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.




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