Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition 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,
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 bed clothes or the wood work
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 of 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 teatime: 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, dry, even coarse face, recurred so
distinctly to my mind's eye, that 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 well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the
moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; 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.
"Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges:
mais, rouges comme des cerises!"

"I am hot, Adele, with stooping!" She went on sketching; I went
on thinking. I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion
I had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me.
I compared myself with her, and found we were different.
Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady; and she spoke truth
I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I did when
Bessie saw me; I had more colour and more flesh, more life,
more vivacity, because I had brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.

"Evening approaches," said I, as I looked towards the window. "I
have never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step in the house to day;
but surely I shall see him before night: I feared the meeting in
the morning; now I desire it, because expectation has been so long
baffled that it is grown impatient."

When dusk actually 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.
The door remained shut; darkness only came in through the window.
Still it was not late; he often sent for me at seven and eight
o'clock, and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be wholly
disappointed to night, 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 had 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 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. Thither I repaired, glad at least to go downstairs; for that
brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr. Rochester's presence.
"You must want your tea," said the good lady, as I joined her;
"you ate so little at dinner. I am afraid," she continued, "you
are not well to day: you look flushed and feverish."
"Oh, quite well! I never felt better."

"Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill
the teapot while I knit off this needle?" Having completed her
task, she rose to draw down the blind, which she had hitherto kept
up, by way, I suppose, of making the most of daylight, though dusk
was now fast deepening into total obscurity.
"It is fair to night," said she, as she looked through the panes,
"though 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."

"Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas,
Mr. Eshton's place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe
there is quite a party assembled there; lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn,
Colonel Dent, and others." "Do you expect him back to night?"

"No nor to morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay
a week or more: when these fine, fashionable people get together,
they are so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with
all that can please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate.
Gentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions; and Mr.
Rochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he
is a general favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though
you would not think his appearance calculated to recommend him
particularly in their eyes: but I suppose his acquirements and
abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any
little fault of look." "Are there ladies at the Leas?"

"There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters very elegant young
ladies indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram,
most beautiful women, I suppose: indeed I have 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! I should think there were fifty ladies
and gentlemen present all of the first county families; and Miss
Ingram was considered the belle of the evening."

"You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?"
"Yes, I saw her. The dining room doors were thrown open; and, as
it was christmas time, the servants were allowed to assemble in
the hall, to hear some of the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester
would have me to come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and
watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene: the ladies were
magnificently dressed; most of them at least most of the younger
ones looked handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen."
"And what was she like?"

"Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive
complexion, dark and clear; noble features; 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 front the longest,
the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white; an
amber coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her
breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends
below her knee. She wore an amber coloured flower, too, in her
hair: it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls."
"She was greatly admired, of course?"

"Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments.
She was one of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her
on the piano. She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet." "Mr. Rochester? I was
not aware he could sing." "Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent
taste for music." "And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?"
"A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it was a treat
to listen to her; and she played afterwards. I am no judge of
music, but Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say her execution was
remarkably good."

"And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?"
"It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very
large fortunes. Old lord Ingram's estates were chiefly entailed,
and the eldest son came in for everything almost."
"But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy
to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not?"
"Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age:
Mr. Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty five."

"What of that? More unequal matches are made every day." "True: yet
I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an idea of the sort.
But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted since you began tea."
"No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another cup?"
I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between
Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adele came in, and
the conversation was turned into another channel.

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked
into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured
to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through
imagination's boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of
common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the
hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night
of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly
a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own
quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the
real, and rabidly devoured the ideal; I pronounced judgment to
this effect: That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the
breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself
on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

"YOU," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester? YOU gifted with the
power of pleasing him? YOU of importance to him in any way? Go!
your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional
tokens of preference equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of
family and a man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How
dared you? Poor stupid dupe! Could not even self interest make
you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene
of last night? Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something
in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared
lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good
to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly
intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret
love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must
devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded
to, must lead, ignis fatus like, into miry wilds whence there is
no extrication.

"Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow, 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; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess,
disconnected, poor, and plain.'

"Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory you have one prepared
in your drawing box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest,
clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel hair pencils;
delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint
it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the
description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the
raven ringlets, the oriental eye; What! you revert to Mr. Rochester
as a model! Order! No snivel! no sentiment! no regret! I
will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet
harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round
and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither
diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,
aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose;
call it 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.'

"Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester
thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them:
say, 'Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if
he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious
thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?'"
"I'll do it," I resolved: 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 had completed an ivory
miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face
enough, and when compared with the 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.

Ere 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.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition Chapter 17.>