“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.
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,”
&c.
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.
