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.