16 Jane Eyre - Bedtime With Stephanie Poppins

This is SDHudsonMagic Jane Eyre Chapter 16 I both wished and feared to see Mr.

Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night.

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

I wanted to hear his voice again,

After a 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 wasn't burnt in his bed!

It's always dangerous to keep a candle light at night!

How providential he had a presence of mind to think of the water jug!

I wonder he waked nobody!

It's to be hoped he'll not take cold with sleeping on the sofa,

Etc.

Too 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-stuffed gown,

Her check apron,

White handkerchief and cap.

She was intent on her work,

In which her whole thought 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.

Good morning,

Miss,

She said,

In her usual phlegmatic and brief manner,

And taking up another ring and more tape,

Went on with her sewing.

I was amazed,

Confounded.

Good morning,

Grace,

I said.

Has anything happened here?

I thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago.

Only Mars has been reading in his bed last night.

He fell asleep with his candle lit and the curtains got on fire,

But unfortunately woke up before the bedclothes or the woodwork caught and contrived to quench the flame 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're most likely not here.

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 might have heard a noise.

I did,

Said I,

Dropping my voice so that Leah,

Who was still polishing the panes,

Could not hear.

And at first I thought it was Pilot,

But Pilot cannot laugh,

And I'm certain I heard a laugh,

A strange one.

Grace took her new needle full of thread,

Waxed it carefully,

Threaded her needle with a steady hand,

Then observed with perfect composure,

It is hardly likely Master would laugh,

I should think,

Miss,

When he was in such danger.

He must have been dreaming.

I was not dreaming,

I said with some warmth,

For her brazen cornice provoked me.

Again she looked at me with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.

Have you told Master 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,

If she discovered I knew or suspected her guilt,

She would be playing off some of her malignant pranks.

I thought it advisable to be on my guard.

On the contrary,

Said I,

I bolted my door.

Then you're not in the habit of bolting your door every night before you go to bed?

Feigned,

She wants to know my habits,

That she may lay her plans accordingly,

I said to myself.

Indignation prevailed over prudence,

And I replied sharply.

Hitherto,

I've 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 would be wise to do so,

Was her answer.

This neighbourhood's as quiet as any I know,

And I've never heard of the Hall being attempted by robbers since it was a house.

But there are hundreds of pounds worth of plate in the plate closet,

As well known.

As you see,

For such a large house,

There are few servants,

Because Masters never lived here much.

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's well to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that might be about.

I stood absolutely dumbfounded at what appeared to me her miraculous self-possession and almost inscrutable hypocrisy.

When the cook entered.

Mrs.

Paul,

Said she,

Addressing Grace,

The servant's dinner will soon be ready.

Will you come down?

No,

Just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray.

I'll carry it upstairs.

You'll have some meat?

Just a morsel and a taste of cheese,

That's all.

Then the cook turned to me,

Saying that Mrs.

Fairfax was waiting.

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 Paul.

Why had she not been dismissed?

Why had Mr.

Rochesteren joined me to secrecy?

It was strange.

A bold,

Vindictive and naughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependents.

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 matrony as she was,

The idea could not be omitted.

What if a former caprice has delivered him into her power,

And she now exercises over his actions a secret influence,

I thought.

I don't think she could ever have been pretty,

But she may have possessed originality and strength of character to compensate,

When she was young,

For the want of personal advantages.

But then Mrs.

Poole's square flat figure and uncomely dry,

Even coarse,

Face recurred so distinctly to my mind's eye,

I thought,

No,

Impossible,

My supposition cannot be correct.

Yet,

Suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts,

You are not beautiful either.

And perhaps Mr.

Rochester approves you.

At any rate,

You have often felt as if he did.

And last night,

Remember his words,

Remember his look,

Remember his voice.

I was now in the schoolroom,

And Adele was drawing.

I bent over her and directed her pencil.

She looked up with a sort of start.

Qu'avez-vous,

Mademoiselle?

Said she.

I am hot,

Adele,

With stooping,

I said.

And she went on sketching,

And I went on thinking.

When dusk finally closed,

And when Adele left me to go and play in the nursery with Sophie,

I did most keenly desire it.

I listened for the bell to ring below.

I listened for Leah coming up with a message.

I fancied sometimes I heard Mr.

Rochester's own tread,

And I turned to the door,

Expecting it to open and admit him.

Surely I should not be wholly disappointed tonight,

When I had so many things to say to him.

I wanted again to introduce the subject of Grace Poole,

And to hear what he would answer.

I wanted to ask him plainly if he really believed it was she who made last night's hideous attempt,

And if so,

Why he kept her wickedness a secret.

It little mattered whether my curiosity irritated him.

I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns.

It was one I chiefly delighted in.

And a sure instinct always prevented me from going too far.

Beyond the verge of provocation I never ventured.

On the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill.

Retaining every minute form of respect,

Every propriety of my station,

I could still meet him in an argument without fear or uneasy restraint.

This suited both him and me.

A tread creaked on the stairs at last.

Leah made her appearance,

But it was only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs Fairfax's room.

You must want your tea,

Said the good lady.

You ate so little,

I'm afraid.

You're not well today.

You look flushed and feverish.

On the whole I'm quite well,

I lied.

It's fair tonight,

Said she,

As she looked through the panes.

They're not starlight.

Mr Rochester has,

On the whole,

Had a favourable day for his journey.

Journey?

Is Mr Rochester gone anywhere?

I did not know he was out,

Said I.

Oh,

He set off the moment he'd breakfasted.

He'd gone to the Lee's.

Mr Eshton's place.

Ten miles on the other side of Millcote.

I believe there's quite a party assembled there.

Lord Ingram,

Sir John Lynn,

Colonel Dent and others.

Do expect him back tonight?

No,

Nor tomorrow either.

I think he's very likely to stay a week or more.

When these fine,

Fashionable people get together,

They're so surrounded by elegance and gaiety.

So well provided for.

They're in no hurry to separate.

Gentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions.

And Mr Rochester's so talented and lively in society.

I believe he's a general favourite.

Are there ladies at the Lee's?

There's Mrs Eshton and her three daughters.

Very elegant young ladies.

And then there's the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram.

Most beautiful women I suppose.

Indeed,

I've seen Blanche,

Six or seven years since,

When she was a girl of eighteen.

She came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr Rochester gave.

You should have seen the dining room that day.

How richly it was decorated.

How brilliantly lit up.

What was she like Mrs Fairfax?

Tall,

Fine busts,

Sloping shoulders,

Long graceful neck,

Olive complexion.

Eyes rather like Mr Rochester's,

Large and black and as brilliant as her jewels.

And then she had such a fine head of hair,

Raven black and so becomingly arranged.

A crown of thick plaits behind and in the front the longest,

Glossiest curls I ever saw.

She was dressed in pure white.

An amber-coloured scarf passed over her shoulder and across her breast,

Tied at the side.

She wore an amber-coloured flower too in her hair.

She was greatly admired of course,

Said I.

Yes indeed,

Not only for her beauty but for her accomplishments.

She and Mr Rochester sang a duet.

Mr Rochester?

I was not aware he could sing.

Oh,

He has a fine bass voice.

And Miss Ingram,

What sort of voice has she?

A very rich and powerful one.

It was a treat to listen to her and she played afterwards.

I'm no judge of music but Mr Rochester is and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good.

And this beautiful and accomplished lady is not yet married.

It appears not.

I fancy neither she nor her sister would have very large fortunes.

Old Lord Ingram's dates were chiefly entailed and the eldest son came for everything almost.

But I wonder no wealthy gentleman has taken a fancy to her,

Said I.

Mr Rochester for instance,

He's rich is he not?

Oh yes,

But there's a considerable difference in age.

Mr Rochester's nearly forty and she is but twenty-five.

When once more alone,

I reviewed the information I'd got,

Looked into my heart,

Examined its thoughts and feelings and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such had been straying through imagination's boundless and trackless waste into the safe fold of common sense.

Arranged at my own bar,

Memory having given her evidence of the hopes,

Wishes,

Sentiments I'd been cherishing since last night.

I pronounced judgment to this effect that a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life.

You I said,

A favourite with Mr Rochester.

You're gifted with the power of pleasing him you of importance to him in any way.

Go your folly sickens me and you've derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference.

How dare you,

You poor stupid dupe!

Listen,

Jane Eyre,

To your sentence.

Place the glass before you and draw in chalk your own picture faithfully without softening one defect.

Omit no harsh line,

Smooth away no displeasing irregularity.

Then write under it portrait of a governess disconnected,

Poor and plain.

Then on the smoothest ivory prepare the finest clearest,

Loveliest face you can imagine painted in your softest shades and sweetest hues according to the description given by Mrs Fairfax of Blanche Ingram.

Remember the raven ringlets and the oriental eye.

And when in future you should chance Mr.

Rochester thinks well of you,

Take out these two pictures and compare them.

And having framed this determination I grew calm and fell asleep.

I kept my word.

An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in crayons and in less than a fortnight I'd completed an ivory miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram.

It looked a lovely face enough and when compared with a real head in chalk the contrast was as great as self-control could desire.

I derived benefit from the task.

It had kept my head and hands employed and had given force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on my heart.

Year long I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit.

Thanks to it I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm which,

Had they found me unprepared,

I should probably have been unequal to maintain even externally.