Chapter IV: Act III

SCENE I.—_Temporary Stage with curtains in drawing-room—preparation for the Charade_—JOHN _fastening curtains, &c._, ROBERT _assists_.

_Rob._ What be these crincums for, John?

_John._ Bless your unsophisticated ignorance, these are the games that shut up theatres; this is for domestic play acting—what with charades, as they call them, tableauxes, and fancy performances, in drawing-rooms, the bread is fairly taken out of the poor people’s mouths as makes it a purfession. I once had some hambition to be a player myself, but since the quality has taken it up, I’ve altered my mind.

_Rob._ I say, John, when do you think the wedding will take place; I like weddings—housekeepers don’t limit a chap’s ale.

_John._ Whose wedding?

_Rob._ Why, Mr. Rochester’s, with that there high-flyer, Miss Ingram.

_John._ Permit me, sir, as your superior in office, to give you a word of advice. Never you inquire about nothing, nor never you wonder at nothing. Specially in this enchanted castle.

_Rob._ Well I won’t; but you’ll tell us what these charades is.

_John._ The servants can come to the door and see them, then you’ll be likely to know.

_Rob._ You’re very kind.

_John._ I tell you what it is, I can’t get no satisfaction from anybody, and I’m resolved not to give no satisfaction to nobody; see if that there curtain will work.

(_Curtain drawn, discovers_ GRACE POOL _with her cake and pint
of beer_.)

_John._ Hillo, what brought you there? look, Bob, that’s what the gentry calls a tabloo.

_Rob._ Why, that’s half-witted Grace, with her everlasting pint of beer.

_John._ What are you doing there, Grace?

_Grace._ Eating.

_Rob._ Here, Grace. She knows everything if she’d only let it out. (_Grace comes down._) Is there going to be a wedding in the house?

_Grace._ No!

_Rob._ When will there?

_Grace._ Never. (_Noise of company._)

_John._ Hillo, here they come. Bob, down with the curtain! Grace, bundle out.

_Grace._ No! (_Sits down._)

_John._ But don’t you hear the company’s coming from the drawing-room!

_Grace._ Yes.

_John._ Come, you must be off.

_Grace._ Shan’t.

_John._ Here they are. Well, I don’t care, you old fool. Won’t there be a rumpus.

_Grace._ Brute!

_Enter_ DOWAGER, LADY INGRAM _and all the guests. All stare
with astonishment at Grace._

_Lord Ing._ By Jove, what a character! it’s Rochester dressed up; no, it isn’t.

_Grace._ Beer! (_Offering pint._)

_Dow._ It must be one of the visitors in a fancy dress. Whoever you are, disclose yourself.

_Grace._ Cake? (_Offering cake._)

_Lord Ing._ Capital, by Jupiter!

[_Grace offers her beer all around, then stalks across
mysteriously, and exit._

_Col. Dent._ Who the deuce can it be?

_Lord Ing._ I have it! you remember on the occasion of our last visit here, we heard sundry mysterious noises, at strange times, putting one’s nerves in an inelegant state of agitation. This must be the cause, depend upon it. It’s a lunatic servant that Rochester don’t like to get rid of.

_Dow._ Dear me, suppose she had hurt somebody? Ah, here comes that odious governess; six months hasn’t made her a whit more humble. I wonder Rochester keeps her here.

_Lord Ing._ Because he’s a dem’d original, and does nothing like anybody else: with his countless mine of money, it’s astonishing how barbarous he is. I’m sure when we were in town last season, I used all my endeavours to transmute his rugged iron into smooth, fashionable gold, but all my efforts were of no avail. One might as well try to civilize a polar bear or teach an alligator the polka.

_Enter_ ROCHESTER.

Ah, my dear Rochester, the sound of your praise has scarcely done echoing through the apartment. We are all dying with anxiety to see what Charade is about to be presented.

_Roch._ Where is Miss Eyre? John, tell Miss Eyre to come here.

_Lord Ing._ Demmit, Rochester, have a little feeling for the Dowager. You know how she dislikes the atmosphere of a domestic.

_Roch._ The instructress of my child, my lord, ranks amongst the foremost of my friends; my acquaintances surely need not blush to be in such society.

_Enter_ JANE.

_Jane._ You sent for me, sir?

_Roch._ I did, Miss Eyre. Sit down; I presume you care as little as myself for those frivolous pastimes, and yet they may amuse you. (_Aside._) I cannot struggle against the heart spell she has thrown around me. Spite of the dark chasm of the future, my soul is hurried onward with the very speed of destiny. Could she but love me sufficient to brave all—this day shall prove it.

_Enter_ JOHN _with letter which he gives to_ ROCHESTER.

Excuse me friends; what’s this? (_Reads. “Depart at once; a matter of grave importance.”_) You hear, friends, how abruptly I am summoned; but let not my absence check your enjoyment; I shall return as quickly as I can.

[_Exit Rochester._

_Lord Ing._ Ah, Miss Eyre. Pray, how do you find yourself? don’t be under any apprehension! I have forgotten what passed between us during my last visit.

_Jane._ Indeed! my lord. I congratulate you upon the complaisance of your memory. I wish I had so obliging a recollection.

_Lord Ing._ Why, have you not forgotten it?

_Jane._ No, my lord, nor ever shall!

_Lord Ing._ What an unforgiving creature!

_Jane._ Pardon me, it is _forgiven_ long since, _that_ is my share of the transaction, to teach me to _forget_ it, must be _yours_.

_Lord Ing._ Ah! yes. You’re too dem’d metaphysical for me! (_Small bell._)

_Col. Dent._ The signal to prepare for the Charade.

(_Servants appear at stage doors; crowding their heads amongst
them, Grace, John, Bob, &c._)

_Col. Dent._ Who are to be the representatives?

_Lord Ing._ Mr. Rochester.

_Col. Dent._ And your lovely sister, of course!

_Lord Ing._ I suppose so. If he’s going to marry her, I wish he’d make haste about it. I want to cut in for a slice of his ready——

_Col. Dent._ Silence! Here comes the first syllable.

(_Curtain rises to music, and discovers Lady Blanche dressed as
bride, two bridesmaids attending; Tableau—Music._)

_Lord Ing._ Superb, by Jove! Blanche is rehearsing for the Mrs. Rochester role, evidently.

_Col. Dent._ But what is the syllable intended?

_Lord Ing._ Don’t ask me. I never fatigue my brain with thinking.

_Dow._ It must be——_Bride_.

_All._ Certainly!

_Col. Dent._ Now for the second syllable.

(_Tableau of Rebecca at the well, after Victor Adam—Music._)

_Lord Ing._ We all know what it is,—fountain!

_Dent._ No; Bride fountain, spells no word that I know of.

_Dow._ I know it,—it must be WELL!

_All._ So it is. (_They applaud._)

_Dent._ Now for the Tableau of the whole word.

(_Curtain: Tableau of the Momentous question._)

_Dent._ Capital, by Jove,—“_Bride-well_,” ain’t it, Miss Eyre?

_Jane._ Pardon me, sir, but I was not attending to the exhibition.

_Lord Ing._ Perhaps you object to such frivolous amusement?

_Jane._ My objections, my lord, carry but little weight.

_Lord Ing._ Modest creature!

_Enter_ JOHN.

_John._ If you please, my lady, there’s an old gipsy has ensconced himself by the library fire, and nothing can induce him to go.

_Dow._ The wretched person; what does he want?

_John._ He wants to tell the gentry their fortunes, and swears he won’t leave till he does.

_Lady Blan._ Oh! ma! do let us see him, it is so deliciously romantic.

_Lord Ing._ What is he like?

_John._ As old as Methuselah, and as ugly as a scare-crow, my lord.

_Lord Ing._ Then let’s see him, it would be a thousand pities to lose such a chance of making fun of the old sorcerer.

_John._ He says whoever wants him must go to him.

_Dent._ An independent wizard; suppose I lead the way.

_Lord Ing._ No; let Blanche propitiate the fellow.

_Dow._ I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding.

_Blan._ Indeed, ma, but you can and will; I have a curiosity to have my fortune told: John, lead the way.

_Dow._ Oh, my best—oh, my dearest, consider——

_Blan._ Ma, don’t be foolish!

[_Exit with John._

_Dow._ Oh, my beloved darling; if anything should happen to her, I should never forgive myself. Theodore, why don’t you rush to the protection of your precious sister.

_Lord Ing._ Don’t alarm yourself, perturbated maternity; Blanche can take good care of her precious self.

_Dow._ Oh, you have no sympathy for a mother’s feelings.

_Lord Ing._ No! never had; don’t think I ever shall.

_Dow._ A horrible presentiment of evil oppresses me; I do believe if she don’t come instantly I shall be positively obliged to faint.

_Lord Ing._ Don’t throw away a scene, indiscreet woman; there are no strangers present.

_Lady Mary._ Ma, I’m frightened.

_Dow._ So am I, my timid dove.

_L. Mary._ This silence is inexpressively awful.

_Dow._ Perfectly appalling.

_Lord Ing._ Absolutely excruciating—ha! ha! Dent, for gracious sake, look at the interesting old hen and her one little chick. Here she comes; calm your fluttering hearts.

_Enter_ BLANCHE.

_Dow._ (_Rushes to her._) She’s safe; my own is safe.

_L. Mary._ Well, love, what did he say?

_Lord Ing._ What did he do?

_Col. Dent._ How did he look?

_Dow._ How do you feel, precious?

_Blan._ Now, good people, don’t press on me; restrain your curiosity, I have seen a gipsy imposter, who endeavoured to practise the usual cheating of his kind; and I treated the knavery as it deserved, with contempt.

_Dow._ But tell me, love, did he say anything about—you know what—Rochester, you know?

(_Jane expresses anxiety._)

_Blan._ It’s perfectly laughable—he told me this marriage should never take place.

_Dow._ How absurd.

(_All go up laughing._)

_Lord Ing._ Very likely.

_Jane._ Ha! why does that sentence thrill through my frame, sharp and stunning as a shock of electricity; what is it to me—oh, weak, weak, foolish heart, strive not against thy betters; down to thy station, down!

[_Exit_, R. H.

SCENE II.—_Enter_ JOHN, L. H., _meeting Jane Eyre_.

_John._ Please, miss, the gipsy won’t go without seeing you.

_Jane._ You mistake, John, it must be one of the visitors he wishes to see.

_John._ No, miss, he must be something not right, for he described you wonderful. What shall I tell him?

_Jane._ That I will go, by all means. He may be in want of something; it’s only those who have felt privation themselves who ever think that there is such a thing in the world as want.

_John._ If you like, miss, I’ll wait in the hall, and if he frightens you, call out and I’ll see if the ditch water agrees with his gipsy stomach.

_Jane._ No, John, return to the kitchen; I am not in the least afraid.

[_Exit Jane_, L. H.

_John._ Oh, Lord! the mysteriousness gets thicker than ever. Not content with having a ghost in the house, we must have a gipsy now. I wish the fellow would tell me my fortune. No I don’t; for I’d rather not know it, if it’s at all shy; and in the natural course of events I don’t see any other chance for poor me. I only wish I was married and settled out of this nest of hobgoblins. That there Grace would make a good sort of wife for a chap, she’s so chary with her syllables, and that’s a good point. I wonder where she is? it’s nice and dark and romantic; just the time to whisper soft nonsenses. I’ve a great mind to find her. I will too. I’ll just take a glass of strong beer, and open my heart to her like a house a-fire.

GRACE _appears at_ D. _in_ F. _with plate, &c._

_Grace._ That inquisitive fool here. I’ll soon get rid of him.

(_Re-enters door. A groan heard._)

_John._ Good gracious, what’s that? I’ll swear I heard a groan in that room. (_Goes towards door._) Pshaw! the keyhole’s stuffed up. (_A crash of crockery and loud laugh._) The ghost! the ghost! oh, lord!

[_Exit hastily_, R. H.

_Enter_ GRACE.

_Grace._ It’s well for us he’s such a coward. Now to relieve his terror. John, what’s the matter?

[_Exit_ R. H.

SCENE III.—_The Library: Stage partially dark—wood fire blazing on hearth._

ROCHESTER _as Gipsy, and_ JANE EYRE _discovered—the red light
from the fire falls on his face_.

_Roch._ Here we shall be more quiet; for I have a good deal to say to you, and hate listeners—you see that I know the house well; aye, and all who are in it. Ah! you doubt me. I knew that, you see—but to the proof. Come, you want your fortune told?

_Jane._ I don’t care about it, you may please yourself; but you are right in your conjecture—I have no faith.

_Roch._ My conjecture, silly mortal—my _knowledge_. I heard it in your step just now.

_Jane._ Did you?—you have a quick ear.

_Roch._ I have, and a quick eye and a quick brain.

_Jane._ You need them all in your trade.

_Roch._ Especially when I have customers like you to deal with. Why don’t you tremble?

_Jane._ I’m not cold.

_Roch._ Why don’t you turn pale?

_Jane._ I’m not sick.

_Roch._ Why don’t you consult my art?

_Jane._ I’m not silly.

_Roch._ Lies, lies, all—you are cold, you are sick, and you are silly.

_Jane._ Prove it.

_Roch._ In few words. You are cold, because you are alone; no contact strikes from you the fire that you possess. You are sick, because the lowliness of your position keeps from you the companionship of your equals in soul and intellect. You are silly, because suffer as you may, yet even to those who could and would sympathise with you, you disdain to reveal the heart-agony that wears away your life.

_Jane._ You might say this to any one, placed in my circumstances.

_Roch._ Find me another placed as you are; happiness is near you—within your very reach, and yet your obstinate but noble pride, keeps you from putting forth your hand to grasp it.

_Jane._ I don’t understand enigmas.

_Roch._ If you wish me to speak more plainly, let me see your hand.

_Jane._ I know it’s folly, all, but there——

(_Holds hand._)

_Roch._ You don’t! there’s doubt in your look. You are not quite certain that it is folly; pshaw! I can make nothing of the hand, ’tis too fine; besides, destiny is not written there; no, ’tis in the eyes, the forehead, mouth, the expression of the face; let me look in your eyes.

_Jane._ Now you are coming to reality; I shall begin to have some faith in you presently.

_Roch._ Um! good, very good. I wonder what thoughts are busy in your heart, for I can only read them now—I can! What thoughts, I say, pass within you, while you sit in yonder room, with all the fine people passing before you like shadows in a magic lantern?

_Jane._ I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad.

_Roch._ Then you have some secret hope that pleases you with whispers of the future!

_Jane._ None!

_Roch._ None? no! not when you hear, as you must do, tales of love and courtship, does not _your_ heart yearn for a fitting mate? For instance, when Lady Blanche and he—you know who I mean—when they converse in soft, silvery whispering together, their fervid looks and low murmuring syllables uttering the bliss of each, then——

_Jane._ Then—ah! spare me—then I _dare_ not think.

_Roch._ You have looked forward, have you not, and seen them married, and beheld his bride happy?

_Jane._ No, I have not seen that; your witch’s skill is at fault sometimes.

_Roch._ What in Heaven’s name have you seen, then?

_Jane._ No matter. I came here to inquire, not to confess. I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester’s fortune, but to listen to my own, and you have told me nothing of it.

_Roch._ Because _your_ fortune is yet doubtful. I can read upon your features each passion of your heart, distinct as on a printed page. That eye, shining like dew, so soft and full of feeling, and yet in the cup of bliss, when offered, if there should be one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse, how firm its determined glance; it would foster, not blight, it would earn gratitude, not wring tears of blood. Ah! what tenderness, but what inflexibility! Leave me; I rave in exquisite delirium; so far I have governed myself thoroughly; leave me, Jane.—The play is played out.

_Jane._ That voice—do I wake or dream?

_Roch._ Don’t you know me, Jane—there, then, off ye lendings! How do I play the Gipsy?

_Jane._ It was no Gipsy part you played with me.

_Roch._ Whose then, my own?

_Jane._ I don’t know, sir; some unaccountable one. In short, you have been talking nonsense to make me do the same. I have your permission to retire, sir.

_Roch._ Not yet; I want to ask your advice. Now, Jane, call your fancy to your aid; suppose instead of the bright incarnation of womanhood which you are, you had been a wild boy, indulged from childhood upward; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land, conceive that you commit a capital error, no matter what, but one whose consequences must follow you through life, and taint all your existence; mind, I don’t say a _crime_, my word is _error_. Well, heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of voluntary banishment, you make a new acquaintance, you find in this stranger much of the bright and good qualities which you have sought for all your life, and but just encountered; such society brings higher wishes, purer feelings, and you desire to recommence your life, and pass the remnant of your days in a manner more worthy of a human being. To attain this end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom?

_Jane._ Sir, if any one you know has erred and suffered, let him look higher than his friends for strength to amend, and solace to heal!

_Roch._ But the instrument! the instrument! I tell you without parable, that _I_ have been a worldly, dissipated, restless man. Oh! dare I to hope that I have found a comforting spirit? Jane, if the finger of scorn were pointed at me, what would you do?

_Jane._ If it were deserved, my tears would attest my sorrow; if not, I would dash the mocker to the earth, if strength of indignation could effect it.

_Roch._ Bold, brave girl. You know my strange temperament, and won’t wonder if I make sudden resolutions. You must go.

_Jane._ Go, sir.

_Roch._ Yes, go. What business have you here; you know I am about to be married.

_Jane._ Soon, sir?

_Roch._ Very soon.

_Jane._ Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.

_Roch._ It is come now, Miss Eyre—you must get a new situation.

_Jane._ The blow is greater, severer than I expected.

_Roch._ But your pride will master it.

_Jane._ It will—it does: it—oh, this is torture——

_Roch._ No, it don’t. You are sorry to leave Thornfield.

_Jane._ I grieve to leave it. I love Thornfield. I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life. I have not been trampled on—I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and high, and energetic. I have talked face to face with what I reverenced, but I see the necessity for departure, and it is like looking on the necessity of death.

_Roch._ Where do you see the necessity?

_Jane._ _You_ have placed it before me. Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you suppose I am a mere machine, without one spark of sense or feeling, and can bear to have my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am lowly and obscure, that I have neither soul nor heart? You think wrongly if you do; and if heaven had gifted me with wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now, through the medium of custom, or even of mortal flesh; it is my spirit which addresses you, just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood within the precincts of eternity equal, as we are.

_Roch._ As we are, and ever shall remain. I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions. Jane, decide my destiny!

_Jane._ You play a farce at which I merely laugh.

_Roch._ Unbelieving sceptic, you shall be convinced; the irresistible waves of destiny hurry me along; you strange—you almost unearthly thing—I love you as my own flesh, and I must have you for my own. Will you be mine?—at once, within the hour—say yes, and quickly.

_Jane._ Mr. Rochester!

_Roch._ Yes.

_Jane._ Let me look in your face.

_Roch._ Why?

_Jane._ Because I want to read your countenance!

_Roch._ There you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled page. Read on—only make haste, for I suffer. Jane, you torture me with that searching but yet generous look: you torture me.

_Jane._ How can I do that, if your offer be real; my only feelings must be gratitude and devotion.

_Roch._ Gratitude! Jane, accept me quickly.

_Jane._ Are you in earnest? Do you sincerely wish me to become your wife?

_Roch._ I swear it.

_Jane._ Then I am yours.

_Roch._ Come, come to me—my happiness is complete. Away! I will not give you time to change your mind. Prepare yourself at once—in my oratory we shall be wedded. Haste, haste, my own, own bride!—[_Exit Jane._]—God pardon me, and man meddle not with me; she is mine, and I will hold her in the teeth of fate; it will atone—it will atone. Have I not found her friendless? and will I not guard and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? I know Heaven sanctions what I do: for the world’s judgment, I wash my hands thereof—for man’s opinion, I defy it. Hold! what am I about to do? Down, down thought!—sleep conscience; for in spite of all the powers of earth and hell combined, she must be mine. And then! for remorse and wretchedness. Well, let them come—Heaven pardon and pity me—my heart and brain are burning!

END OF ACT III.