15 Cont. Jane Eyre - Bedtime With Stephanie Poppins

Jane Eyre is a first-person narrative from the perspective of the title character. Its setting is somewhere in the north of England, late in the reign of George III (1760–1820).

Jane's childhood is at Gateshead Hall, where she is emotionally and physically abused by her aunt and cousins. Her education is at Lowood School, where she gains friends and role models but suffers privations and oppression.

In this episode, she begins to see Mr Rochester in a different light...

Read by English author and vocal artist Stephanie Poppins.

Transcript

This is SDHudsonMagic Jane Eyre Chapter 15 Continued It was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the night that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr.

Rochester had told me.

As he had said,

There was probably nothing at all extraordinary in the substance of the narrative itself.

A wealthy Englishman's passion for a French dancer,

And her treachery to him,

Were every day matters enough,

No doubt,

In society.

But there was something decidedly strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him when he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of his mood.

I meditated wonderingly on this old whore.

I meditated wonderingly on this incident.

But gradually quitting it,

As I found for the present inexplicable,

I turned to the consideration of my master's manner to myself.

The confidence he had thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute to my discretion.

I regarded and accepted it as such.

His deportment had now for some weeks been more uniform towards me than at first.

I never seemed in his way.

He did not take fits of chilling hauteur when he met me unexpectedly.

The encounter seemed welcome.

He had always a word and sometimes a smile for me.

When summoned by formal invitation to his presence,

I was honoured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power to amuse him,

And that these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for my benefit.

I talked comparatively little,

But I heard him talk with relish.

It was his nature to be communicative.

He liked to open to a mind unacquainted with the world glimpses of its scenes and ways.

And I had a keen delight in receiving the new ideas he offered,

In imagining the new pictures he portrayed,

And following him in thought through the new regions he disclosed,

Never startled or troubled by one noxious allusion.

The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint.

The friendly frankness,

As correct as cordial,

With which he treated me,

Drew me to him.

I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than my master.

Yet he was imperious sometimes still,

But I did not mind that.

I saw it was his way.

So happy,

So gratified did I become with this new interest added to life,

That I seized a pine after kindred.

My thin,

Crescent destiny seemed to enlarge.

The blanks of existence were filled up.

My bodily health improved,

And I gathered flesh and strength.

And was Mr.

Rochester now so ugly in my eyes?

No,

Reader.

Gratitude and many associations,

All pleasurable and genial,

Made his face the object I best liked to see.

His presence in the room was more cheering than the brightest fire.

Yet I had not forgotten his faults.

He was proud,

Sardonic,

Harsh.

In my secret soul I knew his great kindness to me was balanced by unjust severity to many others.

He was moody,

Too,

Unaccountably so.

I more than once,

When sent for to read to him,

Found him sitting in his library alone,

With his head bent on his folded arms.

And when he looked up,

A morose,

Almost malignant scowl blackened his features.

But I believed that his moodiness and his former faults of morality had their source in some cruel cross of fate.

I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies,

Higher principles,

And purer tastes,

Such than the circumstances had developed,

Education instilled or destiny encouraged.

I thought there were excellent materials in him,

Though for the present they hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled.

I cannot deny I grieved for his grief,

Whatever that was,

And would have given much to assuage it.

Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed,

I could not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue and told how his destiny had risen up before him and dared him to be happy at Thornfield.

Why not?

I asked myself.

What alienates him from the house?

Will he leave it again soon?

Mrs.

Fairfax had said he seldom stayed here longer than a fortnight at a time.

Now he'd been resident for eight weeks.

I hardly knew whether I'd slept or not after this musing.

At any rate,

I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur.

It was peculiar,

Lugubrious.

I wished I'd kept my candle burning.

The night was drearily dark,

My spirits were depressed.

A rosin sat up in bed,

Listening,

And the sound was hushed.

I tried again to sleep,

But my heart beat anxiously.

My inward tranquillity was broken.

The clock far down in the hall struck two.

Just then it seemed my chamber door was touched,

As if fingers had swept the panels groping in a way along the dark gallery outside.

Who is there?

I said,

But nothing answered.

I was chilled with fear.

Then all at once I remembered it might be Pilot,

Who,

When the kitchen door chanced to be left open,

Not unfrequently found his way up to the threshold of Mr.

Rochester's chamber.

The idea calmed me somewhat,

So I lay down.

I began to feel the return of slumber,

But it was not fated I should sleep that night.

A dream had scarcely approached my ear when it fled afrighted,

Scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough.

This was a demonic laugh,

Low,

Suppressed and deep,

Uttered as it seemed at the very keyhole of my chamber door.

The head of my bed was near the door,

And I thought at first the goblin laughter stood at my bedside,

Or rather crouched by my pillow.

But I rose,

Looked around,

Could see nothing.

My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt,

My next again to cry out,

Who's there?

Something gurgled and moaned.

Earlong steps retreated up the gallery towards the third-story staircase.

A door had lately been made to shut in that staircase.

I heard it open and close.

Then all was still.

Was that Grace Poole?

And was she possessed with the devil?

Thought I.

Impossible now to remain longer by myself,

I made up my mind to see Miss Fairfax.

I hurried on my frock and ashore.

I opened the bolt and opened the door with a trembling hand.

There was a candle burning just outside,

Left on the matting in the gallery.

I was surprised at this circumstance,

But still more I was amazed to perceive the air quite dim as if filled with smoke.

And while looking to the right hand and left to find whence these blue wreaths issued,

I became further aware of a strong smell of burning.

Something creeped.

It was a door ajar.

And that door was Mr Rochester's.

The smoke rushed in a cloud from the fence.

I thought no more of Mrs Fairfax,

Or of Grace Poole,

Or the laugh.

In an instant I was within the chamber.

Tongues of flame darted round the bed.

The curtains were on fire.

In the midst of the blaze and vapour,

I stretched motionless in deep sleep.

Wake up!

Wake up!

I cried.

I shook him,

But he only murmured.

The smoke had stupefied him.

Not a moment could be lost.

The sheets were kindling.

I rushed to his basin,

Heaved it up,

Deluged the bed and its occupant,

Flew back to my own room,

Brought my own water tug,

Baptized that couch afresh,

And by God's aid succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.

The hiss of the quenched element,

The breakage of a pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it,

Roused Mr Rochester at last.

Though it was now dark,

I knew he was awake because he said,

Is there a flood?

But there's been a fire.

Get up,

You're quenched now.

I will fetch you a candle.

In the name of all the elves in Christendom,

Is that Jane Eyre?

He demanded.

What have you done with me,

Witch?

Who is in the room beside you?

Have you plotted to drown me?

In heaven's name,

Sir,

Get up!

I cried.

Somebody has plotted something.

There,

I'm up now,

Said he.

But at your peril,

You'll fetch a candle yet.

Wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments,

If any dry there be.

Yes,

Here is my dressing gown.

Now run.

I did run.

I brought the candle,

Which still remained in the gallery,

And he took it from my hand.

He surveyed the bed,

All blackened and scorched.

What is it,

And who did it?

He asked.

I briefly related to him what had transpired.

The strange laugh in the gallery,

The step ascending to the third story,

The smoke and smell of fire which had conducted me to his room.

He listened very gravely.

His face,

As I went on,

Expressed more concern than astonishment.

He did not immediately speak when I had concluded.

Shall I call Mrs.

Fairfax?

I asked.

Mrs.

Fairfax?

No,

What the deuce would you call her for?

Let her sleep unmolested.

Then I will fetch Leah and wait John and his wife.

Not at all.

Just be still.

You have a shawl on?

Take my cloak yonder.

Wrap it about you.

Now sit down in the armchair.

Place your feet on the stool to keep them out of the wet.

I am going to leave you a few minutes.

I shall take the candle.

Remain where you are until I return.

Be as quiet as a mouse.

I must pay a visit to the second story.

Don't move,

Remember,

Or call anyone.

He went,

And I watched the light withdraw.

He passed up the gallery very softly,

Unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible,

Shuttered after him,

And the last ray vanished.

I was left in total darkness.

I listened for some noise,

But heard nothing.

A very long time elapsed.

I grew weary.

It was cold in spite of the cloak,

And I didn't see the use of staying as I was not to rouse the house.

I was on the point of risking Mr.

Rochester's displeasure by disobeying his orders,

When the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery wall,

And I heard his unshod feet tread the matting.

I hope it is he,

Thought I,

And not something worse.

He re-entered,

Pale and very gloomy.

I have found it all out,

Said he.

It is as I thought.

How,

Sir?

I said.

He made no reply,

But stood with his arms folded,

Looking on the ground.

At the end of a few minutes,

He inquired in rather a peculiar tone.

I forgot whether you said you saw anything,

Whether you opened your chamber door.

No,

Sir.

Only the candlestick on the ground.

But you heard an odd laugh.

Yes,

Sir.

There is a woman who sews here called Grace Poole.

She laughs in that way.

She's a singular person.

Just so.

Grace Poole.

You've guessed it.

She is,

As you say,

Singular.

Well,

I shall reflect on the subject.

Meantime,

I'm glad you are the only person besides myself acquainted with the details of tonight's incident.

You are no talking fool.

Let's say nothing more about it.

I will account for this state of affairs,

And return to your own room,

You must.

I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night.

It is near four now.

In two hours,

The servants will be up.

Good night,

Then,

Sir.

I said,

Departing.

He seemed surprised,

Very inconsistently so,

As he had just told me to go.

What?

He exclaimed.

Are you quitting me already,

And in that way?

You said I might go,

Sir.

Not without taking leave,

Not without a word or two of acknowledgement and goodwill.

Why,

You've just saved my life,

Snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death,

And you walked past me as if we were mutual strangers.

At least shake hands.

He held out his hand,

And I gave him mine.

He took it first in one,

Then in both of his own.

You have saved my life.

I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt.

I cannot say more.

Nothing else that has been would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation.

But you,

It is different.

I feel your benefit's no burden,

Jane.

He paused,

Gazed at me,

Words most visible trembled on his lips,

But his voice was checked.

Good night again,

Sir.

There is no debt,

Benefit,

Burden,

Or obligation in the case.

I knew,

He continued,

You would do me good in some way sometime,

And I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you.

Their expression and smile did not strike delight to my very inmost heart for nothing.

People talk of natural sympathies.

There are grains of truth in the wildest fable.

My cherished preserver,

Good night.

There was a strange energy in his voice,

A strange fire in his look.

I am glad I happen to be awake,

I said,

And then I turned to go.

What,

You will go?

I am cold,

Sir.

Cold?

Yes,

And standing in a pool.

Go then,

Jane,

Go.

But he still held my hand and I could not free it.

I bethought myself of an expedient.

I think I hear Mrs.

Fairfax move,

Sir,

Said I.

Well,

Leave me.

He relaxed his fingers and I was gone.

I regained my couch,

But I never thought of sleep.

Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy.

I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore.

And now and then a freshening gale,

Wakened by hope,

Bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne,

But still I could not reach it even in fancy.

Sense would resist delirium,

Judgment would warn passion.

Too feverish to rest,

I rose as soon as day dawned.

Reviews

Wow! So brave of Jane! Truly a heroine😍 thank you! Somehow I didn’t get notice of these dropping last week though I looked every day… grateful for you!