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DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS.
JANE EYRE.
ADAPTED BY JOHN BROUGHAM.
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London: J. DICKS, 313, Strand.
JANE EYRE.
A DRAMA, IN FIVE ACTS.
ADAPTED FROM CHARLOTTE BRONTE’S NOVEL, BY JOHN BROUGHAM.
[Illustration: [_See page 14._]
Dramatis Personæ.
_First Performed at Laura Keene’s Varieties, New York, 1856._
FAIRFAX ROCHESTER Mr. George Jordan.
LORD THEODORE INGRAM Mr. Dickerson.
COLONEL DENT Mr. Hall.
MR. BROCKLEHURST Mr. Bass.
JOHN DOWNEY Mr. T. B. Johnston.
MR. WOOD Mr. Reeve
JANE EYRE Miss Laura Keene.
THE DOWAGER LADY INGRAM Miss Wells.
LADY BLANCHE INGRAM Miss Kate Reynolds.
LADY MARY INGRAM Miss Close.
MISS TEMPLE Miss Walters.
MRS. GRYCE Mrs. Scott.
MISS SCATCHERD Mrs. Lesdernier.
GRACE POOL Mrs. Carpenter.
MRS. COL. DENT Miss Macdonough.
MRS. ESRTON Miss Johnson.
THE MANIAC WIFE Mrs. Lesdernier.
CHARACTERS IN THE CHARADE.
THE BRIDE Miss K. Reynolds.
BRIDESMAIDS Misses Brown and Smith.
REBECCA AT THE WELL Mrs. R. Scott.
JACOB Mr. W. Dempster.
PRISONER Mr. Haywood.
PRISONER’S WIFE Miss Haywood.
COSTUME.
ROCHESTER.—_1st Dress_: Riding-coat—high boots—broad hat. _2nd
Dress_: Gipsy disguise. _3rd Dress_: Long gray coat—loose vest.
INGRAM.—Elegant evening dress.
COL. DENT.—Evening dress, quaint.
BROCKLEHURST.—Black dress.
JOHN DOWNEY.—_1st Dress_: Plain livery, _2nd Dress_: Country
boy’s dress.
WOOD.—Dress of clergyman.
JANE EYRE.—_1st Dress_: Very plain dark charity-school dress.
_2nd Dress_: Black silk. _3rd Dress_: Wedding-dress. _4th
Dress_: Plain travelling-dress.
DOWAGER LADY INGRAM.—Elegant evening dress.
LADY BLANCHE AND MARY.—Ditto.
MISS TEMPLE }
MISS GRYCE } Same as Jane Eyre’s first dress.
MISS SCATCHERD }
GRACE POOL.—_1st Dress_: Very grotesque chambermaid’s dress.
_2nd Dress_: Country girl’s dress.
STAGE DIRECTIONS.
EXITS AND ENTRANCES.—R. means _Right_; L. _Left_; D. F. _Door
in Flat_; R. D. _Right Door_; L. D. _Left Door_; S. E. _Second
Entrance_; U. E. _Upper Entrance_; M. D. _Middle Door_; L. U.
E. _Left Upper Entrance_; R. U. E. _Right Upper Entrance_;
L. S. E. _Left Second Entrance_; P. S. _Prompt Side_; O. P.
_Opposite Prompt_.
RELATIVE POSITIONS.—R. means _Right_; L. _Left_; C. _Centre_;
R. C. _Right of Centre_; L. C. _Left of Centre_.
R. RC. C. LC. L.
⁂ _The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience._
JANE EYRE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—_A very plain chamber in Lowood Academy—window practicable, but
barred, prison-like._ MISS GRYCE _and_ MISS TEMPLE _discovered_.
_Enter_ MISS SCATCHERD L. H. 2 E.
_Miss S._ Here’s a fine to do! who do you think is coming here directly?
_Miss T._ I cannot say, Miss Scatcherd.
_Miss S._ The veritable Mr. Brocklehurst himself. The generous endower
of this most benevolent institution, for the confusion of intellect and
suppression of liberty.
_Miss T._ For shame, Miss Scatcherd; you must not speak so.
_Miss S._ I’ll say what I think, in spite of anybody. Heaven knows I’m
sick enough of this dungeon.
_Miss T._ So indeed am I. But I must fulfil my destiny.
_Miss S._ Pshaw! a fig for destiny. I’m resolved when Mr. Brocklehurst
does come, to give him a piece of my mind. I’ll say to him——
_Enter_ BROCKLEHURST L. H. 2 E.
_Brock._ What will you say, my dear Miss Scatcherd?
_Miss S._ I hope you find yourself quite well to-day, sir.
_Brock._ Remarkably well, I thank you. Miss Temple, your most obedient.
I congratulate you all, ladies, upon the general appearance of your
interesting pupils. But—pray be seated—I regret, and believe me, it
gives me, as a man and a Christian, inexpressible pain to be obliged to
reprove. I regret, I say, to find that the rules of the establishment
have been, I would almost say, criminally neglected.
_Miss T._ I am sure, sir, not of our own——
_Brock._ Ah—suffer me. How is it, Madame—I address you as superintendent
and controllor of this place—how is it that the woollen stockings are not
better attended to?
_Miss T._ Indeed, sir, I——
_Brock._ Ah—pardon me. I find also, in settling accounts with the
housekeeper, that a lunch, consisting of bread and cheese, has twice been
served to the girls within the last fortnight. By whose authority was
this shameful innovation? May I be permitted to request an answer, direct
and unequivocal?
_Miss T._ I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir; the breakfast
was ill prepared, and——
_Brock._ Allow me. You are aware that my plan in bringing up these girls
is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury.
_Miss G._ There’s no doubt about that——
_Brock._ Miss Gryce, if you please—but on the contrary, by spare diet and
wholesome exercise, to render them hardy, patient, and self-denying, and
encourage them to evince fortitude, under temporary privation.
_Miss G._ Starvation?
_Brock._ Privation, Miss Gryce. That woman’s deafness is very
inconvenient. Oh! madam, when you put bread and cheese, instead of thin
water-gruel, into those children’s bodies, you little think how you
starve their immortal souls.
_Miss G._ You are right, sir, the poor things are starved nearly.
_Brock._ Silence. And now, Madame, I come to the most awful dereliction
of all. I observed as I passed through the school that one girl, if
not more, had her hair decked in the absurd vanity of curls, absolute
cork-screw curls.
_Miss T._ It is Julia Severn, sir. Her hair curls naturally.
_Brock._ _Naturally!_ Madame! don’t attempt to hide your negligence under
such a paltry plea. What have we to do with nature?
_Miss G._ Nothing.
_Brock._ Miss Temple, that girl’s hair must be cut off. I will not have
a curl or a top-knot in the school. I want those charges to become the
children of grace, not the offshoots of vanity. Where is Jane Eyre?
_Miss T._ She has retired to her room, sir; her health is failing under
the close confinement.
_Brock._ Impossible! close confinement here? Why she must be out of her
senses.
_Miss G._ Nearly.
_Brock._ I don’t believe a word of it, it’s nothing but laziness. If she
does not attend to her duties to-morrow, she must seek elsewhere for a
situation, and they are not to be picked up so easily; and now, ladies,
I will take my leave, trusting that the reproof which conscientious
feelings alone urge me to make will sink deep within your hearts, and
ultimately spring up into the sweet-smelling flower of repentance and
amendment. Good day.
[_Exit Brocklehurst_, L. H. 2 E.
_Enter_ JANE EYRE, L. H.
_Jane._ Ah, aunt, aunt! you do not, you cannot know the bitter slavery
to which your hate has doomed me: eight long years of joyless, hopeless,
pitiless imprisonment—life dragged along in one unvarying level, in the
very springtime of my youth—with heart and brain astir, and yearning
for the love of kindred, full of bright thoughts and glorious impulses,
the world and all its chances, changes, forever closed against me—it is
terrible. Oh, for freedom! freedom! My heart bounds like an imprisoned
bird against its wiry barrier, at the mere thought—freedom—blessed
freedom; those only, who lose thee, know thy worth. (_Throws open
window._) Oh, I have prayed for liberty until my loud cry seemed
scattered on the passing wind. I cannot rest—I cannot think—my tortured
brain, in wild confusion, whirls. Heaven send me a change, no matter
what—a break to this heart-cankering monotony—a change, or I shall go mad.
_Enter_ MISS GRYCE.
_Miss G._ Perhaps you may have one sooner than you anticipate.
_Jane._ How! speak! is there such a hope?
_Miss G._ Brocklehurst has been here, and I took advantage of my slight
deafness to give him a few stings.
_Jane._ Poor girl, his heart is clad in steel, no mortal can reach it;
but you hinted at a change; what do you mean?
_Miss G._ In the first place, he says you are not sick, that it’s nothing
but laziness.
_Jane._ The hypocrite! the false-tongued hypocrite! Go on.
_Miss G._ And that unless you attend to your duties, you’ll have to go.
_Jane._ Where?
_Miss G._ Anywhere,—out into the road; he’d do it.
_Jane._ He would—I know he would. What shall I do? Oh, pity me, for I
need pity much. Homeless, friendless, and an orphan; what is to become of
me?
_Miss G._ Why don’t you try and get something to do?
_Jane._ Have I not done so? Have I not, in the faint hope of, at least,
changing my servitude, advertised for the situation of a governess? I
have served here for eight years, and I would fain serve elsewhere;
I know it would but be an exchange of prisons, but even that variety
would be a boon. A new place in a new house, with new faces, it does not
sound as sweet as liberty, excitement, enjoyment; but alas! they are all
equally hollow and flattering, and to me it is a mere waste of words to
utter them.
_Miss G._ Don’t grieve so terribly; who knows what this letter may
contain?
_Jane._ (_Starting up._) For me! Gryce! (_Fiercely._)
_Miss G._ What! don’t look at me so awfully.
_Jane._ You are one who would see the fire laid to the stake before you
would produce the wretch’s pardon.
_Miss G._ I was afraid it might contain bad news.
_Jane._ There is no bad news for me, the slightest change becomes an
incident; a drop of water in the endless desert of my existence is as a
mighty river. (_Reads._) Oh kind, benignant Providence, my prayers are
heard at last! Listen. (_Reads._) “If J. E. is in a condition to give
satisfactory reference as to character and capacity”—(that they must
not, dare not refuse me,) “a situation can be offered to her where there
is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age, and where the
salary——” Oh, I care not for that. “Apply to Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield.”
_Miss G._ Thornfield, why it’s not more than two hours’ walk from here.
_Jane._ My heart is full, and forces from my eyes the unaccustomed tears.
Years—long years of suffering misery are forgotten in this one moment of
delight. Now my aspiring thought will have fit element to work within;
high hopes and wild imaginings are crowding through my brain. I feel as
though I were revelling in dream-land, and as with a lightning flash,
the rocky barrier is rent that kept me from communion with my kind. Oh,
world! oh, bright and glorious world! thy doors are opened to me at last!
[_Exit_, R. H.
SCENE II.—_Drawing-room, elegantly furnished, in Mr. Rochester’s
House._—_The_ DOWAGER LADY INGRAM, LADY BLANCHE INGRAM, LADY MARY INGRAM,
MRS. DENT, LORD INGRAM, COLONEL DENT, _and_ FREDERICK LYNN, _discovered_.
_Dow._ What an extraordinary creature that Rochester is! what can
possibly detain him so long, away? If it were any other person, I should
certainly feel annoyed at the host’s absence.
_Lord Ing._ For my part, _chère mama_, I think it’s all the better; he is
such a half-savage, whole-riddle of a fellow, one can never feel at home
with him.
_Col. Dent._ Yes; and so long as he leaves such glorious wine to be
drank, noble horses to be ridden, and splendid game to pop at, what the
deuce is it to us?
_Lord Ing._ He certainly is a most eccentric animal.
_Blan._ I love eccentricity.
_Lord Ing._ Especially when said eccentricity is mated with enormous
riches, and both look sideways towards you: if I were in your place I
should love it prodigiously.
_Dow._ Now, Ingram, don’t be so impertinent; poor Blanche is absolutely
blushing.
_Lord Ing._ What Arcadian simplicity! For Heaven’s sake, Blanche, let me
see it. Natural colour upon a fashionable cheek—preposterous!
_Col. Dent._ Decidedly out of place.
_Lord Ing._ Vulgar in the extreme!
_Col. Dent._ Absurd!
_Lord Ing._ And utterly dairymaidish.
_Blan._ Brother, you have no heart.
_Lord Ing._ Haven’t I, by Jove! ask Dent.
_Col. Dent._ Don’t ask me: I never saw any indication of the article,
except you held it in your hand when you were playing écarte.
_Lord Ing._ And by Jupiter, it’s the only way you’ll ever see mine,
unless associated with diamonds. By the bye, your heart, sister, has the
benefit of such brilliant companionship.
_Dow._ Ingram, I command you to be silent on that subject; the
establishment of a daughter is not so frivolous a matter as you may
imagine.
_Lord Ing._ I know, amiable maternity and hearts have nothing whatever to
do with it.
_Dow._ Nothing in the world!
_Lord Ing._ But goes to the purchaser, like the fixtures in leasing a
house.
_Dow._ Precisely: I wonder if it was Rochester who came in the carriage a
short time since. Dent, oblige me by touching the bell. (_Dent rings._)
Blanche, my love, brighten your eyes with a little of this _bouquet_.
(_Gives small phial._) If it should be Rochester, don’t let him find us
moping.
_Enter_ JOHN, L. H.
_John._ That’s a bright lot, the old tabby and the young kittens; the
characters of all their female acquaintance are just like so many mice to
them. Oh! what delight it is to seize hold of them one by one, and purr,
and scratch, and worry.
_Dow._ John!
_John._ Yes, my lady, Mouser. (_Aside._)
_Dow._ Was that Mr. Rochester who arrived just now.
_John._ No, my lady. Now I’ll tease her a bit; she won’t like to ask me
who it is, I know she’ll have to, though.
_Dow._ Not Mr. Rochester?
_John._ No, my lady.
_Dow._ More friends, I presume?
_John._ No, my lady.
_Dow._ I certainly heard a carriage stop.
_John._ Yes, my lady.
_Dow._ I thought I couldn’t be mistaken.
_John._ No, my lady.
_Dow._ A stranger?
_John._ Yes, my lady.
_Dow._ Indeed—a gentleman?
_John._ No, my lady.
_Dow._ A lady?
_John._ No, my lady.
_Dow._ Neither a gentleman or a lady? how stupid you are. Who can it be?
_John._ Only the new governess, my lady.
_Dow._ Governess! pshaw! how very provoking!
_Lord Ing._ Frightful waste of sympathy, eh, Dent?
_Col. Dent._ Excruciating, my lord.
_Lord Ing._ All about some poor devil of a teacher. Do you recollect,
Blanche, how we used to quiz your round of governesses?
_Blan._ Oh, yes, Theodore; what fun we used to have with them. Mary was
always too sleepy to join in our plots.
_Dow._ Now, my darling pets, don’t mention governesses; the very word
makes me nervous.
_Blan._ And do you remember, Theodore, how we used to persecute your
tutor?
_Lord Ing._ Yes, the poor, pale-faced wretch; he was positively ignorant
of the commonest rudiments of education—didn’t know a terrier from a
bull-dog, and never saw a badger in the whole course of his life.
_Col. Dent._ The Hottentot!
_Lord Ing._ (_To Blanche._) I say, Blanche, wouldn’t it be a prime lark
to have up this new governess, and see what she’s like.
_Blan._ Famous, Theodore! I do love to see them blush and tremble when
they first find themselves in an aristocratic element. Ma won’t like it,
though.
_Lord Ing._ That don’t signify, we shall have better fun. John!
_John._ My lord.
_Lord Ing._ Bring some liqueur, and trot out the new governess.
_John._ Yes, my lord.
[_Exit_, L. H.
_Lord Ing._ I say, Dent, I’ve just been laying the train for a grand
explosion of fun.
_Col. Dent._ What, sacking the cellar?
_Lord Ing._ No. I’m going to introduce a lamb amongst those old Dowager
Lionnesses. My dear, so you have a prejudice against governesses.
_Dow._ Don’t mention the horrid name, or I shall certainly faint.
_Enter_ JOHN, L. H.
_John._ The new governess. (_Dowager screams._)
_Lord Ing._ Bravo, John; consider yourself a sovereign richer for that.
_Enter_ JANE, L. H.—_Recoils timidly at first, but rapidly
collects herself._
_Lord Ing._ Dent, you ruffian, is not that a master stroke of comedy? See
the poor timid fawn! How she shrinks from those high-blooded gruffins!
_Jane._ (_Advancing firmly._) I am either constrained to apologize for
the _ignorance_ of a servant, or I am obliged to suffer for his _malice_.
It was not of my own will that I intruded here, for I was not aware there
was so distinguished an assembly.
_Lord Ing._ Dem good, by Jupiter! Eh, Dent?
_Col. Dent._ Admirable!
_Jane._ You will excuse me if I retire.
_Lord Ing._ Oh, dem it, no; ’twould be ending the comedy in first scene.
Don’t tear yourself away.
_Jane._ Am I to understand that I was sent for?
_Lord Ing._ Yes, certainly. I did myself that honour.
_Jane._ Indeed! that makes an essential difference. It allows me at least
the condition of equality. John, will you oblige me with a seat? (_John
places seat._) Request Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, to send for me
here, if my services are required.
(_John laughs, aside, but very respectful to her._)
_John._ Yes, my lady—I mean madam. Bravo! jolly good, by jingo!
_Lord Ing._ Delicious! John, you brigand, you’ll ruin me. I owe you
another sovereign.
_John._ Yes, and that’s all I’m likely to get of it.
[_Exit_, L. H.
_Dow._ (_Aside to guests._) Did you ever see more consummate boldness?
And, I declare, there’s that foolish Mary going to speak to her.
_Lord Ing._ She’s a magnificent creature, Dent, by Jove! Let’s have a
close look at her.—(_Dent and Ingram walk round Jane, with quizzing
glasses._)—Bears close inspection too, by Jove!
_Col. Dent._ Yes, as close as you can get—those eyes are dangerous, too
near.
_Jane._ (_To Mary, who has been trying to make her feel at home._) The
thanks, deep and sincere, of a lonely heart are yours, my dear young
lady; one touch of sympathy can obliterate volumes of looked and spoken
insolence; but fear not for me. The mind that’s conscious of its own
superiority stands on too high an eminence to be reached by the petty
shafts of pride and ignorance.
_Lord Ing._ Does she mean anything—eh, Dent?
_Col. Dent._ Hang me if I know. I wish I had some of Rochester’s burgundy.
_Dow._ Does the creature intend to stay here, I wonder?
_Blan._ She has confidence enough, I do believe.
_Lord Ing._ Demme if she hasn’t put a wet blanket on the party—eh, Dent?
_Col. Dent._ A regular soaker.
_Lord Ing._ The Dowagers are shut up famously—confound me if I don’t feel
somehow demmed awkward myself. Dent, stir up the people, or this dem
governess will think she has cowed us all.
_Col. Dent._ Why don’t you go and talk to her?
_Lord Ing._ I would if I knew what to say.
_Col. Dent._ Don’t be a fool—nonplussed by a governess!
_Lord Ing._ Demmit, that’ll never do—(_Stalks across dandified_)—aw—Miss;
aw—I haven’t the honour of your name.
_Jane._ Jane Eyre—you are?——
_Lord Ing._ Theodore, commonly called Lord Ingram—and so you are—aw—Jane
Eyre. Yes, delighted—do you know, Jane, that you’re devilish pretty?
_Jane._ My lord!
_Lord Ing._ Upon my life you are—eh, Dent?
_Col. Dent._ Undoubtedly.
_Jane._ Sir, your sisters, I believe, are in the room—were anyone to
address either of them as you have now addressed me, what would be the
result?
_Lord Ing._ Positively, I don’t know, I can’t imagine; it’s a very
different thing—they are——
_Jane._ Made of different clay; their hearts are more sensitive, their
feelings more refined, perhaps. Reverse the picture, my lord, and
you will be nearer to the truth. In the school of poverty is oftener
found that intuitive delicacy which fears to wound—inured to suffering
themselves, they know and feel for that in others.
_Lord Ing._ A regular sermon, by Jupiter! quite Addisonian. Did you get
that out of the _Spectator_?
_Jane._ My lord, ignorant assumption, much as it may be involuntary, is
simply pitiable; but insolence, where you know it cannot be averted, is
cowardly!
_Lord Ing._ Dent, damme, did you hear that?
_Col. Dent._ Distinctly!
_Lord Ing._ And must I swallow it? Oh, how I wish you were a man.
_Jane._ Pray calm yourself, my lord. I shall retire, not out of dread
of your contumely, but from very pity of your infirmities; and it may
be that the poor, lowly-nurtured drudge, whom you sent for to bring you
unworthy amusement, will have given you a wholesome, though unwelcome
lesson.
[_Exit Jane_, L. H.
_Lord Ing._ Snubbed, by Jove!
_Col. Dent._ Prodigiously.
_Tableau of Astonishment._
END OF ACT I.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—_Apartment in Mr. Rochester’s house._
_Enter_ GRACE POOL, _with a piece of cake and a pint of porter,
followed by_ JOHN, R. H.
_John._ Come now, Mrs. Grace, I’ll tell you what it is. I ain’t a-going
to stand your capers. I never was in a family yet that I wasn’t made
acquainted with the secrets thereof; here have I been three live-long
weeks, and I don’t know nothing yet; it’s disgraceful.
_Grace._ Very!
_John._ There’s a mysterious mystery hanging about the place somewhere,
and I’m blessed if I don’t find it out.
_Grace._ Do!
_John._ I will, you may take your davy. Won’t you tell me?
_Grace._ No!
_John._ Then I must depend upon my natural genius to find it out. There
was a jolly rumpus last night; who is it laughs in that awful manner
every now and then?
_Grace._ Me.
_John._ You? pooh! don’t tell me.
_Grace._ I won’t.
_John._ There’s something a-going on in this house that isn’t right, and
a fellow-servant as won’t confide in a fellow-servant don’t deserve to
belong to our honourable profession. How can we stand up for our masters
and missises unless we knows their little imperfections? it keeps them in
order, and makes wages a deal more reg’lar. I know a thing or two. You
don’t know what I am.
_Grace._ I do!
_John._ What am I; now let’s know.
_Grace._ A fool!
_John._ Am I? then there’s a pair of us; but never mind. I won’t be
beholden to you. The master will be home soon, and while there’s
key-holes in the world, and ears ain’t scarce, there ain’t a master in
the world can keep a secret from a servant as is determined to find it
out; that you may take your oath of. Don’t keep on a-munching of that
cake as if you really thought you were hurting it and it did you good to
bite so savagely. The new governess will be here to-day, then your nose
will be out of joint, thank fortune.
_Grace._ Will it?
_John._ Won’t it?
_Grace._ No!
_John._ Then you’re pretty certain of _your_ situation whatever may come
into the house!
_Grace._ Yes!
_John._ Now then, I know there’s a something.
_Grace._ Indeed!
_John._ Yes, and if I don’t come at it I’m a Dutchman.
_Grace._ Don’t try.
_John._ None of your gammon. You want to frighten me. Why do you always
eat in your own room? or walking about like a hungry ghost, and not
amongst us as you ought to. But I know a way to penetrate the mystery.
_Grace._ How?
_John._ This way. (_Opens door, scream heard._)
_Grace._ Stop!
_John._ (_Frightened._) I saw it! oh, lord! it’s true! I heard so.
_Grace._ What?
_John._ That the house was haunted. Grace, what was that fearful-looking
thing?
_Grace._ Nothing!
_John._ Didn’t you hear a scream?
_Grace._ No!
_John._ I’ll take my oath I saw something.
_Grace._ Fool!
_John._ You’re not a-going in?
_Grace._ Yes!
_John._ Don’t! don’t!
_Grace._ Go!
[_Exit through door in flat_, L. H.
_John._ I will; my eyes could not have deceived me, and my ears, too.
Here’s a beautifully-awful mystery, a ghost in the house; there’s
something delightfully frightful in having one’s feelings harrowed up and
agitated all ways at once. I’ve a great mind to peep, just to see if I
was right. Pooh! don’t be a coward, heart. I declare I’m goose-fleshing
all over; my hair is getting wiry, and my knees wretchedly rheumatic.
Pooh! here goes!
(_Approaches door, a wild laugh heard, he bolts precipitately,
falls on his knees._ GRACE _enters with dress, touches him on
the shoulder_.)
_John._ Oh! don’t; have pity, good ghost. I’ll never be curious again! I
won’t! I won’t!
_Grace._ Don’t!
_John._ Is it you? Oh, good gracious! what a coward I am! Oh! there’s a
good soul, tell me what I saw in the room.
_Grace._ (_Holding up dress._) Look!
_John._ Nothing but a white dress. Hurrah! Pleasant as it is to be
mysteriously terrified, it’s much more agreeable to be _not_. Oh! I
could, I really could, very nearly, be induced to embrace you. Indeed, my
own feelings have undergone such a complete upsetting that I do believe I
could almost kiss you.
_Grace._ Fool!
_John._ You’re right, of the long-eardest description, but I’m cured.
I’ll never dive into secret mysteries again.
[_Exit_, R. H., _Grace through door_.
SCENE II.—_Garden; bright moonlight._
_Enter_ JANE, L. H., _despondingly, leans against balcony_.
_Jane._ Shame, shame upon their cruelty; the pride that blazed within me
is quenched in the flood of my great disappointment. Is this the pleasant
change which I had pictured? This is the hard sterile rock my distant
hope had tinted over with the softest moonlight. Better, a thousand times
better, my solitary cell once more, than be gibed and mocked at by the
vulgar-wealthy; to have the badge of servitude engraved upon my very
heart, and know that tyrant circumstance has placed me in a world all
prison, where every human being is a watchful jailor, and where you must
endure the unceasing lash of insolence, the certain punishment of that
statuteless but unforgiven crime, poverty. But why should I weep; it is
my destiny—my stark and joyless destiny, and I must school myself, if not
to be content therewith, at least to endure without a murmur. (_Noise
outside._)
_Roch._ (_Supposed to have fallen from his horse._) How, Mesrour, what’s
to do now? you’ve hurt me, you ungrateful beast.
_Jane._ It is a traveller, who has fallen from his horse.
_Roch._ (_Outside._) Hallo! you hedge phantom, since you have frightened
my horse away, the least you can do will be to help me up.
_Jane._ With pleasure, sir.
[_Exit_, R. H.
_Roch._ (_Outside._) Pleasure, indeed; it ain’t much pleasure to break a
limb, is it?
_Jane._ Lean on me sir; you are not injured, I hope?
_Enter_ JANE _and_ ROCHESTER, R. H. U. E.
_Roch._ Not injured! what a fool you must be; to be tumbled upon a hard
rocky road doesn’t necessarily give a man the most pleasurable sensations.
_Jane._ I am sorry, sir, indeed I am.
_Roch._ Pooh! don’t talk nonsense! why should _you_ be sorry?
_Jane._ If it was through my being here that your horse was startled,
sir, I must feel sorrow for your accident.
_Roch._ I’d advise you not to waste any sympathy on my account, it will
be a bad investment of valueless capital.
_Jane._ I may at least inquire if you are seriously hurt.
_Roch._ I don’t recognise your right! Who are you? and what brings you
here at this time of the night? Go away home, if you have any.
_Jane._ I cannot think of leaving you, sir, until I see that you can
assist yourself.
_Roch._ Can’t you, indeed; you are rather a peremptory apparition,—where
do you come from? Have you descended from a moonbeam, or are you a
discontented Hamadryad, escaped from your oakey prison? Are you quite
sure that you havn’t bewitch’d my horse!
_Jane._ I live at yonder house, sir; shall I run and obtain some
assistance, for I know that you are suffering much pain, notwithstanding
your apparent carelessness.
_Roch._ Hold your tongue; you live there, do you?
_Jane._ Yes, sir.
_Roch._ Whose house is it?
_Jane._ Mr. Rochester’s.
_Roch._ Indeed! do you know him?
_Jane._ No; I have never seen him; and if he resembles the majority of
his visitors, I have no wish.
_Roch._ You are not a servant, of course; I see you are not. Forgive me.
You’ll find me rough, but not rude; though what is it to you whether I am
or not. May I inquire who you are?
_Jane._ The governess, sir.
_Roch._ Ah! the governess! where do you come from?
_Jane._ From Lowood school.
_Roch._ That charitable concern over the way; how long were you there?
_Jane._ Eight years.
_Roch._ Eight years! you must be tenacious of life; I thought half the
time in such a place would have done up any constitution. Who are your
parents?
_Jane._ I have none.
_Roch._ But you had I suppose; do you remember them? You think me
impertinent, I perceive; never mind, it doesn’t signify. Who were you
waiting for here? did you know I was returning? but how could you?—there,
I think I can walk now. Lend me your arm. Have you an umbrella? No
matter, I can hobble along pretty well.
_Jane._ You are suffering, sir—I know you are.
_Roch._ Well, what’s that to you; confound it, can’t you let me suffer
quietly; don’t for pity’s sake fall into the common error of worldly
friends, who think that condoling with you on your misfortunes,
ameliorates them, the fools, when forgetfulness would be mercy, their
tongues are never quiet; but where’s your curiosity—are you not dying to
know who I am?
_Jane._ I have no such unwarrantable desire, sir.
_Roch._ Ah, that’s a famous sting for me; but I may as well tell you at
once; that then is my home, ah! (_expression of disgust_) the casket
of my treasure—look at those brilliant casements, those ivy covered
battlements, those old ancestral trees, that smoothly shaven lawn, that
richly variegated garden, is it not an earthly paradise?
_Jane._ It is indeed, externally a——
_Roch._ What do you mean, do you know? Externally—why not internally; ah,
your eye is placid—pshaw! it is a large pest-house, there is a memento
written in the air in lurid characters, which—but is it not an enviable
retreat?
_Jane._ Most enviable.
_Roch._ Aye, even to the arch fiend himself, so full of delicious
memories, that I cannot but dally with my happiness, even within its very
sight—but come, the threshold must be passed.
_John._ (_Outside_, L. H.) He’s here—I see him.
_Enter Servants with torches, then_ LORD INGRAM _furred_, COL.
DENT, _&c. &c._, L. H. U. E.
_Lord Ing._ Rochester, my dear boy, you gave us a deuce of a fright, made
me feel remarkably queer. Your horse rushed into the stable, all in a
foam, without you.
_Roch._ That will do; you see it is accounted for.
_Lord Ing._ But my sister Blanche, you know the tender interest she takes
in you.
_Roch._ Is she here?
_Lord Ing._ No, she’s fainting most grammatically in the drawing-room.
_Roch._ Silence, puppy—home! (_to Servants._) come, my Samaritan.
(_Rochester and Jane go towards entrance to house—Servants
range at each side with torches._)
_Col. Dent._ How do you feel, Ingram?
_Lord Ing._ Snubbed again, by Jove! The dem Rhinoceros!
(_Music.—Curtain._)
END OF ACT II.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—_Temporary Stage with curtains in drawing-room—preparation for
the Charade_—JOHN _fastening curtains, &c._, ROBERT _assists_.
_Rob._ What be these crincums for, John?
_John._ Bless your unsophisticated ignorance, these are the games that
shut up theatres; this is for domestic play acting—what with charades,
as they call them, tableauxes, and fancy performances, in drawing-rooms,
the bread is fairly taken out of the poor people’s mouths as makes it a
purfession. I once had some hambition to be a player myself, but since
the quality has taken it up, I’ve altered my mind.
_Rob._ I say, John, when do you think the wedding will take place; I like
weddings—housekeepers don’t limit a chap’s ale.
_John._ Whose wedding?
_Rob._ Why, Mr. Rochester’s, with that there high-flyer, Miss Ingram.
_John._ Permit me, sir, as your superior in office, to give you a word of
advice. Never you inquire about nothing, nor never you wonder at nothing.
Specially in this enchanted castle.
_Rob._ Well I won’t; but you’ll tell us what these charades is.
_John._ The servants can come to the door and see them, then you’ll be
likely to know.
_Rob._ You’re very kind.
_John._ I tell you what it is, I can’t get no satisfaction from anybody,
and I’m resolved not to give no satisfaction to nobody; see if that there
curtain will work.
(_Curtain drawn, discovers_ GRACE POOL _with her cake and pint
of beer_.)
_John._ Hillo, what brought you there? look, Bob, that’s what the gentry
calls a tabloo.
_Rob._ Why, that’s half-witted Grace, with her everlasting pint of beer.
_John._ What are you doing there, Grace?
_Grace._ Eating.
_Rob._ Here, Grace. She knows everything if she’d only let it out.
(_Grace comes down._) Is there going to be a wedding in the house?
_Grace._ No!
_Rob._ When will there?
_Grace._ Never. (_Noise of company._)
_John._ Hillo, here they come. Bob, down with the curtain! Grace, bundle
out.
_Grace._ No! (_Sits down._)
_John._ But don’t you hear the company’s coming from the drawing-room!
_Grace._ Yes.
_John._ Come, you must be off.
_Grace._ Shan’t.
_John._ Here they are. Well, I don’t care, you old fool. Won’t there be a
rumpus.
_Grace._ Brute!
_Enter_ DOWAGER, LADY INGRAM _and all the guests. All stare
with astonishment at Grace._
_Lord Ing._ By Jove, what a character! it’s Rochester dressed up; no, it
isn’t.
_Grace._ Beer! (_Offering pint._)
_Dow._ It must be one of the visitors in a fancy dress. Whoever you are,
disclose yourself.
_Grace._ Cake? (_Offering cake._)
_Lord Ing._ Capital, by Jupiter!
[_Grace offers her beer all around, then stalks across
mysteriously, and exit._
_Col. Dent._ Who the deuce can it be?
_Lord Ing._ I have it! you remember on the occasion of our last visit
here, we heard sundry mysterious noises, at strange times, putting one’s
nerves in an inelegant state of agitation. This must be the cause, depend
upon it. It’s a lunatic servant that Rochester don’t like to get rid of.
_Dow._ Dear me, suppose she had hurt somebody? Ah, here comes that odious
governess; six months hasn’t made her a whit more humble. I wonder
Rochester keeps her here.
_Lord Ing._ Because he’s a dem’d original, and does nothing like anybody
else: with his countless mine of money, it’s astonishing how barbarous he
is. I’m sure when we were in town last season, I used all my endeavours
to transmute his rugged iron into smooth, fashionable gold, but all my
efforts were of no avail. One might as well try to civilize a polar bear
or teach an alligator the polka.
_Enter_ ROCHESTER.
Ah, my dear Rochester, the sound of your praise has scarcely done echoing
through the apartment. We are all dying with anxiety to see what Charade
is about to be presented.
_Roch._ Where is Miss Eyre? John, tell Miss Eyre to come here.
_Lord Ing._ Demmit, Rochester, have a little feeling for the Dowager. You
know how she dislikes the atmosphere of a domestic.
_Roch._ The instructress of my child, my lord, ranks amongst the foremost
of my friends; my acquaintances surely need not blush to be in such
society.
_Enter_ JANE.
_Jane._ You sent for me, sir?
_Roch._ I did, Miss Eyre. Sit down; I presume you care as little as
myself for those frivolous pastimes, and yet they may amuse you.
(_Aside._) I cannot struggle against the heart spell she has thrown
around me. Spite of the dark chasm of the future, my soul is hurried
onward with the very speed of destiny. Could she but love me sufficient
to brave all—this day shall prove it.
_Enter_ JOHN _with letter which he gives to_ ROCHESTER.
Excuse me friends; what’s this? (_Reads. “Depart at once; a matter of
grave importance.”_) You hear, friends, how abruptly I am summoned; but
let not my absence check your enjoyment; I shall return as quickly as I
can.
[_Exit Rochester._
_Lord Ing._ Ah, Miss Eyre. Pray, how do you find yourself? don’t be under
any apprehension! I have forgotten what passed between us during my last
visit.
_Jane._ Indeed! my lord. I congratulate you upon the complaisance of your
memory. I wish I had so obliging a recollection.
_Lord Ing._ Why, have you not forgotten it?
_Jane._ No, my lord, nor ever shall!
_Lord Ing._ What an unforgiving creature!
_Jane._ Pardon me, it is _forgiven_ long since, _that_ is my share of the
transaction, to teach me to _forget_ it, must be _yours_.
_Lord Ing._ Ah! yes. You’re too dem’d metaphysical for me! (_Small bell._)
_Col. Dent._ The signal to prepare for the Charade.
(_Servants appear at stage doors; crowding their heads amongst
them, Grace, John, Bob, &c._)
_Col. Dent._ Who are to be the representatives?
_Lord Ing._ Mr. Rochester.
_Col. Dent._ And your lovely sister, of course!
_Lord Ing._ I suppose so. If he’s going to marry her, I wish he’d make
haste about it. I want to cut in for a slice of his ready——
_Col. Dent._ Silence! Here comes the first syllable.
(_Curtain rises to music, and discovers Lady Blanche dressed as
bride, two bridesmaids attending; Tableau—Music._)
_Lord Ing._ Superb, by Jove! Blanche is rehearsing for the Mrs. Rochester
role, evidently.
_Col. Dent._ But what is the syllable intended?
_Lord Ing._ Don’t ask me. I never fatigue my brain with thinking.
_Dow._ It must be——_Bride_.
_All._ Certainly!
_Col. Dent._ Now for the second syllable.
(_Tableau of Rebecca at the well, after Victor Adam—Music._)
_Lord Ing._ We all know what it is,—fountain!
_Dent._ No; Bride fountain, spells no word that I know of.
_Dow._ I know it,—it must be WELL!
_All._ So it is. (_They applaud._)
_Dent._ Now for the Tableau of the whole word.
(_Curtain: Tableau of the Momentous question._)
_Dent._ Capital, by Jove,—“_Bride-well_,” ain’t it, Miss Eyre?
_Jane._ Pardon me, sir, but I was not attending to the exhibition.
_Lord Ing._ Perhaps you object to such frivolous amusement?
_Jane._ My objections, my lord, carry but little weight.
_Lord Ing._ Modest creature!
_Enter_ JOHN.
_John._ If you please, my lady, there’s an old gipsy has ensconced
himself by the library fire, and nothing can induce him to go.
_Dow._ The wretched person; what does he want?
_John._ He wants to tell the gentry their fortunes, and swears he won’t
leave till he does.
_Lady Blan._ Oh! ma! do let us see him, it is so deliciously romantic.
_Lord Ing._ What is he like?
_John._ As old as Methuselah, and as ugly as a scare-crow, my lord.
_Lord Ing._ Then let’s see him, it would be a thousand pities to lose
such a chance of making fun of the old sorcerer.
_John._ He says whoever wants him must go to him.
_Dent._ An independent wizard; suppose I lead the way.
_Lord Ing._ No; let Blanche propitiate the fellow.
_Dow._ I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding.
_Blan._ Indeed, ma, but you can and will; I have a curiosity to have my
fortune told: John, lead the way.
_Dow._ Oh, my best—oh, my dearest, consider——
_Blan._ Ma, don’t be foolish!
[_Exit with John._
_Dow._ Oh, my beloved darling; if anything should happen to her, I should
never forgive myself. Theodore, why don’t you rush to the protection of
your precious sister.
_Lord Ing._ Don’t alarm yourself, perturbated maternity; Blanche can take
good care of her precious self.
_Dow._ Oh, you have no sympathy for a mother’s feelings.
_Lord Ing._ No! never had; don’t think I ever shall.
_Dow._ A horrible presentiment of evil oppresses me; I do believe if she
don’t come instantly I shall be positively obliged to faint.
_Lord Ing._ Don’t throw away a scene, indiscreet woman; there are no
strangers present.
_Lady Mary._ Ma, I’m frightened.
_Dow._ So am I, my timid dove.
_L. Mary._ This silence is inexpressively awful.
_Dow._ Perfectly appalling.
_Lord Ing._ Absolutely excruciating—ha! ha! Dent, for gracious sake, look
at the interesting old hen and her one little chick. Here she comes; calm
your fluttering hearts.
_Enter_ BLANCHE.
_Dow._ (_Rushes to her._) She’s safe; my own is safe.
_L. Mary._ Well, love, what did he say?
_Lord Ing._ What did he do?
_Col. Dent._ How did he look?
_Dow._ How do you feel, precious?
_Blan._ Now, good people, don’t press on me; restrain your curiosity,
I have seen a gipsy imposter, who endeavoured to practise the usual
cheating of his kind; and I treated the knavery as it deserved, with
contempt.
_Dow._ But tell me, love, did he say anything about—you know
what—Rochester, you know?
(_Jane expresses anxiety._)
_Blan._ It’s perfectly laughable—he told me this marriage should never
take place.
_Dow._ How absurd.
(_All go up laughing._)
_Lord Ing._ Very likely.
_Jane._ Ha! why does that sentence thrill through my frame, sharp and
stunning as a shock of electricity; what is it to me—oh, weak, weak,
foolish heart, strive not against thy betters; down to thy station, down!
[_Exit_, R. H.