The library looked
tranquil enough as I entered it,
and the Sibyl-- if Sibyl she were--was
seated snugly enough in an easy-chair
at the
chimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or
rather, a broad-brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped
handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the
table; she was bending over the fire, and seemed reading in a little
black book, like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she
muttered the words to herself, as most old women do, while she read;
she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she
wished to finish a paragraph.
I stood on the rug and warmed
my hands, which were rather cold
with sitting at a distance from
the drawing-room fire. I felt
now as composed as ever I did
in my life: there was nothing
indeed in the gipsy's appearance
to trouble one's calm. She shut
her book and slowly looked up;
her hat-brim partially shaded
her face, yet I could see, as
she raised it, that it was a
strange one. It looked all brown
and black: elf-locks bristled
out from beneath a white band
which passed under her chin,
and came half over her cheeks,
or rather jaws: her eye confronted
me at once, with a bold and direct
gaze.
"Well, and you want your fortune
told?" she said, in a voice as
decided as her glance, as harsh
as her features.
"I
don't care
about it, mother;
you may please yourself: but
I ought to warn you, I have no
faith."
"It's
like your impudence
to say so:
I expected
it of you;
I heard it in your step as you
crossed the threshold."
"Did
you? You've
a quick ear."
"I
have; and a
quick eye and
a quick brain."
"You
need them all
in your trade."
"I
do; especially
when I've customers
like you to
deal with.
Why don't you tremble?"
"I'm
not cold."
"Why
don't you turn
pale?"
"I
am not sick."
"Why
don't you consult
my art?"
"I'm
not silly."
The
old crone "nichered" a
laugh under her bonnet and bandage;
she then drew out a short black
pipe, and lighting it began to
smoke. Having indulged a while
in this sedative, she raised
her bent body, took the pipe
from her lips, and while gazing
steadily at the fire, said very
deliberately--"You are cold;
you are sick; and you are silly."
"Prove it," I
rejoined.
"I
will, in few
words. You
are cold, because
you are alone:
no contact strikes the fire from
you that is in you. You are sick;
because the best of feelings,
the highest and the sweetest
given to man, keeps far away
from you. You are silly, because,
suffer as you may, you will not
beckon it to approach, nor will
you stir one step to meet it
where it waits you."
She again put her short black
pipe to her lips, and renewed
her smoking with vigour.
"You
might say all
that to almost
any one who
you knew lived
as a solitary dependent in a
great house."
"I
might say it
to almost any
one: but would it be true of
almost any one?"
"In
my circumstances."
"Yes;
just so, in
YOUR circumstances:
but find me another precisely
placed as you are."
"It
would be easy
to find you
thousands."
"You
could scarcely
find me one.
If you knew
it, you are
peculiarly situated: very near
happiness; yes, within reach
of it. The materials are all
prepared; there only wants a
movement to combine them. Chance
laid them somewhat apart; let
them be once approached and bliss
results."
"I
don't understand
enigmas. I
never could
guess a riddle
in my life."
"If
you wish me
to speak more
plainly, show me your palm."
"And
I must cross
it with silver,
I suppose?"
"To
be sure."
I gave her a shilling: she
put it into an old stocking-foot
which she took out of her pocket,
and having tied it round and
returned it, she told me to hold
out my hand. I did. She ached
her face to the palm, and pored
over it without touching it.
"It is too fine," said she. "I
can make nothing of such a hand
as that; almost without lines:
besides, what is in a palm? Destiny
is not written there."
"I believe you," said
I.
"No," she continued, "it
is in the face:
on the forehead,
about the eyes, in the lines
of the mouth. Kneel, and lift
up your head."
"Ah! now you are coming to
reality," I said, as I obeyed
her. "I shall begin to put some
faith in you presently."
I knelt within half a yard
of her. She stirred the fire,
so that a ripple of light broke
from the disturbed coal: the
glare, however, as she sat, only
threw her face into deeper shadow:
mine, it illumined.
"I wonder with what feelings
you came to me to-night," she
said, when she had examined me
a while. "I wonder what thoughts
are busy in your heart during
all the hours you sit in yonder
room with the fine people flitting
before you like shapes in a magic-lantern:
just as little sympathetic communion
passing between you and them
as if they were really mere shadows
of human forms, and not the actual
substance."
"I
feel tired
often, sleepy
sometimes, but seldom sad."
"Then
you have some
secret hope
to buoy you
up and please
you with whispers of the future?"
"Not
I. The utmost
I hope is,
to save money
enough out
of my
earnings to set up a school some
day in a little house rented
by myself."
"A
mean nutriment
for the spirit
to exist on: and sitting in that
window-seat (you see I know your
habits )--"
"You
have learned
them from the
servants."
"Ah!
you think yourself
sharp. Well,
perhaps I have:
to speak
truth, I have an acquaintance
with one of them, Mrs. Poole--"
I started to my feet when I
heard the name.
"You have--have you?" thought
I; "there is diablerie in the
business after all, then!"
"Don't be alarmed," continued
the strange being; "she's a safe
hand is Mrs. Poole: close and
quiet; any one may repose confidence
in her. But, as I was saying:
sitting in that window-seat,
do you think of nothing but your
future school? Have you no present
interest in any of the company
who occupy the sofas and chairs
before you? Is there not one
face you study? one figure whose
movements you follow with at
least curiosity?"
"I
like to observe
all the faces
and all the
figures."
"But
do you never
single one
from the rest--or
it may be,
two?"
"I
do frequently;
when the gestures
or looks of
a pair seem
telling a tale: it amuses me
to watch them."
"What
tale do you
like best to
hear?"
"Oh,
I have not
much choice!
They generally run on the same
theme-- courtship; and promise
to end in the same catastrophe--marriage."
"And
do you like
that monotonous
theme?"
"Positively,
I don't care
about it: it
is nothing
to me."
"Nothing
to you? When
a lady, young
and full of
life and health,
charming with beauty and endowed
with the gifts of rank and fortune,
sits and smiles in the eyes of
a gentleman you--"
"I
what?"
"You
know--and perhaps
think well
of."
"I
don't know
the gentlemen
here. I have scarcely interchanged
a syllable with one of them;
and as to thinking well of them,
I consider some respectable,
and stately, and middle-aged,
and others young, dashing, handsome,
and lively: but certainly they
are all at liberty to be the
recipients of whose smiles they
please, without my feeling disposed
to consider the transaction of
any moment to me."
"You
don't know
the gentlemen
here? You have not exchanged
a syllable with one of them?
Will you say that of the master
of the house!"
"He
is not at home."
"A
profound remark!
A most ingenious
quibble! He
went to
Millcote this morning, and will
be back here to-night or to-morrow:
does that circumstance exclude
him from the list of your acquaintance--
blot him, as it were, out of
existence?"
"No;
but I can scarcely
see what Mr.
Rochester has
to do
with the theme you had introduced."
"I
was talking
of ladies smiling
in the eyes of gentlemen; and
of late so many smiles have been
shed into Mr. Rochester's eyes
that they overflow like two cups
filled above the brim: have you
never remarked that?"
"Mr.
Rochester has
a right to
enjoy the society
of his guests."
"No
question about
his right:
but have you
never observed
that,
of all the tales told here about
matrimony, Mr. Rochester has
been favoured with the most lively
and the most continuous?"
"The eagerness of a listener
quickens the tongue of a narrator." I
said this rather to myself than
to the gipsy, whose strange talk,
voice, manner, had by this time
wrapped me in a kind of dream.
One unexpected sentence came
from her lips after another,
till I got involved in a web
of mystification; and wondered
what unseen spirit had been sitting
for weeks by my heart watching
its workings and taking record
of every pulse.
"Eagerness of a listener!" repeated
she: "yes; Mr. Rochester has
sat by the hour, his ear inclined
to the fascinating lips that
took such delight in their task
of communicating; and Mr. Rochester
was so willing to receive and
looked so grateful for the pastime
given him; you have noticed this?"
"Grateful!
I cannot remember
detecting gratitude in his face."
"Detecting!
You have analysed,
then. And what did you detect,
if not gratitude?"
I said nothing.
"You
have seen love:
have you not?--and,
looking forward,
you
have seen him married, and beheld
his bride happy?"
"Humph!
Not exactly.
Your witch's
skill is rather at fault sometimes."
"What
the devil have
you seen, then?"
"Never
mind: I came
here to inquire,
not to confess.
Is it
known that Mr. Rochester is to
be married?"
"Yes;
and to the
beautiful Miss
Ingram."
"Shortly?"
"Appearances
would warrant
that conclusion: and, no doubt
(though, with an audacity that
wants chastising out of you,
you seem to question it), they
will be a superlatively happy
pair. He must love such a handsome,
noble, witty, accomplished lady;
and probably she loves him, or,
if not his person, at least his
purse. I know she considers the
Rochester estate eligible to
the last degree; though (God
pardon me!) I told her something
on that point about an hour ago
which made her look wondrous
grave: the corners of her mouth
fell half an inch. I would advise
her blackaviced suitor to look
out: if another comes, with a
longer or clearer rent-roll,--he's
dished--"
"But,
mother, I did
not come to
hear Mr. Rochester's
fortune:
I came to hear my own; and you
have told me nothing of it."
"Your
fortune is
yet doubtful:
when I examined your face, one
trait contradicted another. Chance
has meted you a measure of happiness:
that I know. I knew it before
I came here this evening. She
has laid it carefully on one
side for you. I saw her do it.
It depends on yourself to stretch
out your hand, and take it up:
but whether you will do so, is
the problem I study. Kneel again
on the rug."
"Don't
keep me long;
the fire scorches
me."
I knelt. She did not stoop
towards me, but only gazed, leaning
back in her chair. She began
muttering, -
"The
flame flickers
in the eye;
the eye shines
like dew;
it looks soft and full of feeling;
it smiles at my jargon: it is
susceptible; impression follows
impression through its clear
sphere; where it ceases to smile,
it is sad; an unconscious lassitude
weighs on the lid: that signifies
melancholy resulting from loneliness.
It turns from me; it will not
suffer further scrutiny; it seems
to deny, by a mocking glance,
the truth of the discoveries
I have already made,--to disown
the charge both of sensibility
and chagrin: its pride and reserve
only confirm me in my opinion.
The eye is favourable.
"As
to the mouth,
it delights
at times in laughter; it is disposed
to impart all that the brain
conceives; though I daresay it
would be silent on much the heart
experiences. Mobile and flexible,
it was never intended to be compressed
in the eternal silence of solitude:
it is a mouth which should speak
much and smile often, and have
human affection for its interlocutor.
That feature too is propitious.
"I
see no enemy
to a fortunate
issue but in the brow; and that
brow professes to say,--'I can
live alone, if self-respect,
and circumstances require me
so to do. I need not sell my
soul to buy bliss. I have an
inward treasure born with me,
which can keep me alive if all
extraneous delights should be
withheld, or offered only at
a price I cannot afford to give.'
The forehead declares, 'Reason
sits firm and holds the reins,
and she will not let the feelings
burst away and hurry her to wild
chasms. The passions may rage
furiously, like true heathens,
as they are; and the desires
may imagine all sorts of vain
things: but judgment shall still
have the last word in every argument,
and the casting vote in every
decision. Strong wind, earthquake-shock,
and fire may pass by: but I shall
follow the guiding of that still
small voice which interprets
the dictates of conscience.'
"Well
said, forehead;
your declaration
shall be respected.
I have formed my plans--right
plans I deem them--and in them
I have attended to the claims
of conscience, the counsels of
reason. I know how soon youth
would fade and bloom perish,
if, in the cup of bliss offered,
but one dreg of shame, or one
flavour of remorse were detected;
and I do not want sacrifice,
sorrow, dissolution--such is
not my taste. I wish to foster,
not to blight--to earn gratitude,
not to wring tears of blood--no,
nor of brine: my harvest must
be in smiles, in endearments,
in sweet-- That will do. I think
I rave in a kind of exquisite
delirium. I should wish now to
protract this moment ad infinitum;
but I dare not. So far I have
governed myself thoroughly. I
have acted as I inwardly swore
I would act; but further might
try me beyond my strength. Rise,
Miss Eyre: leave me; the play
is played out'."
Where was I? Did I wake or
sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did
I dream still? The old woman's
voice had changed: her accent,
her gesture, and all were familiar
to me as my own face in a glass--as
the speech of my own tongue.
I got up, but did not go. I looked;
I stirred the fire, and I looked
again: but she drew her bonnet
and her bandage closer about
her face, and again beckoned
me to depart. The flame illuminated
her hand stretched out: roused
now, and on the alert for discoveries,
I at once noticed that hand.
It was no more the withered limb
of eld than my own; it was a
rounded supple member, with smooth
fingers, symmetrically turned;
a broad ring flashed on the little
finger, and stooping forward,
I looked at it, and saw a gem
I had seen a hundred times before.
Again I looked at the face; which
was no longer turned from me--on
the contrary, the bonnet was
doffed, the bandage displaced,
the head advanced.
"Well, Jane, do you know me?" asked
the familiar voice.
"Only
take off the
red cloak,
sir, and then--"
"But
the string
is in a knot--help
me."
"Break
it, sir."
"There, then--'Off, ye lendings!'" And
Mr. Rochester stepped out of
his disguise.
"Now,
sir, what a
strange idea!"
"But
well carried
out, eh? Don't
you think so?"
"With
the ladies
you must have
managed well."
"But
not with you?"
"You
did not act
the character
of a gipsy with me."
"What
character did
I act? My own?"
"No;
some unaccountable
one. In short,
I believe you
have
been trying to draw me out--or
in; you have been talking nonsense
to make me talk nonsense. It
is scarcely fair, sir."
"Do
you forgive
me, Jane?"
"I
cannot tell
till I have
thought it all over. If, on reflection,
I find I have fallen into no
great absurdity, I shall try
to forgive you; but it was not
right."
"Oh,
you have been
very correct--very
careful, very sensible."
I reflected, and thought, on
the whole, I had. It was a comfort;
but, indeed, I had been on my
guard almost from the beginning
of the interview. Something of
masquerade I suspected. I knew
gipsies and fortune-tellers did
not express themselves as this
seeming old woman had expressed
herself; besides I had noted
her feigned voice, her anxiety
to conceal her features. But
my mind had been running on Grace
Poole--that living enigma, that
mystery of mysteries, as I considered
her. I had never thought of Mr.
Rochester.
"Well," said he, "what
are you musing
about? What
does that
grave smile signify?"
"Wonder
and self-congratulation,
sir. I have your permission to
retire now, I suppose?"
"No;
stay a moment;
and tell me
what the people
in the drawing-room
yonder are doing."
"Discussing
the gipsy,
I daresay."
"Sit
down!--Let
me hear what
they said about me."
"I
had better
not stay long,
sir; it must be near eleven o'clock.
Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester,
that a stranger has arrived here
since you left this morning?"
"A
stranger!--no;
who can it
be? I expected
no one; is
he
gone?"
"No;
he said he
had known you
long, and that he could take
the liberty of installing himself
here till you returned."
"The
devil he did!
Did he give
his name?"
"His
name is Mason,
sir; and he
comes from
the West Indies;
from Spanish Town, in Jamaica,
I think."
Mr. Rochester was standing
near me; he had taken my hand,
as if to lead me to a chair.
As I spoke he gave my wrist a
convulsive grip; the smile on
his lips froze: apparently a
spasm caught his breath.
"Mason!--the West Indies!" he
said, in the tone one might fancy
a speaking automaton to enounce
its single words; "Mason!--the
West Indies!" he reiterated;
and he went over the syllables
three times, growing, in the
intervals of speaking, whiter
than ashes: he hardly seemed
to know what he was doing.
"Do you feel ill, sir?" I
inquired.
"Jane, I've got a blow; I've
got a blow, Jane!" He staggered.
"Oh,
lean on me,
sir."
"Jane,
you offered
me your shoulder
once before;
let me
have it now."
"Yes,
sir, yes; and
my arm."
He sat down, and made me sit
beside him. Holding my hand in
both his own, he chafed it; gazing
on me, at the same time, with
the most troubled and dreary
look.
"My little friend!" said he, "I
wish I were in a quiet island
with only you; and trouble, and
danger, and hideous recollections
removed from me."
"Can
I help you,
sir?--I'd give
my life to
serve you."
"Jane,
if aid is wanted,
I'll seek it
at your hands;
I promise
you that."
"Thank
you, sir. Tell
me what to
do,--I'll try,
at least, to
do it."
"Fetch
me now, Jane,
a glass of
wine from the
dining-room:
they will be at supper there;
and tell me if Mason is with
them, and what he is doing."
I went. I found all the party
in the dining-room at supper,
as Mr. Rochester had said; they
were not seated at table,--the
supper was arranged on the sideboard;
each had taken what he chose,
and they stood about here and
there in groups, their plates
and glasses in their hands. Every
one seemed in high glee; laughter
and conversation were general
and animated. Mr. Mason stood
near the fire, talking to Colonel
and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as
merry as any of them. I filled
a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram
watch me frowningly as I did
so: she thought I was taking
a liberty, I daresay), and I
returned to the library.
Mr. Rochester's extreme pallor
had disappeared, and he looked
once more firm and stern. He
took the glass from my hand.
"Here is to your health, ministrant
spirit!" he said. He swallowed
the contents and returned it
to me. "What are they doing,
Jane?"
"Laughing
and talking,
sir."
"They
don't look
grave and mysterious,
as if they
had heard
something strange?"
"Not
at all: they
are full of
jests and gaiety."
"And
Mason?"
"He
was laughing
too."
"If
all these people
came in a body
and spat at
me, what would
you do, Jane?"
"Turn
them out of
the room, sir,
if I could."
He
half smiled. "But
if I were to
go to them,
and they only
looked at me coldly, and whispered
sneeringly amongst each other,
and then dropped off and left
me one by one, what then? Would
you go with them?"
"I
rather think
not, sir: I
should have more pleasure in
staying with you."
"To
comfort me?"
"Yes,
sir, to comfort
you, as well
as I could."
"And
if they laid
you under a
ban for adhering
to me?"
"I,
probably, should
know nothing
about their ban; and if I did,
I should care nothing about it."
"Then,
you could dare
censure for
my sake?"
"I
could dare
it for the
sake of any
friend who
deserved my
adherence; as you, I am sure,
do."
"Go
back now into
the room; step
quietly up
to Mason, and
whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester
is come and wishes to see him:
show him in here and then leave
me."
"Yes,
sir."
I did his behest. The company
all stared at me as I passed
straight among them. I sought
Mr. Mason, delivered the message,
and preceded him from the room:
I ushered him into the library,
and then I went upstairs.
At
a late hour,
after I had
been in bed some time, I heard
the visitors repair to their
chambers: I distinguished Mr.
Rochester's voice, and heard
him say, "This way, Mason; this
is your room."
He spoke cheerfully: the gay
tones set my heart at ease. I
was soon asleep.
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