I shook my head. He did not insist, which I rather feared he would have done, he allowed me to return quietly to my usual seat.

He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain, the other party, which was headed by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of chairs. One of the gentlemen, Mr Eshton, observing me, seemed to propose that I should be asked to join them, but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion.

“No,” I heard her say, “she looks too stupid for any game of the sort.”

Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within the arch, the bulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr Rochester had likewise chosen, was seen enveloped in a white sheet, before him, on a table, lay open a large book and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr Rochester’s cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adèle—who had insisted on being one of her guardian’s party—bounded forward, scattering round her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Then appeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on her head, and a wreath of roses round her brow, by her side walked Mr Rochester, and together they drew near the table. They knelt while Mrs Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in white, took up their stations behind them. A ceremony followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the pantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent and his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then the Colonel called out, “Bride!” Mr Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell.

A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last. The drawing room, as I have before observed, was raised two steps above the dining room, and on the top of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within the room, appeared a large marble basin—which I recognised as an ornament of the conservatory—where it usually stood, surrounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish—and whence it must have been transported with some trouble, on account of its size and weight.

Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen Mr Rochester, costumed in shawls, with a turban on his head. His dark eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features suited the costume exactly. He looked the very model of an Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring. Presently advanced into view Miss Ingram. She, too, was attired in oriental fashion, a crimson scarf tied sash-like round the waist, an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her temples. Her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them upraised in the act of supporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head. Both her cast of form and feature, her complexion and her general air, suggested the idea of some Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days and such was doubtless the character she intended to represent.

She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her pitcher. She again lifted it to her head. The personage on the well-brink now seemed to accost her; to make some request—“She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him to drink.” From the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket, opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and earrings. She acted astonishment and admiration. Kneeling, he laid the treasure at her feet. Incredulity and delight were expressed by her looks and gestures. The stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears. It was Eliezer and Rebecca, the camels only were wanting.

The divining party again laid their heads together, apparently they could not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated. Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demanded “the tableau of the whole,” whereupon the curtain again descended.

On its third rising only a portion of the drawing room was disclosed; the rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort of dark and coarse drapery. The marble basin was removed. In its place, stood a deal table and a kitchen chair, these objects were visible by a very dim light proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles being all extinguished.

Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting on his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr Rochester; though the begrimed face, the disordered dress—his coat hanging loose from one arm, as if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle—the desperate and scowling countenance, the rough, bristling hair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a chain clanked—to his wrists were attached fetters.

“Bridewell!” exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade was solved.

A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume their ordinary costume, they re-entered the dining room. Mr Rochester led in Miss Ingram; she was complimenting him on his acting.

“Do you know,” said she, “that, of the three characters, I liked you in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made!”

“Is all the soot washed from my face?” he asked, turning it towards her.

“Alas! Yes, the more’s the pity! Nothing could be more becoming to your complexion than that ruffian’s rouge.”

“You would like a hero of the road then?”

“An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian bandit and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate.”

“Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married an hour since, in the presence of all these witnesses.” She giggled, and her colour rose.

“Now, Dent,” continued Mr Rochester, “it is your turn.” And as the other party withdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader’s right hand. The other diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did not now watch the actors. I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise. My attention was absorbed by the spectators. My eyes, erewhile fixed on the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no longer remember, but I still see the consultation which followed each scene. I see Mr Rochester turn to Miss Ingram, and Miss Ingram to him. I see her incline her head towards him, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek. I hear their mutual whisperings. I recall their interchanged glances and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this moment.

I have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr Rochester. I could not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me—because I might pass hours in his presence, and he would never once turn his eyes in my direction—because I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him, because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady—because I read daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting her—because I witnessed hourly in him a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing rather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness, captivating, and in its very pride, irresistible, even if I wished it were directed towards me, as indeed I fancied, if only for the moment, that it was.

There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though much to create despair. Much too, you will think, reader, to engender jealousy, if a woman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram’s. But I was not jealous, or very rarely—the nature of the pain I suffered—and believe me how I did suffer—could not be explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy, she was too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox. I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not genuine, she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments, but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature, nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil, no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good; she was not original, she used to repeat sounding phrases from books, she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment, but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Adèle, pushing her away with some contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her; sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine watched these manifestations of character—watched them closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes, the future bridegroom, Mr Rochester himself, exercised over his intended a ceaseless surveillance and it was from this sagacity—this guardedness of his—this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one’s defects—this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her, that my ever-torturing pain arose.

I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons, because her rank and connections suited him. I felt he had not given her his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure. This was the point—this was where the nerve was touched and teased—this was where the fever was sustained and fed,
she could not charm him
.

If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and sincerely laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face, turned to the wall, and—figuratively—have died to them. If Miss Ingram had been a good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour, kindness, sense, I should have had one vital struggle with two tigers—jealousy and despair, then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should have admired her—acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for the rest of my days, and the more absolute her superiority, the deeper would have been my admiration—the more truly tranquil my quiescence. But as matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram’s efforts at fascinating Mr Rochester, to witness their repeated failure—herself unconscious that they did fail; vainly fancying that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelled further and further what she wished to allure—to witness
this
, was to be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.

Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr Rochester’s breast and fell harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proud heart—have called love into his stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face, or better still, without weapons a silent conquest might have been won.