A greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life.

The morning after Jane’s rescue of Mr. Rochester (and the subsequent tender moment, indicative of a relationship upgrade), her feelings are in turmoil.

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed that 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 school-room; 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 Adèle’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.

A fire results in all sorts of damage, so naturally, the servants are busy with repairs all morning…including Grace Poole.

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.
“I will put her to some test,” thought I. “Such absolute impenetrability is past comprehension.”
“Good morning, Grace,” I said. “Has anything happened here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago.”
“Only master had been reading in his bed last night. He fell asleep with candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he awoke before the bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to quench the flame with the water in the ewer.”
“A strange affair!” I said in a low voice; then, looking at her fixedly, “Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move?”
She again raised her eyes to me; and this time there was something of consciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine me warily; then she answered, “The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be likely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax’s room and yours are the nearest to master’s; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people get elderly, they often sleep heavy.” She paused, and then added, with a sort of assumed indifference, but still in a marked and significant tone, “But you are young, Miss, and I should say a light sleeper. Perhaps you may have heard a noise?”
“I did,” said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still polishing the panes, could not hear me. “and at first I thought it was Pilot; but Pilot cannot laugh, and I am certain I heard a laugh, and a strange one.”
[…] “It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he was in such danger: you must have been dreaming.”
“I was not dreaming,” I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolness provoked me. Again she looked at me, and with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.
“Have you told master that you heard a laugh?” she inquired.
“I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning.”
“You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?” she further asked.
She appeared to be cross-questioning me – attempting to draw from me information unawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew or suspected her guilt, she would be playing off some of her malignant pranks on me. I thought it advisable to be on my guard.
“On the contrary,” said I, “I bolted my door.”
“Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before you get into bed?”
“Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans accordingly!” Indignation again prevailed over prudence; I replied sharply, “Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten a bolt: I did not think it necessary. I was not aware any danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall; but in future” (and I laid marked stress on the words) “I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture to lie down.”
“It will be wise so to do,” was her answer.

From this discussion, it’s clear that Mr. Rochester told them that he’d accidentally started (and put out) the fire himself, removing both the arsonist and Jane from the scenario, and preventing further scrutiny about the situation. It seems as if at least one of his aims was to protect Jane here, because simply being a woman alone in a man’s quarters in the middle of the night could very well tarnish her reputation, regardless of the circumstances…and also, she might end up the arsonist’s next target.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax’s account of the curtain conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield; in questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master’s service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange – a bold, vindictive, and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of the meanest of his dependents; so much in her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her for it.
Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could not be admitted. “Yet,” I reflected, “she has been young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master’s. Mrs. Fairfax told me once she had lived here many years. I don’t think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and strength of character to compensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric – Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature as sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?” But, having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole’s square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind’s eye, that I thought, “No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,” suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, “You are not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you – at any rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last night – remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!”

She might be onto something with such thoughts about Grace, but of course it all goes back to pining after Mr. Rochester, which, as I think I’ve made clear, I have very mixed feelings about.

I well remembered all – language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom. Adèle was drawing. I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.
“Qu’avez-vous, mademoiselle? [What’s the matter with you, miss?]” said she: “Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme des cerises! [Your fingers tremble like a leaf, and your cheeks are red: my, red like cherries!]“
“I am hot, Adèle, with stooping!” She went on sketching, I went on thinking.
I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole: it disgusted me. I compared myself with her, and found we were different. Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady; and she spoke truth: I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me: I had more colour and more flesh; more life, more vivacity; because I had brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.
“Evening approaches,” said I, as I looked towards the window. “I have never heard Mr. Rochester’s voice or step in the house to-day; but surely I shall see him before night: I feared the meeting in the morning: now I desire it, because expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impatient.”

It doesn’t escape my notice here that Jane’s despising another woman, partly for her looks, but mostly for her lower-class status. If her aunt hadn’t allowed Jane to go to school, she might very well have ended up in a similar situation.

Meanwhile, she waits all day to talk with Mr. Rochester, but in the evening, it’s just Mrs. Fairfax who invites her to tea.

“It is fair to-night,” said she, as she looked through the panes, “though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day for his journey.”
“Journey! – Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he was out.”
“Oh, he set off the moment he breakfasted! […]”

She informs Jane that Mr. Rochester went to a party of the wealthy families in the area, and she doesn’t expect him back for more than a week, at least.

“Gentlemen, especially, are often in request on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a general favourite – the ladies are very fond of him – though you would not think his appearance calculated to recommend him particularly in their eyes; but I suppose his acquirements and abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any little fault of look.”
“Are there ladies at the Leas?”
“There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters – very elegant young ladies, indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram – most beautiful women, I suppose: indeed, I have seen Blanche, six or seven years since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave. You should have seen the dining-room that day – how richly it was decorated, how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present – all of the first county families; and Miss Ingram was considered the belle of the evening.”
“You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?”
“Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown open, and, as it was Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to hear some of the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed; most of them – at least most of the younger ones – looked handsome, but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen.”
“And what was she like?”
“Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders, long, graceful neck; olive complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr. Rochester’s, large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then she had such a fine head of hair, raven-black, and so becomingly arranged; a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white, an amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below her knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair: it contrasted well with the jetty mass of curls.”
“She was greatly admired, of course?”
“Yes, indeed, and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She was one of the ladies who sang; a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet.”
“Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing.”
“Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music.”
“And Miss Ingram, what sort of voice had she?”
“A very rich and powerful one – she sang delightfully – it was a treat to listen to her; and she played afterwards. I am no judge of music, but Mr. Rochester is, and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good.”
“And this beautiful and accomplished lady is not yet married?”
“It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram’s estates were chiefly entailed, and the eldest son came in for everything almost.”
“But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not?”
“Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age: Mr. Rochester is near forty; she is but twenty-five.”
“What of that? More unequal matches are made every day.’
“True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an idea of that sort. […]”

And because Jane’s even younger than Blanche Ingram, she’s forced to take the possibility of Mr. Rochester’s interest in her seriously, if she wants to believe Mr. Rochester’s feelings toward herself might be genuine.

When once I was alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination’s boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.
Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night – of the general state of mind in which I had indulged in a variety of ways for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told in her own quiet way, a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the ideal; – I pronounced judgment to this effect: – That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life: that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.
“You,” I said, “a favourite of Mr. Rochester? You gifted with the power of pleasing him? You of importance to him in any way? Go! your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference – equivocal tokens, shown by a gentleman of family, and a man of the world, to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe! – Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night? – Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open your bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possible intend to marry her; it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded to, must lead, ignis–fatuus-like, into miry wilds, whence there is no extrication.

This is an extremely reasonable response from Jane! It’s far more likely that a man like Mr. Rochester would make her his mistress than his wife in that day and age – and he presumably has a long history of mistresses already!

“Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully; without softening one defect: omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain’
“Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory – you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest hues, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram: remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye; – what! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel! no sentiment! – no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust: let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose: call it ‘Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.’
“Whenever, in future, you chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them: say, ‘Mr. Rochester might probably win this noble lady’s love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebian?'”

And now she’s disparaging herself, because what else is she supposed to assume when Mr. Rochester left her for more fashionable company mere hours after seemingly professing feelings for her? It’s all well and good that he forgets that she’s an employee, but when she’s so keenly aware that he’s responsible for her livelihood, if he really cares about her, it would do him well to remember it himself more often. She’s forced to reckon her situation in regard to class, but the wealthy can carry on however they like with far fewer repercussions.

Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit: thanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm; which, had they found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to maintain, even externally.

Until next time…