Chapter III: Act II: SCENE I.—Apartment in Mr. Rochester’s house

_Enter_ GRACE POOL, _with a piece of cake and a pint of porter,
followed by_ JOHN, R. H.

_John._ Come now, Mrs. Grace, I’ll tell you what it is. I ain’t a-going to stand your capers. I never was in a family yet that I wasn’t made acquainted with the secrets thereof; here have I been three live-long weeks, and I don’t know nothing yet; it’s disgraceful.

_Grace._ Very!

_John._ There’s a mysterious mystery hanging about the place somewhere, and I’m blessed if I don’t find it out.

_Grace._ Do!

_John._ I will, you may take your davy. Won’t you tell me?

_Grace._ No!

_John._ Then I must depend upon my natural genius to find it out. There was a jolly rumpus last night; who is it laughs in that awful manner every now and then?

_Grace._ Me.

_John._ You? pooh! don’t tell me.

_Grace._ I won’t.

_John._ There’s something a-going on in this house that isn’t right, and a fellow-servant as won’t confide in a fellow-servant don’t deserve to belong to our honourable profession. How can we stand up for our masters and missises unless we knows their little imperfections? it keeps them in order, and makes wages a deal more reg’lar. I know a thing or two. You don’t know what I am.

_Grace._ I do!

_John._ What am I; now let’s know.

_Grace._ A fool!

_John._ Am I? then there’s a pair of us; but never mind. I won’t be beholden to you. The master will be home soon, and while there’s key-holes in the world, and ears ain’t scarce, there ain’t a master in the world can keep a secret from a servant as is determined to find it out; that you may take your oath of. Don’t keep on a-munching of that cake as if you really thought you were hurting it and it did you good to bite so savagely. The new governess will be here to-day, then your nose will be out of joint, thank fortune.

_Grace._ Will it?

_John._ Won’t it?

_Grace._ No!

_John._ Then you’re pretty certain of _your_ situation whatever may come into the house!

_Grace._ Yes!

_John._ Now then, I know there’s a something.

_Grace._ Indeed!

_John._ Yes, and if I don’t come at it I’m a Dutchman.

_Grace._ Don’t try.

_John._ None of your gammon. You want to frighten me. Why do you always eat in your own room? or walking about like a hungry ghost, and not amongst us as you ought to. But I know a way to penetrate the mystery.

_Grace._ How?

_John._ This way. (_Opens door, scream heard._)

_Grace._ Stop!

_John._ (_Frightened._) I saw it! oh, lord! it’s true! I heard so.

_Grace._ What?

_John._ That the house was haunted. Grace, what was that fearful-looking thing?

_Grace._ Nothing!

_John._ Didn’t you hear a scream?

_Grace._ No!

_John._ I’ll take my oath I saw something.

_Grace._ Fool!

_John._ You’re not a-going in?

_Grace._ Yes!

_John._ Don’t! don’t!

_Grace._ Go!

[_Exit through door in flat_, L. H.

_John._ I will; my eyes could not have deceived me, and my ears, too. Here’s a beautifully-awful mystery, a ghost in the house; there’s something delightfully frightful in having one’s feelings harrowed up and agitated all ways at once. I’ve a great mind to peep, just to see if I was right. Pooh! don’t be a coward, heart. I declare I’m goose-fleshing all over; my hair is getting wiry, and my knees wretchedly rheumatic. Pooh! here goes!

(_Approaches door, a wild laugh heard, he bolts precipitately,
falls on his knees._ GRACE _enters with dress, touches him on
the shoulder_.)

_John._ Oh! don’t; have pity, good ghost. I’ll never be curious again! I won’t! I won’t!

_Grace._ Don’t!

_John._ Is it you? Oh, good gracious! what a coward I am! Oh! there’s a good soul, tell me what I saw in the room.

_Grace._ (_Holding up dress._) Look!

_John._ Nothing but a white dress. Hurrah! Pleasant as it is to be mysteriously terrified, it’s much more agreeable to be _not_. Oh! I could, I really could, very nearly, be induced to embrace you. Indeed, my own feelings have undergone such a complete upsetting that I do believe I could almost kiss you.

_Grace._ Fool!

_John._ You’re right, of the long-eardest description, but I’m cured. I’ll never dive into secret mysteries again.

[_Exit_, R. H., _Grace through door_.

SCENE II.—_Garden; bright moonlight._

_Enter_ JANE, L. H., _despondingly, leans against balcony_.

_Jane._ Shame, shame upon their cruelty; the pride that blazed within me is quenched in the flood of my great disappointment. Is this the pleasant change which I had pictured? This is the hard sterile rock my distant hope had tinted over with the softest moonlight. Better, a thousand times better, my solitary cell once more, than be gibed and mocked at by the vulgar-wealthy; to have the badge of servitude engraved upon my very heart, and know that tyrant circumstance has placed me in a world all prison, where every human being is a watchful jailor, and where you must endure the unceasing lash of insolence, the certain punishment of that statuteless but unforgiven crime, poverty. But why should I weep; it is my destiny—my stark and joyless destiny, and I must school myself, if not to be content therewith, at least to endure without a murmur. (_Noise outside._)

_Roch._ (_Supposed to have fallen from his horse._) How, Mesrour, what’s to do now? you’ve hurt me, you ungrateful beast.

_Jane._ It is a traveller, who has fallen from his horse.

_Roch._ (_Outside._) Hallo! you hedge phantom, since you have frightened my horse away, the least you can do will be to help me up.

_Jane._ With pleasure, sir.

[_Exit_, R. H.

_Roch._ (_Outside._) Pleasure, indeed; it ain’t much pleasure to break a limb, is it?

_Jane._ Lean on me sir; you are not injured, I hope?

_Enter_ JANE _and_ ROCHESTER, R. H. U. E.

_Roch._ Not injured! what a fool you must be; to be tumbled upon a hard rocky road doesn’t necessarily give a man the most pleasurable sensations.

_Jane._ I am sorry, sir, indeed I am.

_Roch._ Pooh! don’t talk nonsense! why should _you_ be sorry?

_Jane._ If it was through my being here that your horse was startled, sir, I must feel sorrow for your accident.

_Roch._ I’d advise you not to waste any sympathy on my account, it will be a bad investment of valueless capital.

_Jane._ I may at least inquire if you are seriously hurt.

_Roch._ I don’t recognise your right! Who are you? and what brings you here at this time of the night? Go away home, if you have any.

_Jane._ I cannot think of leaving you, sir, until I see that you can assist yourself.

_Roch._ Can’t you, indeed; you are rather a peremptory apparition,—where do you come from? Have you descended from a moonbeam, or are you a discontented Hamadryad, escaped from your oakey prison? Are you quite sure that you havn’t bewitch’d my horse!

_Jane._ I live at yonder house, sir; shall I run and obtain some assistance, for I know that you are suffering much pain, notwithstanding your apparent carelessness.

_Roch._ Hold your tongue; you live there, do you?

_Jane._ Yes, sir.

_Roch._ Whose house is it?

_Jane._ Mr. Rochester’s.

_Roch._ Indeed! do you know him?

_Jane._ No; I have never seen him; and if he resembles the majority of his visitors, I have no wish.

_Roch._ You are not a servant, of course; I see you are not. Forgive me. You’ll find me rough, but not rude; though what is it to you whether I am or not. May I inquire who you are?

_Jane._ The governess, sir.

_Roch._ Ah! the governess! where do you come from?

_Jane._ From Lowood school.

_Roch._ That charitable concern over the way; how long were you there?

_Jane._ Eight years.

_Roch._ Eight years! you must be tenacious of life; I thought half the time in such a place would have done up any constitution. Who are your parents?

_Jane._ I have none.

_Roch._ But you had I suppose; do you remember them? You think me impertinent, I perceive; never mind, it doesn’t signify. Who were you waiting for here? did you know I was returning? but how could you?—there, I think I can walk now. Lend me your arm. Have you an umbrella? No matter, I can hobble along pretty well.

_Jane._ You are suffering, sir—I know you are.

_Roch._ Well, what’s that to you; confound it, can’t you let me suffer quietly; don’t for pity’s sake fall into the common error of worldly friends, who think that condoling with you on your misfortunes, ameliorates them, the fools, when forgetfulness would be mercy, their tongues are never quiet; but where’s your curiosity—are you not dying to know who I am?

_Jane._ I have no such unwarrantable desire, sir.

_Roch._ Ah, that’s a famous sting for me; but I may as well tell you at once; that then is my home, ah! (_expression of disgust_) the casket of my treasure—look at those brilliant casements, those ivy covered battlements, those old ancestral trees, that smoothly shaven lawn, that richly variegated garden, is it not an earthly paradise?

_Jane._ It is indeed, externally a——

_Roch._ What do you mean, do you know? Externally—why not internally; ah, your eye is placid—pshaw! it is a large pest-house, there is a memento written in the air in lurid characters, which—but is it not an enviable retreat?

_Jane._ Most enviable.

_Roch._ Aye, even to the arch fiend himself, so full of delicious memories, that I cannot but dally with my happiness, even within its very sight—but come, the threshold must be passed.

_John._ (_Outside_, L. H.) He’s here—I see him.

_Enter Servants with torches, then_ LORD INGRAM _furred_, COL.
DENT, _&c. &c._, L. H. U. E.

_Lord Ing._ Rochester, my dear boy, you gave us a deuce of a fright, made me feel remarkably queer. Your horse rushed into the stable, all in a foam, without you.

_Roch._ That will do; you see it is accounted for.

_Lord Ing._ But my sister Blanche, you know the tender interest she takes in you.

_Roch._ Is she here?

_Lord Ing._ No, she’s fainting most grammatically in the drawing-room.

_Roch._ Silence, puppy—home! (_to Servants._) come, my Samaritan.

(_Rochester and Jane go towards entrance to house—Servants
range at each side with torches._)

_Col. Dent._ How do you feel, Ingram?

_Lord Ing._ Snubbed again, by Jove! The dem Rhinoceros!

(_Music.—Curtain._)

END OF ACT II.