『ジェーン・エア：自伝』

第十六章 – CHAPTER XVIII

The morning after the fire that had nearly claimed Mr. Rochester’s life, Jane Eyre awoke torn between a desperate longing to see him and a sharp, fluttering fear of meeting his eye. She lingered in the schoolroom all morning, waiting for him to stop in as he occasionally did, but he never came. Instead, she overheard the servants’ excited, grateful chatter about the close call: how Rochester had fallen asleep with a lit candle, woken to curtains ablaze, and doused the flames with his water ewer before the bed hangings or woodwork could catch. When she passed his chamber later, she found it restored to perfect order, save for the stripped bed hangings, and there, sitting calmly sewing new curtain rings, was Grace Poole—the woman Jane was certain had tried to murder Rochester the night before. Grace showed no trace of guilt, no pallor or desperation, and when Jane confronted her with pointed questions about the fire, Grace turned the interrogation back on her, asking if Jane had bolted her door that night, warning her to take precautions against the rare danger that lurked at Thornfield. Jane was confounded by Grace’s unshakable composure, and spent the rest of the day puzzling over why Rochester, who had seemed to accuse Grace the night before, had neither dismissed her nor called for her arrest, why he had insisted Jane keep the whole affair secret. She even entertained a wild, mortifying guess that Grace might hold some old, secret power over Rochester, a caprice of his past that still bound him, but she shushed the thought in disgust. That evening, when Mrs. Fairfax told her Rochester had left for a house party at the Leas, and described the beautiful, accomplished Blanche Ingram who was a guest there, a sharp, unnamed ache tightened Jane’s chest. Alone that night, she held a private court in her mind: Memory and Reason testified against her for indulging in fantasies of Rochester’s affection, for daring to dream of a bond between them when their stations were so far apart. She sentenced herself to a strict exercise: to draw a harsh, unflattering chalk self-portrait labeled “Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain,” and a delicate ivory miniature of the idealized Blanche Ingram Mrs. Fairfax had described, to remind herself of the gulf between them. The discipline worked, steeling her composure for what was to come. A fortnight of silence from Rochester followed, and Jane fought to smother the sickening disappointment she felt, reminding herself she was only his employee, owed nothing more than the salary she earned for teaching Adèle. When a letter finally arrived announcing his return in three days with the entire Leas party, Thornfield was thrown into a frenzy of scrubbing, polishing, and preparation. Jane threw herself into the work, helping in the kitchen, making custards and pastries, and overseeing Adèle’s excited preparations, but she couldn’t shake a quiet dread. She noticed Grace Poole, who only descended once a day for meals, kept to her locked third-floor room, and was paid wages far higher than any other servant, a fact the staff whispered about but never questioned; no one seemed to marvel at her odd, isolated habits, or wonder why she was kept on after the attempted murder. When the party arrived on a mild spring evening, Jane watched from the schoolroom window as Rochester rode at the side of a lady in a purple riding habit, her raven curls streaming in the wind: Blanche Ingram. Tall, dark, regal, and accomplished, Blanche was the undisputed center of the gathering, and Jane, hidden in the margins of the house, felt the weight of her own plainness and lowly status more acutely than ever. The next evening, Rochester sent word that Jane and Adèle were to join the drawing room after dinner. Jane sat in a shadowed corner, watching the guests mingle, her love for Rochester crashing over her even as she saw him devote all his attention to Blanche. She overheard Lady Ingram denounce governesses as a nuisance, Blanche recount the cruel pranks she and her brother had played on their tutors, and Rochester sing a deep, soulful Corsair song that brought tears to Jane’s eyes. When she tried to slip away early, Rochester stopped her in the hall, noticed her pallor and distress, and commanded her to attend the drawing room every evening while the guests stayed, his voice softening almost tenderly before he cut himself off and left. The days that followed were a whirlwind of gaiety, even when spring rain kept the party indoors. One evening, the guests staged charades, with Rochester and Blanche as the stars of the performance. They acted out three silent scenes: a wedding ceremony, the biblical story of Eliezer and Rebecca at the well, and a Bridewell prisoner in fetters, their easy, flirtatious chemistry clear to every onlooker. Jane watched from the sidelines, her heart twisting as she realized Rochester was courting Blanche not for love, but for her rank and connections, a match of social convenience. She critiqued Blanche’s hollow nature: her cruel treatment of Adèle, her habit of parroting bookish phrases without original thought, her lack of genuine warmth or kindness. She tortured herself wondering why Blanche, with every social advantage, couldn’t win Rochester’s true affection, but clung to a quiet, secret hope that a real, gentle wife could one day make him the happiest of men. A few days later, Rochester was called away to Millcote on business, and a stranger arrived at Thornfield in his place: Mr. Mason, a sallow, vacant man from the West Indies, who Rochester had known during his time in Jamaica. The guests, disappointed that the planned gipsy camp excursion was rained out, were restless until a rough old gipsy woman showed up at the house, demanding to tell fortunes only to young, single ladies. Blanche insisted on being first, and returned from the library cold, sullen, and unwilling to speak of what she had been told. The other young ladies went next, returning giggling and shaken, claiming the gipsy had known intimate details of their childhoods and whispered the names of the people they loved most. When the gipsy sent for Jane, she went willingly, curious and unafraid. In the dim library, the old woman spoke to her in a strange, knowing voice, asking about the man Jane watched from the schoolroom, hinting at Rochester’s impending marriage to Blanche, and telling her she stood within reach of happiness if only she would reach for it. Then, in a flash of recognition, Jane realized the gipsy’s voice, her sharp, familiar gaze, were no disguise: she pulled off the old woman’s bonnet and bandage to reveal Rochester, grinning at her. He asked her about the guests, about Mason, and when she mentioned Mason’s name, Rochester went white as ash, gripping her wrist so tightly she winced. “Jane, I’ve got a blow,” he said, his voice unsteady, and asked if she would stand by him. She promised she would, without hesitation. He sent her back to the dining room to fetch Mason, and she returned to find the party in high spirits, Mason laughing with the Dent couple, Blanche frowning at Jane as she passed. She led Mason to the library, then went to bed, hearing Rochester’s cheerful voice wish her good night as she climbed the stairs, the promise of his secret hanging heavy in the air.