The divining party again laid their heads together： apparently they could not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated. Colonel Dent， their spokesman， demanded “the tableau of the whole；” whereupon the curtain again descended.
On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed； the rest being concealed by a screen， hung with some sort of dark and coarse drapery. The marble basin was removed；in its place， stood a deal table and a kitchen chair： these objects were visible by a very dim light proceeding from a horn lantern， the wax candles being all extinguished.
Amidst this sordid scene， sat a man with his clenched hands resting on his knees， and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr. Rochester； though the begrimed face， the disordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm， as if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle)， the desperate and scowling countenance， the rough， bristling hair might well have disguised him. As he moved， a chain clanked； to his wrists were attached fetters.
“Bridewell！” exclaimed Colonel Dent， and the charade was solved.
A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume their ordinary costume， they re-entered the dining-room. Mr. Rochester led in Miss Ingram； she was complimenting him on his acting.
“Do you know，” said she， “that， of the three characters， I liked you in the last best？ Oh， had you but lived a few years earlier， what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made！”
“Is all the soot washed from my face？” he asked， turning it towards her.
“Alas！ yes： the more’s the pity！ Nothing could be more becoming to your complexion than that ruffian’s rouge.”
“You would like a hero of the road then？”
“An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian bandit； and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate.”
“Well， whatever I am， remember you are my wife； we were married an hour since， in the presence of all these witnesses.” She giggled， and her colour rose.
“Now， Dent，” continued Mr. Rochester， “it is your turn.” And as the other party withdrew， he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader’s right hand； the other diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did not now watch the actors； I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise； my attention was absorbed by the spectators； my eyes，erewhile fixed on the arch， were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played， what word they chose， how they acquitted themselves， I no longer remember； but I still see the consultation which followed each scene： I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss Ingram， and Miss Ingram to him； I see her incline her head towards him， till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek； I hear their mutual whisperings； I recall their interchanged glances； and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this moment.
I have told you， reader， that I had learnt to love Mr. Rochester： I could not unlove him now， merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me—because I might pass hours in his presence， and he would never once turn his eyes in my direction—because I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady， who scorned to touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed； who， if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance， would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him， because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady—because I read daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting her—because I witnessed hourly in him a style of courtship which， if careless and choosing rather to be sought than to seek， was yet， in its very carelessness， captivating， and in its very pride， irresistible.
There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances， though much to create despair. Much too， you will think， reader， to engender jealousy： if a woman， in my position， could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram’s. But I was not jealous： or very rarely；—the nature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy： she was too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox； I mean what I say. She was very showy， but she was not genuine： she had a fine person， many brilliant attainments； but her mind was poor， her heart barren by nature：nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil； no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good； she was not original： she used to repeat sounding phrases from books： she never offered， nor had， an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment； but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity； tenderness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this， by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Adèle： pushing her away with some contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her；sometimes ordering her from the room， and always treating her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine watched these manifestations of character—watched them closely， keenly， shrewdly. Yes； the future bridegroom， Mr. Rochester himself， exercised over his intended a ceaseless surveillance； and it was from this sagacity—this guardedness of his—this perfect， clear consciousness of his fair one’s defects—this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her， that my ever-torturing pain arose.
I saw he was going to marry her， for family， perhaps political reasons， because her rank and connections suited him； I felt he had not given her his love， and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure. This was the point—this was where the nerve was touched and teased—this was where the fever was sustained and fed： she could not charm him.
