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 on 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 washstand; 'it is as I
thought.'
'How, sir?'
He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on 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 are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the
precise details of to-night'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 in 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
acknowledgment and good-will: 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 being 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 genii: 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 he
still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of
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 a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and
then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly
towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy- a
counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back.
Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish
to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.
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CHAPTER XVI
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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,' etc.
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 bedclothes 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 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 off 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
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 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,
