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.