Jane Eyre (32 page)

“Eagerness of a listener!” repeated she. “Yes. Mr Rochester has sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such delight in their task of communicating and Mr Rochester was so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?”

“Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face.”

“Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if not gratitude?”

I said nothing.

“You have seen love, have you not?—and, looking forward, you have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?”

“Humph! Not exactly. Your witch’s skill is rather at fault sometimes. There is something lacking that the man desires that he will not receive. He will rue it till he dies. What you have seen, I have not. I have seen something much more dire.”

“What the devil have you seen, then?”

“Never mind, I came here to enquire, not to confess. Is it known that Mr Rochester is to be married?”

“Yes and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.”

“Shortly?”

“Appearances would warrant that conclusion, and, no doubt—though, with an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to question it—they will be a superlatively happy pair. He must love such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady and probably she loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse. I know she considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree; though—God pardon me!—I told her something on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous grave, the corners of her mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her blackaviced suitor to look out, if another comes, with a longer or clearer rent-roll—he’s dished—”

“But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr Rochester’s fortune, I came to hear my own and you have told me nothing of it.”

“Your fortune is yet doubtful, when I examined your face, one trait contradicted another. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness, that I know. I knew it before I came here this evening. She has laid it carefully on one side for you. I saw her do it. It depends on yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up, but whether you will do so, is the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug.”

“Don’t keep me long; the fire scorches me.”

 I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair. She began muttering, “The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew. It looks soft and full of feeling. It smiles at my jargon, it is susceptible. Impression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid, that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns from me. It will not suffer further scrutiny. It seems to deny, by a mocking glance, the truth of the discoveries I have already made—to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin, its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable.

“As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter. It is disposed to impart all that the brain conceives; though I daresay it would be silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible, it was never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of solitude, it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often, and have human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious.

“I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow and that brow professes to say—‘I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.’ The forehead declares, ‘Reason sits firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild chasms. The passions may rage furiously, like true heathens, as they are and the desires may imagine all sorts of vain things, but judgement shall still have the last word in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision. Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by, but I shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which interprets the dictates of conscience.’

“Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have formed my plans—right plans I deem them—and in them I have attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detected and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution—such is not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight—to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood—no, nor of brine, my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet—That will do. I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish now to protract this moment
ad infinitum
, but I dare not. So far I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore I would act, but further might try me beyond my strength. Rise, Miss Eyre, leave me; ‘the play is played out’.”

Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still? The old woman’s voice had changed, her accent, her gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass—as the speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked. I stirred the fire, and I looked again, but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illuminated her hand stretched out, roused now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own. It was a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me—on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced.

“Well, Jane, do you know me?” asked the familiar voice.

“Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then—”

“But the string is in a knot—help me.”

“Break it, sir.”

“There, then—‘Off, ye lendings!’” And Mr Rochester stepped out of his disguise.

“Now, sir, what a strange idea!”

“But well carried out, eh? Don’t you think so?”

“With the ladies you must have managed well.”

“But not with you?”

As I thought earlier, I understand the language of his countenance and movements. I should know this man anywhere, despite his elaborate pretence. Though I blush at such ridiculous thoughts, the heart always knows even what the eye would deny. “You did not act the character of a gypsy with me.”

“What character did I act? My own?”

“No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been trying to draw me out—or in; you have been talking nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir.”

“Do you forgive me, Jane?”

 “I cannot tell till I have thought it all over.” How could I not forgive him anything when he called me Jane, rather than the proper Miss Eyre? Indeed, be he gypsy or not, he wove strands of magic, and I was ensnared. “If, on reflection, I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you, but it was not right.”

“Oh, you have been very correct—very careful, very sensible.”

I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort, but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gypsies and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself, besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace Poole—that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her. I had never thought of Mr Rochester. And what of the lies he had fabricated for the sake of Miss Ingram? Certainly he had not revealed himself to her?

“Well,” said he, “what are you musing about? What does that grave smile signify?”

“Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire now, I suppose?”

“No; stay a moment and tell me what the people in the drawing room yonder are doing.”

“Discussing the gypsy, I daresay.”

“Sit down!—Let me hear what they said about me.”

“I had better not stay long, sir. It must be near eleven o’clock. Oh, are you aware, Mr Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?”

“A stranger!—no; who can it be? I expected no one. Is he gone?”

“No; he said he had known you long, and that he could take the liberty of installing himself here till you returned.”

“The devil he did! Did he give his name?”

“His name is Mason, sir and he comes from the West Indies; from Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think.”

Mr Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip; the smile on his lips froze, apparently a spasm caught his breath.

“Mason!—the West Indies!” he said, in the tone one might fancy a speaking automaton to enounce its single words. “Mason!—the West Indies!” he reiterated and he went over the syllables three times, growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes, he hardly seemed to know what he was doing.

“Do you feel ill, sir?” I enquired.“Jane, I’ve got a blow. I’ve got a blow, Jane!” He staggered.

“Oh, lean on me, sir.”

“Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now.”

 “Yes, sir, yes and my arm.” He was devastatingly strong despite the terrible blow. Supporting a man so strikingly athletic wasn’t easy, but I appreciated his realisation that he could always avail himself of my support, something Miss Ingram, with her unsympathetic ways and barren heart, would be unprepared to offer. He had called for no other. When he was in need, his instincts guided him to reach for me. He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both his own as was becoming a delighted habit, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most troubled and dreary look.

“My little friend!” said he, “I wish I were in a quiet island with only you and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me.”

“Can I help you, sir?—I’d give my life to serve you.”

“Jane, if aid is wanted, I’ll seek it at your hands. I promise you that.”

“Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do—I’ll try, at least, to do it.”

“Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining room, they will be at supper there and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is doing.”

I went. I found all the party in the dining room at supper, as Mr Rochester had said; they were not seated at table—the supper was arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were general and animated. Mr Mason stood near the fire, talking to Colonel and Mrs Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. I filled a wine-glass—I saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did so, she thought I was taking a liberty, I daresay—and I returned to the library.

Mr Rochester’s extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked once more firm and stern. He took the glass from my hand.

“Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!” he said. He swallowed the contents and returned it to me. “What are they doing, Jane?”

“Laughing and talking, sir.”

“They don’t look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard something strange?”

“Not at all, they are full of jests and gaiety.”

“And Mason?”

“He was laughing too.”

“If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you do, Jane?”

“Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could.” I was surprised by the ferocity of my words and how much I meant them. As a child, I had been admonished for passionately saying aloud that I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest for love. And now, I had found the words had been more than the mere hysterics of a babe, they had been prelude to the adult emotions Mr Rochester would engender.

He half smiled. “But if I were to go to them, and they only looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then dropped off and left me one by one, what then? Would you go with them?”

“I rather think not, sir, I should have more pleasure in staying with you.”

“To comfort me?”

“Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could.”

“And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?”

“I, probably, should know nothing about their ban and if I did, I should care nothing about it.”

“Then, you could dare censure for my sake?”

“I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence; as you, I am sure, do.”

“Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper in his ear that Mr Rochester is come and wishes to see him, show him in here and then leave me.”

“Yes, sir.”

I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight among them. I sought Mr Mason, delivered the message, and preceded him from the room, I ushered him into the library, and then I went upstairs.

At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the visitors repair to their chambers, I distinguished Mr Rochester’s voice, and heard him say, “This way, Mason; this is your room.”

He spoke cheerfully, the gay tones set my heart at ease. I was soon asleep.

 Chapter Twenty

I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to let down my window-blind. The consequence was, that when the moon, which was full and bright—for the night was fine—came in her course to that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at me through the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the dead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk—silver-white and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn. I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain.