Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

  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.

  “Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so near to him?” I asked myself. “Surely she cannot truly like him, or not like him with true affection! If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly, flash her glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so elaborate, graces so multitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by merely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and looking less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far different expression from that which hardens it now while she is so vivaciously accosting him, but then it came of itself, it was not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres and one had but to accept it—to answer what he asked without pretension, to address him when needful without grimace—and it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam. How will she manage to please him when they are married? I do not think she will manage it and yet it might be managed and his wife might, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman the sun shines on.”

  I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr Rochester’s project of marrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first discovered that such was his intention, I had thought him a man unlikely to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife, but the longer I considered the position, education, etcetera, of the parties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming either him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood. All their class held these principles, I supposed, then, they had reasons for holding them such as I could not fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him, I would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love, but the very obviousness of the advantages to the husband’s own happiness offered by this plan convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption of which I was quite ignorant, otherwise I felt sure all the world would act as I wished to act.

  But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to my master, I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of his character, to take the bad with the good and from the just weighing of both, to form an equitable judgement. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish. Their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid. And as for the vague something—was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expression?—that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, in his eye, and closed again before one could fathom the strange depth partially disclosed; that something which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wandering amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground quiver and seen it gape, that something, I, at intervals, beheld still and with throbbing heart, but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to dare—to divine it and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets and analyse their nature.

  Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride—saw only them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their movements of importance—the rest of the party were occupied with their own separate interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their two turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs Dent talked with good-natured Mrs Eshton and the two sometimes bestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and Mr Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justice business. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang to and with one of the Messrs. Lynn and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors, for, after all, Mr Rochester and—because closely connected with him—Miss Ingram were the life and soul of the party. If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptible dulness seemed to steal over the spirits of his guests and his re-entrance was sure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity of conversation.

  The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt one day that he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not likely to return till late. The afternoon was wet, a walk the party had proposed to take to see a gypsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond Hay, was consequently deferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone to the stables, the younger ones, together with the younger ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. The dowagers Ingram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet game at cards. Blanche Ingram, after having repelled, by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs Dent and Mrs Eshton to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over some sentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a novel from the library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room and the house were silent, only now and then the merriment of the billiard-players was heard from above.r />
  It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already given warning of the hour to dress for dinner, when little Adèle, who knelt by me in the drawing room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed, “Voilà, Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!”

  I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa, the others, too, looked up from their several occupations, for at the same time a crunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel. A post-chaise was approaching.

  “What can possess him to come home in that style?” said Miss Ingram. “He rode Mesrour—the black horse—did he not, when he went out? And Pilot was with him—what has he done with the animals?”

  As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments so near the window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking of my spine, in her eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when she did, she curled her lip and moved to another casement. The post-chaise stopped, the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman alighted attired in travelling garb, but it was not Mr Rochester. It was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.