*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79159 ***




                     Number 400. COMPLETE. One Penny.

                          DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS.

                                JANE EYRE.

                         ADAPTED BY JOHN BROUGHAM.

                ORIGINAL COMPLETE EDITION.—PRICE ONE PENNY.

          ⁂ THIS PLAY CAN BE PERFORMED WITHOUT RISK OF INFRINGING
                                ANY RIGHTS.

                     LONDON: JOHN DICKS, 313, STRAND.




ADVERTISEMENTS.


DICKS’ BRITISH DRAMA.

ILLUSTRATED.

Comprising the Works of the most celebrated dramatists.

Complete in Twelve Volumes, price One Shilling each; per post, Fourpence
extra.

_Vol. 1, contains_: The Gamester—Jane Shore—The Man of the World—Love
in a Village—Pizarro—The Mayor of Garratt—The Road to Ruin—The
Inconstant—The Revenge—The Jealous Wife—She Stoops to Conquer—Douglas—The
Devil to Pay—The Adopted Child—The Castle Spectre—The Rivals—Midas—The
Stranger—Venice Preserved—Guy Mannering—Fatal Curiosity.

_Vol. 2, contains_: A New Way to Pay Old Debts—The Grecian Daughter—The
Miller and his Men—The Honeymoon—The Fair Penitent—The Provoked
Husband—A Tale of Mystery—The Wonder—The Castle of Sorento—The School
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_Vol. 7, contains_: The Belle’s Stratagem—The Farm House—Gustavus
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Follies of a Day—The Liar—The Brothers—Lodoiska—The Heiress—The Dragon of
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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.


SCENE II.—_Enter_ JOHN, L. H., _meeting Jane Eyre_.

_John._ Please, miss, the gipsy won’t go without seeing you.

_Jane._ You mistake, John, it must be one of the visitors he wishes to
see.

_John._ No, miss, he must be something not right, for he described you
wonderful. What shall I tell him?

_Jane._ That I will go, by all means. He may be in want of something;
it’s only those who have felt privation themselves who ever think that
there is such a thing in the world as want.

_John._ If you like, miss, I’ll wait in the hall, and if he frightens
you, call out and I’ll see if the ditch water agrees with his gipsy
stomach.

_Jane._ No, John, return to the kitchen; I am not in the least afraid.

    [_Exit Jane_, L. H.

_John._ Oh, Lord! the mysteriousness gets thicker than ever. Not content
with having a ghost in the house, we must have a gipsy now. I wish the
fellow would tell me my fortune. No I don’t; for I’d rather not know it,
if it’s at all shy; and in the natural course of events I don’t see any
other chance for poor me. I only wish I was married and settled out of
this nest of hobgoblins. That there Grace would make a good sort of wife
for a chap, she’s so chary with her syllables, and that’s a good point.
I wonder where she is? it’s nice and dark and romantic; just the time to
whisper soft nonsenses. I’ve a great mind to find her. I will too. I’ll
just take a glass of strong beer, and open my heart to her like a house
a-fire.

    GRACE _appears at_ D. _in_ F. _with plate, &c._

_Grace._ That inquisitive fool here. I’ll soon get rid of him.

    (_Re-enters door. A groan heard._)

_John._ Good gracious, what’s that? I’ll swear I heard a groan in that
room. (_Goes towards door._) Pshaw! the keyhole’s stuffed up. (_A crash
of crockery and loud laugh._) The ghost! the ghost! oh, lord!

    [_Exit hastily_, R. H.

    _Enter_ GRACE.

_Grace._ It’s well for us he’s such a coward. Now to relieve his terror.
John, what’s the matter?

    [_Exit_ R. H.


SCENE III.—_The Library: Stage partially dark—wood fire blazing on
hearth._

    ROCHESTER _as Gipsy, and_ JANE EYRE _discovered—the red light
    from the fire falls on his face_.

_Roch._ Here we shall be more quiet; for I have a good deal to say to
you, and hate listeners—you see that I know the house well; aye, and all
who are in it. Ah! you doubt me. I knew that, you see—but to the proof.
Come, you want your fortune told?

_Jane._ I don’t care about it, you may please yourself; but you are right
in your conjecture—I have no faith.

_Roch._ My conjecture, silly mortal—my _knowledge_. I heard it in your
step just now.

_Jane._ Did you?—you have a quick ear.

_Roch._ I have, and a quick eye and a quick brain.

_Jane._ You need them all in your trade.

_Roch._ Especially when I have customers like you to deal with. Why don’t
you tremble?

_Jane._ I’m not cold.

_Roch._ Why don’t you turn pale?

_Jane._ I’m not sick.

_Roch._ Why don’t you consult my art?

_Jane._ I’m not silly.

_Roch._ Lies, lies, all—you are cold, you are sick, and you are silly.

_Jane._ Prove it.

_Roch._ In few words. You are cold, because you are alone; no contact
strikes from you the fire that you possess. You are sick, because the
lowliness of your position keeps from you the companionship of your
equals in soul and intellect. You are silly, because suffer as you may,
yet even to those who could and would sympathise with you, you disdain to
reveal the heart-agony that wears away your life.

_Jane._ You might say this to any one, placed in my circumstances.

_Roch._ Find me another placed as you are; happiness is near you—within
your very reach, and yet your obstinate but noble pride, keeps you from
putting forth your hand to grasp it.

_Jane._ I don’t understand enigmas.

_Roch._ If you wish me to speak more plainly, let me see your hand.

_Jane._ I know it’s folly, all, but there——

    (_Holds hand._)

_Roch._ You don’t! there’s doubt in your look. You are not quite certain
that it is folly; pshaw! I can make nothing of the hand, ’tis too
fine; besides, destiny is not written there; no, ’tis in the eyes, the
forehead, mouth, the expression of the face; let me look in your eyes.

_Jane._ Now you are coming to reality; I shall begin to have some faith
in you presently.

_Roch._ Um! good, very good. I wonder what thoughts are busy in your
heart, for I can only read them now—I can! What thoughts, I say, pass
within you, while you sit in yonder room, with all the fine people
passing before you like shadows in a magic lantern?

_Jane._ I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad.

_Roch._ Then you have some secret hope that pleases you with whispers of
the future!

_Jane._ None!

_Roch._ None? no! not when you hear, as you must do, tales of love and
courtship, does not _your_ heart yearn for a fitting mate? For instance,
when Lady Blanche and he—you know who I mean—when they converse in
soft, silvery whispering together, their fervid looks and low murmuring
syllables uttering the bliss of each, then——

_Jane._ Then—ah! spare me—then I _dare_ not think.

_Roch._ You have looked forward, have you not, and seen them married, and
beheld his bride happy?

_Jane._ No, I have not seen that; your witch’s skill is at fault
sometimes.

_Roch._ What in Heaven’s name have you seen, then?

_Jane._ No matter. I came here to inquire, not to confess. I did not come
to hear Mr. Rochester’s fortune, but to listen to my own, and you have
told me nothing of it.

_Roch._ Because _your_ fortune is yet doubtful. I can read upon your
features each passion of your heart, distinct as on a printed page. That
eye, shining like dew, so soft and full of feeling, and yet in the cup of
bliss, when offered, if there should be one dreg of shame, or one flavour
of remorse, how firm its determined glance; it would foster, not blight,
it would earn gratitude, not wring tears of blood. Ah! what tenderness,
but what inflexibility! Leave me; I rave in exquisite delirium; so far I
have governed myself thoroughly; leave me, Jane.—The play is played out.

_Jane._ That voice—do I wake or dream?

_Roch._ Don’t you know me, Jane—there, then, off ye lendings! How do I
play the Gipsy?

_Jane._ It was no Gipsy part you played with me.

_Roch._ Whose then, my own?

_Jane._ I don’t know, sir; some unaccountable one. In short, you have
been talking nonsense to make me do the same. I have your permission to
retire, sir.

_Roch._ Not yet; I want to ask your advice. Now, Jane, call your fancy to
your aid; suppose instead of the bright incarnation of womanhood which
you are, you had been a wild boy, indulged from childhood upward; imagine
yourself in a remote foreign land, conceive that you commit a capital
error, no matter what, but one whose consequences must follow you through
life, and taint all your existence; mind, I don’t say a _crime_, my word
is _error_. Well, heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after
years of voluntary banishment, you make a new acquaintance, you find in
this stranger much of the bright and good qualities which you have sought
for all your life, and but just encountered; such society brings higher
wishes, purer feelings, and you desire to recommence your life, and pass
the remnant of your days in a manner more worthy of a human being. To
attain this end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom?

_Jane._ Sir, if any one you know has erred and suffered, let him look
higher than his friends for strength to amend, and solace to heal!

_Roch._ But the instrument! the instrument! I tell you without parable,
that _I_ have been a worldly, dissipated, restless man. Oh! dare I to
hope that I have found a comforting spirit? Jane, if the finger of scorn
were pointed at me, what would you do?

_Jane._ If it were deserved, my tears would attest my sorrow; if not,
I would dash the mocker to the earth, if strength of indignation could
effect it.

_Roch._ Bold, brave girl. You know my strange temperament, and won’t
wonder if I make sudden resolutions. You must go.

_Jane._ Go, sir.

_Roch._ Yes, go. What business have you here; you know I am about to be
married.

_Jane._ Soon, sir?

_Roch._ Very soon.

_Jane._ Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.

_Roch._ It is come now, Miss Eyre—you must get a new situation.

_Jane._ The blow is greater, severer than I expected.

_Roch._ But your pride will master it.

_Jane._ It will—it does: it—oh, this is torture——

_Roch._ No, it don’t. You are sorry to leave Thornfield.

_Jane._ I grieve to leave it. I love Thornfield. I love it, because I
have lived in it a full and delightful life. I have not been trampled
on—I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every
glimpse of communion with what is bright and high, and energetic. I have
talked face to face with what I reverenced, but I see the necessity for
departure, and it is like looking on the necessity of death.

_Roch._ Where do you see the necessity?

_Jane._ _You_ have placed it before me. Do you think I can stay to become
nothing to you? Do you suppose I am a mere machine, without one spark of
sense or feeling, and can bear to have my drop of living water dashed
from my cup? Do you think, because I am lowly and obscure, that I have
neither soul nor heart? You think wrongly if you do; and if heaven had
gifted me with wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave
me, as it is for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now, through
the medium of custom, or even of mortal flesh; it is my spirit which
addresses you, just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood
within the precincts of eternity equal, as we are.

_Roch._ As we are, and ever shall remain. I offer you my hand, my heart,
and a share of all my possessions. Jane, decide my destiny!

_Jane._ You play a farce at which I merely laugh.

_Roch._ Unbelieving sceptic, you shall be convinced; the irresistible
waves of destiny hurry me along; you strange—you almost unearthly thing—I
love you as my own flesh, and I must have you for my own. Will you be
mine?—at once, within the hour—say yes, and quickly.

_Jane._ Mr. Rochester!

_Roch._ Yes.

_Jane._ Let me look in your face.

_Roch._ Why?

_Jane._ Because I want to read your countenance!

_Roch._ There you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled
page. Read on—only make haste, for I suffer. Jane, you torture me with
that searching but yet generous look: you torture me.

_Jane._ How can I do that, if your offer be real; my only feelings must
be gratitude and devotion.

_Roch._ Gratitude! Jane, accept me quickly.

_Jane._ Are you in earnest? Do you sincerely wish me to become your wife?

_Roch._ I swear it.

_Jane._ Then I am yours.

_Roch._ Come, come to me—my happiness is complete. Away! I will not
give you time to change your mind. Prepare yourself at once—in my
oratory we shall be wedded. Haste, haste, my own, own bride!—[_Exit
Jane._]—God pardon me, and man meddle not with me; she is mine, and I
will hold her in the teeth of fate; it will atone—it will atone. Have I
not found her friendless? and will I not guard and cherish, and solace
her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? I know
Heaven sanctions what I do: for the world’s judgment, I wash my hands
thereof—for man’s opinion, I defy it. Hold! what am I about to do?
Down, down thought!—sleep conscience; for in spite of all the powers of
earth and hell combined, she must be mine. And then! for remorse and
wretchedness. Well, let them come—Heaven pardon and pity me—my heart and
brain are burning!


END OF ACT III.




ACT IV.


SCENE I.—_The Drawing-room at Rochester’s._ DOWAGER, LADY BLANCHE, MARY,
LORD INGRAM, DENT, _discovered_.

_Dow._ Come here, Blanche my love; remember the importance of the crisis
which is evidently approaching; and don’t shake your hair too much out of
curl.

_John._ A note for you, my lady.

    [_Exit._

_Dow._ It is from Rochester, and marked private. The long-expected
declaration, no doubt. Blanche, calm your agitation, dear, while we see
what he proposes in the way of dowry.

_Lord Ing._ Something enormous, I trust, to gild the fellow’s atrocious
vulgarity!

_Dow._ (_Reads._) Good Heavens!

_Dent._ No bad news, I hope?

_Lord Ing._ Surely nothing can have occurred to break off the match?

_Blan._ Nothing, oh, nothing!

_Dent._ But death!

_Lord Ing._ Or bankruptcy.

    (_Dowager sinks into a chair._)

_Blan._ You seriously alarm me, ma; has any accident occurred?

_Dow._ Accident!—a frightful and unexpected one.

_Lord Ing._ What can it possibly be?

_Dent._ Is he sick?

_Lord Ing._ Hurt?

_Lady Blan._ Dead?

_Dow._ Worse.

_All._ What?—what?

_Dow._ He’s poor!

_Lord Ing._ Inconceivable calamity!

_Dow._ Here, Ingram, read this, and wonder at the fellow’s presumption.
My own one—(_To Blanche_)—I know in this, the most trying scene of your
existence, you will comfort yourself as befits an Ingram—take my flacon,
darling, and be heroic. Go on, Theodore.

_Lord Ing._ (_Reads._) “I am ready to fulfil my contract, but honour,
and a sincere desire for the happiness of her whom I love more than
existence, prompt me to the avowal that the reputation of my wealth
is far, very far, more than its reality; frankly, I am a poor man.”
Disgusting wretch!

_Dent._ Terrible reprobate!

_Dow._ Impudent monster!

_Lady Blan._ Ugly creature!

_Lord Ing._ What’s this?—why, this is simply laughable. (_Reads._)
“However, if love for myself and not for my possessions, animates your
beautiful daughter, I shall await her coming in the Oratory; and my
Chaplain shall join us in the silken fetters of wedlock.” (_All laugh._)
Well, upon my soul! that is about the coollest piece of effrontery ever
attempted within the annals of Jeremy Diddlerism.

_Dow._ Don’t weep for such an impostor, my precious——

_Blan._ It’s not for him, ma; I don’t care a pin for the creature
itself; but this lovely house, those delicious grounds, ma, where I had
absolutely planned all my alterations.

_Lord Ing._ And I had selected my suit of bachelor rooms, and actually
named my favourite hunters; why, the fellow’s a huge swindler!

_Mary._ I’m sorry you’ve lost such a nice fortune, Blanche, dear.

_Dow._ Don’t be envious, child; come, darling, dry your sweet
eyes—control your dear little feelings; your poor heart must suffer from
this dreadful shock, I know, but it might have been worse; suppose this
blow had come after the ceremony. We must leave, of course, as soon as
possible.

_Lord Ing._ I vote we all go in a body to the fellow’s oratory first,
and take an affectionate leave. Now, I insist, mother;—hang it, ain’t I
the head of the house? Come, Dent, take Blanche; now, Dowager, dignity;
prepare to frown the creature into oblivion.

    [_Go up, closed in._


SCENE II.—_A Passage or corridor, dark._

    _Enter_ JOHN, _frightened_, L. H.

_John._ Oh, Lord! I’ve seen it again; there can’t be no sort of mistake
this time—a wild-looking, ghost-like thing, with heavy hair, rushed by
me at the end of the corridor. Ugh! what’s that?—my heart beats like the
fastest sort of a clock. There’s something mysterious in the house—I
knew there was, in spite of Grace’s denial. Ugh! I can’t look round
often enough to be sure there’s nobody behind me; glaring with glassy
eyes;—there it is again! Oh, Lord! coming right through at me! Mercy!
mercy! your ghostship!

    GRACE _rushes on_ L. H., _and shakes him, she is frightened,
    but with a different expression_.

_Grace._ Up, fool!

_John._ Is it you! phew! it’s like a reprieve on the very gallows.

_Grace._ What have you seen?

_John._ A ghost! the ghost!

_Grace._ Nonsense; what way did she, I mean did it go?

_John._ Whatever it was, she or it, flew right up the grand staircase
like a puff of tobacco smoke. Mercy on us, Grace, what can it be?

_Grace._ Away, and be silent.

_John._ Wasn’t it a ghost, then, tell me that.

_Grace._ Yes; and a mischievous one; see, it’s coming back, run!

_John._ Oh, lord!

    [_Bolts off._

_Grace._ Mischief! mischief! where will it end!

    [_Exit_ R. H.


SCENE III.—_The Oratory. Octagonal recess with large stained windows,
practicable, beyond which a portion of the house may be seen, consisting
of turrets, to show effect of fire at the end of Act; low railing at
opening of recess. Organ music._ ROCHESTER _discovered_.

_Roch._ (_Impatiently._) Why comes she not? my bounding soul would fain
outstrip both time and thought and reach the consummation of my hope,
’ere stern reflection, reason’s officer, should cry, beware! Why will
they have me thus alone with conscience nicely scrupulous.—Away! away!
I will not think; in that direction madness lies; what, ho! (_Noise
without._) Ah, here at last; be calm, my soul. (_Again noise._) ’Tis
Ingram’s voice; yes, as I live, ’tis he and his proud sister. Have I
wrongfully judged her, and my touchstone proven her to be right ringing
metal? if so, I’m trebly cursed. They’re here.

    _Enter_ DOWAGER, INGRAM, BLANCHE, DENT, _and_ LADY MARY, R. H.

Suspense were more than agony, I must be resolved at once; how shall I
welcome thee, lady: as my disinterested love, bride of my heart and not
of my wealth? You are silent! be thanked for it, ye immortal powers.
Speak, Blanche!

_Dow._ Hold, sir; ’tis time this insolent mockery should have a
termination; can you smile, deceiver, and behold the victim of your
wicked perfidy!

_Roch._ Perfidy! to whom, then, was your daughter betrothed, to me, or to
my money-chest?

_Dow._ Pshaw; what romantic nonsense is this; speak to him, Ingram, I can
have no patience with the poor impostor.

_Lord Ing._ ’Pon my life it’s a little awkward, lady mother; but as I’m
the head of the house, I suppose I must.

_Roch._ Let me look at you, Blanche. By heaven, her features are as
calm as marble. What are promises and protestations, gentle looks and
whispered sentences—all hollowness, pretence, and lies.

_Lord Ing._ Come, come, Rochester, this is a most unimaginative age;
that sort of talk reads tolerably well in novels, but sounds somewhat
impertinent in real life. Your paper heroes are privileged individuals,
but flesh and blood people don’t feel inclined to listen to such
improbable mouthing.

_Roch._ Miserable idiot!

_Lord Ing._ (_To Dent._) Did you hear that?

_Dent._ Distinctly.

_Lord Ing._ What ought I to do?

_Dent._ Nothing?

_Roch._ I have no time to waste—be explicit. Do you wish this match to be
broken off!

_Lord Ing._ Most undoubtedly. Do you suppose that I would suffer my
sister to be sacrificed to a man——

_Roch._ Whose heart outweighs his wealth. I thought so, and am not
disappointed; still I must have confirmation from the Lady Blanche
herself. Speak, lady; would you have me release you from your promise?

_Blan._ Mr. Rochester, I——

_Dow._ She would——

_Roch._ Hush! let _her_ speak, I’ll hear none other.

_Blan._ I like you very much——

_Dow._ As a friend.

_Roch._ Silence! Proceed, Lady Blanche.

_Blan._ My mother answers for me, sir.

_Dow._ Affectionate creature!

_Roch._ Am _I_ released?

    (_Motions Dowager to silence—a pause—he watches Blanche, as she
    quietly exclaims._)

_Blan._ Yes!

    (_Rochester walks about quietly triumphant._)

_Dow._ Unconditionally; but we shall always be most happy to receive
your visits in a friendly way, Mr. Rochester. Shall we not, Ingram?

_Lord Ing._ To be sure, and I shall visit him in the shooting season.
(_Aside._) Don’t be disconsolate, there’s a good fellow, we’re all
devilish sorry, you know. Keep up your spirits.

_Roch._ I mean to do so. My kind considerate friends, now listen to me
all of ye. Had there been one touch of heart—one spark of noble feeling
in that woman’s nature—I should deeply regret the _stratagem_ which I
have used. (_All start._)

_Lord Ing._ _Stratagem!_ I’m afraid we’re sold!

_Roch._ But as it is, her unworthiness has, like a dull foil, made
lighter still the starlike radiance of her for whose beloved sake, I
fling aside the gauds of title and of name. Come forth, sole mistress of
this heart and home.

    (_Leads forward_ JANE EYRE—_all start_.)

  _Dow._ }
  _Blan._} The governess!

_Lord Ing._ Lady mother, you are checkmated.

    (_All the servants cluster round—the chaplain enters the
    enclosure._)

_Dow._ Marry the governess! revolting!

_Roch._ Yes, _the governess_! one pure instant of whose companionship
were worth a whole eternity with such as ye. Come, be witnesses of the
fulfilment of my soul’s uttermost desire. Look up, sweet love—look up—a
few moments nerve. (_Leads her towards enclosure—large bell, hastily
rung—noise without._) What interruption’s this?

_Grace._ (_Heard outside._) “She has escaped!”

_Roch._ Horror! what do I hear; must my cup of joy be dashed from me,
even in the moment of my greatest bliss? never. Proceed with the ceremony.

    (_Noise increases—bell louder._)

    _Enter_ JOHN.

_John._ “The house is in flames.”

    (_Confusion—the oratory window is thrust open with terrible
    crash, and the maniac wife appears in the opening, a torch in
    her hand._)

_Roch._ My wife!

_Jane._ His wife!

    (_Faints—portion of the house beyond seen in flames._)


END OF ACT IV.




ACT V.


SCENE I.—_Plain chamber_—JANE _discovered_.

_Jane._ Twelve months have passed since that fearful day. Oh, too
faithful memory, why didst thou call up the loathsome picture in its
terrible reality. I see it now before my eyes, as vividly as when
stricken by the bolt of destiny, even at the very threshold of my joy:
now almost a bride, and in an instant alone—alone; the Christmas frost
had come at midsummer, and the smiling way of life that seemed to blush
so full of flowers, became in a moment pathless with untrodden snow; and
yet it was not for myself this bitterness of anguish—it was for him—that
I dare not deem him worthy; that the pure and bright ideal that I had
thought was found in him, should be so blurred and blackened. I have
worshipped a false image, and I must tear it from the altar I myself have
raised. Alas! alas! ’tis not a vapour sunshine can disperse—’tis not a
sand traced effigy storms can wash away; it is a name engraved upon a
tablet, which must last as long as the marble upon which it is inscribed.
Oh! for some friendly hand to point my proper road. I fear myself there
is a sweet, strange, dreamy spell pervades this solemn eventime my
failing sense cannot resist. I’m powerless beneath its influence. Oh, if
in dreams, good angels e’er suggest the better course, may such welcome
visitors be mine.

    (_Sleeps—Music. The scene becomes luminous, and Rochester is
    seen stretching his hand towards her—he exclaims_—“Jane! Jane!
    where art thou?”—_vision vanishes—Jane starts up_.)

I am here, Rochester, my still beloved: this is no deception of the
mind—no witchcraft: I heard him distinctly—the music of his words yet
rings in my ears. Again he speaks—he calls me, in tones of suffering.
He may be dying, and I am not near to look at my last of love and life.
Rochester, wait for me—I come, I come!

    [_Exit._


SCENE II.—_Interior of a Cottage._

    _Enter_ JOHN, R. H.

_John._ Well, I never did see any one take on for any body in such an
outrageous way as my poor master does for that there governess. One
would naturally suppose that the whole race of soft sexes was abolished
from the face of the inhabitable globe, which everybody knows, and we in
perticular, they are not.

    _Enter_ MRS. JOHN, _late Grace_, L. H.

_Mrs. D._ Now, turnip skull, what are you wasting your time there for?

_John._ None of your vegetable allusions if you please, or else I might
insinuate something respecting _carrots_, Mrs. Downey.

_Mrs. D._ Alluding to my hair, I presume, Mr. D.

_John._ Precisely, Mrs. D.

_Mrs. D._ Before we were married you used to call it auburn.

_John._ That’s the poetical for red, you know; only an allowable
ante-nuptial fiction, as my old master, the lawyers, used to say.

_Mrs. D._ I’ll fiction your thick head with the broom-handle if you don’t
mind.

_John._ Ah, you let the devil’s hoof peep out now. I suppose we’ll have
the horns soon. You were a different sort of an individual when you went
sneaking about Thornfield with your bit of bread and cheese, awaiting on
that she-devil as was shut up there; you couldn’t say boo to a goose then.

_Mrs. D._ I’ve often had a chance since.

_John._ Mrs. D., respect the head of your family.

_Mrs. D._ There’s nothing in it.

_John._ Honour the provider of your wittles. Oh, why did I ever marry?

_Mrs. D._ That’s a question that always comes too late; and moreover is
never asked except by a good-for-nothing husband; see, who is that lady
beckoning to you. Stupid, go and see what she wants—while I get master’s
dinner on the do.

    [_Exit into house._

    _Enter_ JANE, _slightly concealing her face_, L. H.

_Jane._ Is this Ferndean Farm?

_John._ It is, marm.

_Jane._ Your name is John Downey.

_John._ I never had no other as I knows on, marm. (_Aside._) Exceptin’
now and then, turnip skull and such like.

_Jane._ They told me at the inn that you could give me the information
that I require. You know Thornfield Hall?

_John._ Yes, marm; I lived there once; I was the late Mr. Rochester’s own
man.

_Jane._ The late—I——

_John._ Dear me, marm, anything the matter?

_Jane._ A spasm—’twill soon be over. Have I then lived and hoped for
this? With one simple word to be for ever crushed, destroyed.

_Jane._ When did Mr. Rochester die?

_John._ I don’t mean the present gentleman.

_Jane._ Present? _he_ is alive then.

_John._ Oh, yes, marm, he’s _alive_!

_Jane._ Thank Heaven! I can bear anything now! the light of hope and joy
rekindled! Does he live at Thornfield Hall now?

_John._ No marm; no one is living there. You must be a stranger here or
you would have known that the Hall was burnt down last harvest time.

_Jane._ Burnt? the hall?

_John._ Yes, marm. The fire broke out at dead of night. It was a terrible
sight. It nearly caught fire once before, at a strange time—there was a
wedding about to take place.

_Jane._ But the last fire; how did it originate?

_John._ The same way. A raving lunatic, that tuned out to be Mr.
Rochester’s wife, after having made several attempts, succeeded at last.

_Jane._ And was _he_! was Mr. Rochester in the house?

_John._ Oh, yes, marm, and never left it until everybody else was safe.
Then he tried to get his mad wife out of the place, but she fled to the
roof, where she yelled and gave a spring and in the next moment she lay
upon the pavement.

_Jane._ Great Heaven! Dead?

_John._ Yes, marm, as dead as the very stones she lay on.

_Jane._ One question more. My labouring heart throbs painfully at each
pulsation. I scarcely dare to ask him from fear. While there’s delay
there still is hope, and yet, suspense is anguish. What of the master of
the Hall—is he in the country?

_John._ Yes, marm. He can’t get out of it well, now. He’s a fixture.

_Jane._ There is an awful meaning in your words.

_John._ He’s blind, marm, stone blind.

_Jane._ Thank heaven! I had feared a worse calamity; the loss of
reason—but where? do you know where he now is?

_John._ He ain’t far off, marm; he’s in the garden yonder.

_Jane._ So near. I was not prepared for this, John. Do you not know me?

_John._ Dear heart—why it’s the governess. Oh, but this will be a happy
meeting for us all.

_Jane._ Let us retire from observation.

_John._ You forget, miss, he can’t see a mite.

_Jane._ Oh, terrible affliction—and I to be so long estranged from him,
when words of solace were so needed. My very soul yearns to bring him
comfort; it is not now a crime—it is a duty.

_John._ You’ll see him, miss, won’t you?

_Jane._ See him, John! his very shadow in the sun shall not be nearer or
more constant than I, while life remains.

_John._ This is indeed a joyful return. I shouldn’t wonder but it will
even smooth Mrs. D’s wrinkles. I’m married, miss; don’t you recollect
Grace Pool, she’s what folks call a good woman in the _main_; I wish she
_was_ in it, just to try the experiment.

_Jane._ Quick! let me see her; I must consult with her the means of
introducing myself to Rochester. [_Exit John._] Be firm, be firm, my
heart—no shrinking now; this is thy duty; perform it well; even though
neglect and coldness be the recompense.

    _Re-enter_ JOHN, _with water_.

_John._ He has just called for a glass of water.

_Jane._ His kind fate points out a means for me to see him without danger
of too sudden a recognition. Give me the water, John; I’ll take it to
him. Now, courage, courage.

    [_Exit_, R. H.


SCENE III.—_Exterior of Farm House_—ROCHESTER _discovered—his arms
stretched out—he is blind—his hair streaming in the breeze.—The picture
as before in the vision._

_Roch._ Jane! Jane! ah, if you but knew that sky and mountain, field and
flower, are shut out from me for ever, you would not desert the proud,
strong man in the day of his affliction. In the wickedness of my heart I
spurned all control, and would have done thee wrong, angel of brightness
and purity; but I am punished, sorely punished. In vain for me the day
dawns and breaks, the sun rises and the seasons change. All is to me a
blank; my existence shrouded in unending night. Twelve months—twelve
long, leaden, fearful months have passed since that bright earthly vision
fled from me—even as the pure and good will ever flee from the assassin
of the soul; yet how often has the cruel delusion seized me that she was
in my very presence, though unseen; just as I feel this fire’s genial
glow, but cannot see the flames which causes it.

    _Enter_ JANE, L. H., _with tray, tumbler of water on it_.

Even now my mocking sense would almost persuade me that I heard her
breathe; out upon this heart-consuming deception—it almost drives me to
despair. (_Sits._)

_Jane._ Ah, what a sight—what a sight! (_Very quietly._)

_Roch._ There is some one near me. Grace, have you brought the water.
(_Jane hands it to him—he drinks._) Thanks. No news, I suppose;
silent—ah, I knew it! I knew it. Thus for ever must I stretch the chord
of expectation and of life until they snap together. Hush! did you not
hear something—a small quiet murmuring sound like hers, so like Jane’s. I
heard it but a short time since; it said, “_Rochester, I come! I come!_”
as distinctly as ever sound reached my ear. Ah! malicious spirits that
sport with human hearts, this is the cruelest pastime. I hear nothing.
Oh! for one week’s eyesight. I would find her or a grave. (_Jane sighs._)
Who is that? that wasn’t you, Grace? Is there anyone with you? answer me.
Is that you, Grace?

_Jane._ Grace is in the kitchen, sir.

_Roch._ (_Starts up in violent agitation._) I know that voice, if the
cheating demon is not practising on my sense once more. Who is this? What
is it? Speak again, whoever you are.

_Jane._ Will you have a little more water, sir?

_Roch._ Again—great Heaven! this is distraction. Why don’t you tell me
whether you are a living thing or another of those tantalizing fiends
that worry me to the verge of madness? Who or what are you?

_Jane._ I come to wait on you.

_Roch._ Delusion, nothing but delusion! What sweet madness has seised me?

_Jane._ No delusion, sir, no madness; your mind is too strong for
delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.

_Roch._ And where is this speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see,
but I must touch you, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. (_Jane
approaches him—He takes her hand._) Her very fingers—her small slight
fingers; if so, there must be more. (_Touches, and finally clasps her in
his arms._) Is it Jane? What is it? it has her shape and feature.

_Jane._ Yes, Rochester, and her voice and heart. Jane is here—here with
you.

_Roch._ In truth and in flesh! my living Jane!

_Jane._ You hold me in your arms. I am not vacant like the air.

_Roch._ But if I let you go, will you not fade away, vanish as all the
rest have done?

_Jame._ Never! never! from this day.

_Roch._ Never, says the vision; but don’t you know, unearthly thing, that
bright as are these delicious moments, they must have an end. I know that
in a moment this hand, which I foolishly deem real, will elude my grasp,
and that voice which sounded to my enraptured sense like heavenly music,
will die away upon the echoes and be heard no more. Gentle, soft dream,
you will fly me like those who came before, many, oh, many a time.

_Jane._ Is it a dream to grasp your kind hand with the warm truthfulness
of love; to tell you that I am here—I, Jane, your own Jane; to avow
that love and glory in that avowal; to say that my life, hitherto dark
and hopeless, is once more bathed in the brilliancy of an enduring joy;
that my heart, which famished for your presence, is sated from the very
fulness of its banquet?

_Roch._ It _is_ you, Jane—my living, breathing, loving, constant. Jane.
Come near me, and let me fancy that I see you with these rayless orbs. I
cannot! I cannot! but I feel your presence like a shower of sunlight on
my heart; and you’ve come back to me again, and will you stay with me?

_Jane._ Unless you object! I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your
housekeeper, your companion; to read to you, to walk with you, to sit
with you, to be eyes and hands to you—that is, if you wish it, not
otherwise. (_Disengaging herself a little._)

_Roch._ No, no, Jane. You must not go. I have touched you, heard you,
felt the comfort of your presence, the sweetness of your consolation, and
I cannot give up those joys; my very soul demands you, Jane. There are
other thoughts within my brain which I dare not utter. What right has
such a ruin as I to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?

_Jane._ You are not a ruin, sir. Friends, troops of friends will cluster
around you.

_Roch._ Friend! I want a nearer tie, Jane, my Jane; do you not comprehend
me? You do, and I may speak the wish of my soul. Jane, will you be my
wife?

_Jane._ I will.

_Roch._ What! wife to the poor blind man, whom you will have to lead by
the hand?

_Jane._ Yes!

_Roch._ Truly, Jane?

_Jane._ Most truly, sir!

_Roch._ Oh, my darling! Heaven will bless and reward you for the
sacrifice.

_Jane._ Sacrifice? If ever I did a good deed in my life, if ever I
thought a good thought, if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer,
if ever I wished a sacred wish, I am rewarded now. To be your wife is to
be as happy as I can be on earth.

    (_Shout outside._)

_Roch._ What is that? John?

    _Enter_ JOHN.

_Roch._ What means that shout?

_John._ Have you forgotten, sir, that this is your birthday?

_Roch._ Truly, I had, John. But now I accept the omen as a good one, for
my life is again renewed through the heaven-gift of thy pure and true
love, my earth-angel.

_John._ Your tenants, who love and respect you, sir, have brought their
poor but honest gifts; it would make them and all of us so happy, sir, if
you would accept them.

_Roch._ Let them approach. My wife, John, that is to be shortly, will
accept them for me.

_John._ Hurrah! there will be another shout for that. Come, friends!

_Roch._ I cannot see their merriment, my love; but what will the sum of
all their joy be, compared with mine?

    _Enter_ PEASANTS.—_Jane and Rochester advance._

_John._ Don’t spare your lungs. A cheer for our kind master and his
intended bride.

    (_Hurrah all. Present bouquets to Jane._)

_Roch._ My good fellows—I—speak to them for me, Jane, the fulness of my
joy chokes my very utterance.

_Jane._ I am myself too happy for many words. My friends, he whose
ambition is to be the kind landlord, and the good adviser, cannot, alas!
behold your kindly glances, but he thanks you for your generous sympathy,
as I do from my heart.

    (_Jane leads Rochester to seat, a device is fixed by the
    Peasants, having printed thereon in flowers, “The Farmer’s
    Friend.” Garlands depend from the centre, which are held up by
    Peasants, forming a canopy for Jane and Rochester—Music._)


_Curtain._




NOW READY, PRICE ONE SHILLING, PER POST 3d. EXTRA.

ENTRANCES AND EXITS.

BY MRS. E. WINSTANLEY.

A Pathetic Story of Theatrical Life, with Graphic Descriptions of the
Trials and Vicissitudes of a Struggling Actor.

BEING No. 8 OF DICKS’ ENGLISH NOVELS.

JOHN DICKS, 313, Strand.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




MUSIC.


DICKS’ PIANOFORTE TUTOR.

This book is full music size, and contains instructions and exercises,
full of simplicity and melody, which will not weary the student in their
study, thus rendering the work the best Pianoforte Guide ever issued. It
contains as much matter as those tutors for which six times the amount is
charged. The work is printed on toned paper of superior quality in good
and large type. Price One Shilling; post free, Twopence extra.


CZERNY’S STUDIES FOR THE PIANOFORTE.

These celebrated Studies in precision and velocity, for which the usual
price has been Half-a-Guinea, is now issued at One Shilling; post free,
threepence extra. Every student of the Pianoforte ought to possess this
companion to the tutor to assist him at obtaining proficiency on the
instrument.

DICKS’ EDITION OF STANDARD OPERAS (full music size), with Italian,
French, or German and English Words. Now ready:—DONIZETTI’S “LUCIA DI
LAMMERMOOR,” with Portrait and Memoir of the Composer. Price 2s. 6d.
ROSSINI’S “IL BARBIERE,” with Portrait and Memoir of the Composer. Price
2s. 6d. Elegantly bound in cloth, gilt lettered, 5s. each. Others are in
the Press. Delivered carriage free for Eighteenpence extra per copy to
any part of the United Kingdom.

SIMS REEVES’ SIX CELEBRATED TENOR SONGS, Music and Words. Price One
Shilling. Pilgrim of Love Bishop.—Death of Nelson. Braham.—Adelaide,
Beethoven.—The Thorn. Shield.—The Anchor’s Weighed. Braham.—Tell me,
Mary, how to Woo Thee. Hodson.

ADELINA PATTI’S SIX FAVOURITE SONGS, Music and Words. Price One Shilling.
There be none of Beauty’s Daughters. Mendelssohn.—Hark, hark, the
Lark. Schubert.—Home, Sweet Home. Bishop.—The Last Rose of Summer. T.
Moore.—Where the Bee Sucks. Dr. Arne.—Tell me, my Heart. Bishop.

CHARLES SANTLEY’S SIX POPULAR BARITONE SONGS. Music and Words. Price One
Shilling. The Lads of the Village. Dibdin.—The Wanderer. Schubert,—In
Childhood My Toys. Lortzing.—Tom Bowling. Dibdin.—Rock’d in the Cradle of
the Deep. Knight.—Mad Tom. Purcell.

⁂ Any of the above Songs can also be had separately, price Threepence
each.

MUSICAL TREASURES.—Full Music size, price Fourpence. Now Publishing
Weekly. A Complete Repertory of the best English and Foreign Music,
ancient and modern, vocal and instrumental, solo and concerted, with
critical and biographical annotations, for the pianoforte.

   1 My Normandy (Ballad)
   2 Auld Robin Gray (Scotch Ballad)
   3 La Sympathie Valse
   4 The Pilgrim of Love (Romance)
   5 Di Pescatore (Song)
   6 To Far-off Mountain (Duet)
   7 The Anchor’s Weigh’d (Ballad)
   8 A Woman’s Heart (Ballad)
   9 Oh, Mountain Home! (Duet)
  10 Above, how Brightly Beams the Morning
  11 The Marriage of the Roses (Valse)
  12 Norma (Duet)
  13 Lo! Heavenly Beauty (Cavatina)
  14 In Childhood my Toys (Song)
  15 While Beauty Clothes the Fertile Vale
  16 The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls
  17 The Manly Heart (Duet)
  18 Beethoven’s “Andante and Variations”
  19 In that Long-lost Home we Love (Song)
  20 Where the Bee sucks (Song)
  21 Ah, Fair Dream (“Marta”)
  22 La Petit Fleur
  23 Angels ever Bright and Fair
  24 Naught e’er should Sever (Duet)
  25 ’Tis but a little Faded Flow’r (Ballad)
  26 My Mother bids me Bind my Hair (Canzonet)
  27 Coming thro’ the Rye (Songs)
  28 Beautiful Isle of the Sea (Ballad)
  29 Tell me, my Heart (Song)
  30 I know a Bank (Duet)
  31 The Minstrel Boy (Irish Melody)
  32 Hommage au Gente
  33 See what Pretty Brooms I’ve Bought
  34 Tom Bowling (Song)
  35 Tell me, Mary, how to Woo Thee (Ballad)
  36 When the Swallows Homeward Fly (Song)
  37 Rock’d in the Cradle of the Deep (Song)
  38 Beethoven’s Waltzes First Series
  39 As it Fell upon a Day (Duet)
  40 A Life on the Ocean Wave (Song)
  41 Why are you Wandering here I pray? (Ballad)
  42 A Maiden’s Prayer
  43 Valse Brillante
  44 Home, Sweet Home! (Song)
  45 Oft in the Stilly Night (Song)
  48 All’s Well (Duet)
  47 The “Crown Diamonds” Fantasia
  48 Hear me, dear One (Serenade)
  49 Youth and Love at the Helm (Barcarolle)
  50 Adelaide Beethoven (Song)
  51 The Death of Nelson (Song)
  52 Hark, hark, the Lark
  53 The Last Rose of Summer (Irish Melody)
  54 The Thorn (Song)
  55 The Lads of the Village (Song)
  56 There be none of Beauty’s Daughter (Song)
  57 The Wanderer (Song)
  58 I have Plucked the Fairest Flower
  59 Bid Me Discourse (Song)
  60 Fisher Maiden (Song)
  61 Fair Agnes (Barcarolle)
  62 How Calm and Bright (Song)
  63 Woman’s Inconstancy (Song)
  64 Echo Duet
  65 The Meeting of the Waters (Irish melody)
  66 Lo, Here the Gentle Lark
  67 Beethoven’s Waltzes (Second Series)
  68 Child of Earth with the Golden Hair (Song)
  69 Should he Upbraid (Song)

London: JOHN DICKS, 313, Strand: and all Booksellers.




Now Publishing, Price One Penny, Weekly,

DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS,

AND

FREE ACTING DRAMA.


☞ FOR THE REPRESENTATION OF WHICH THERE IS NO LEGAL CHARGE

The following are now Ready:

  187. The Turnpike Gate
  188. The Lady of Lyons
  293. Oliver Twist
  302. Woman’s Wit
  306. Wild Oats
  307. Rookwood
  308. The Gambler’s Fate
  309. Herne the Hunter
  310. “Yes” and “No”
  311. The Sea-Captain
  312. Eugene Aram
  313. The Wrecker’s Daughter
  314. Alfred the Great
  315. The Wandering Minstrel and Intrigue
  316. My Neighbour’s Wife and The Married Bachelor
  317. Richelieu
  318. Money
  319. Ion
  320. The Bridal
  321. Paul Pry
  322. The Love Chase
  323. Glencoe
  324. The Spitalsfields Weaver and Stage Struck
  325. Robert Macaire
  326. The Country Squire
  327. The Athenian Captive
  328. Barney the Baron and the Happy Man
  329. Der Frieschutz
  330. Hush Money
  331. East Lynne
  332. The Robbers
  333. The Bottle
  334. Kenilworth
  335. The Mountaineers
  336. Simpson and Co.
  337. A Roland for an Oliver
  338. The Turned Head and The Siamese Twins
  339. The Maid of Croissey
  340. Rip Van Winkle
  341. The Court Fool
  342. Uncle Tom’s Cabin
  343. Deaf as a Post and A Soldier’s Courtship
  344. The Bride of Lammermoor
  345. Gwynneth Vaughan
  346. Esmeralda
  347. Joan of Arc
  348. Town and Country
  349. The Middy Ashore and Matteo Falcone
  350. Duchess of Malfi
  351. Naval Engagements
  352. Victorine, the Maid of Paris
  353. The Spectre Bridegroom
  354. Alice Grey
  355. Fish Out of Water and Family Jars
  356. Rory O’More
  357. Zarah
  358. Love in Humble Life and Fifteen Years of Labour Lost
  359. A Dream of the Future
  360. Mrs. White and Cherry Bounce
  361. The Elder Brother
  362. The Robber’s Wife
  363. The Sleeping Draught and The Smoked Miser
  364. Love
  365. The Fatal Dowry
  366. The Bengal Tiger and Kill or Cure
  367. Paul Clifford
  368. The Dumb Man of Manchester
  369. The Sergeant’s Wife
  370. Jonathan Bradford
  371. Gilderoy
  372. Diamond cut Diamond and Philippe
  373. A Legend of Florence
  374. David Copperfield
  375. Dombey and Son
  376. Wardock Kennilson
  377. Night and Morning
  378. Lucretia Borgia
  379. Ernest Maltravera
  380. The Dancing Barber and Turning the Tables
  381. The Poor of New York
  382. St. Mary’s Eve
  383. Secrets worth Knowing
  384. The Carpenter of Rouen
  385. Ivanhoe
  386. The Ladies’ Club
  387. Hercules, King of Clubs, and Bears not Beasts
  388. Bleak House; or, “Poor Jo”
  389. The Colleen Bawn
  390. The Shaughraun
  391. The Octoroon
  392. Sixteen String Jack
  393. Barnaby Rudge

Each Play will be printed from the Original Work of the Author, without
Abridgment.

To the Theatrical Profession, Amateurs, and others, this edition will
prove invaluable, as full stage directions, costumes, &c., are given.
Remit penny stamp, and receive a list of upwards of three hundred plays
already published.

London: JOHN DICKS, 313, Strand. All Booksellers.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79159 ***