Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I consider
some respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others young,
dashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all at liberty to
be the recipients of whose smiles they please, without my feeling
disposed to consider the transaction of any moment to me.”
“You don’t know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged a syllable
with one of them? Will you say that of the master of the house!”
“He is not at home.”
“A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went to Millcote this
morning, and will be back here to-night or to-morrow: does that
circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance—blot him,
as it were, out of existence?”
“No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme
you had introduced.”
“I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of late
so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester’s eyes that they
overflow like two cups filled above the brim: have you never remarked
that?”
“Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his guests.”
“No question about his right: but have you never observed that, of all
the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been favoured
with the most lively and the most continuous?”
“The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator.” I said
this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk, voice,
manner, had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One unexpected
sentence came from her lips after another, till I got involved in a web
of mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit had been sitting for
weeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record of every
pulse.
“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.”
“What the devil have you seen, then?”
“Never mind: I came here to inquire, 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.”
She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair
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 judgment
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?”
“You did not act the character of a gipsy 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. 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 gipsies 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.
“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 gipsy, 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 inquired.
“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 sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both his
own, 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