CHAPTER XII

The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to Thornfield
Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintance with the place
and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, a
placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent education and average
intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt and indulged,
and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was committed entirely to my
care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans
for her improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and became obedient and
teachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar
development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinary
level of childhood; but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk her
below it. She made reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though
perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and
efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a degree of attachment
sufficient to make us both content in each other’s society.

This, par parenthèse, will be thought cool language by persons who
entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and the duty
of those charged with their education to conceive for them an idolatrous
devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo cant, or
prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a conscientious
solicitude for Adèle’s welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her little
self: just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness,
and a pleasure in her society proportionate to the tranquil regard she had for
me, and the moderation of her mind and character.
par parenthèse
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, when I
took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the gates and looked
through them along the road; or when, while Adèle played with her nurse, and
Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, I climbed the three staircases,
raised the trap-door of the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out
afar over sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line—that then I longed
for a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the
busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen—that then
I desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse
with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within
my reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in Adèle;
but I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness, and
what I believed in I wished to behold.

Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I could not
help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes.
Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third storey,
backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow
my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it—and,
certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the
exultant movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with
life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a
tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of
incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual
existence.

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they
must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are
condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt
against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political
rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed
to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise
for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers
do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation,
precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged
fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making
puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags.
It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or
learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s laugh: the same peal,
the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard,
too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There were days when she
was quite silent; but there were others when I could not account for the sounds
she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would come out of her room with a basin, or
a plate, or a tray in her hand, go down to the kitchen and shortly return,
generally (oh, romantic reader, forgive me for telling the plain truth!)
bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance always acted as a damper to the
curiosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no
point to which interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her into
conversation, but she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply
usually cut short every effort of that sort.

The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the
housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no respect
remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked her
questions about her native country; but she was not of a descriptive or
narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and confused answers as were
calculated rather to check than encourage inquiry.

October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax
had begged a holiday for Adèle, because she had a cold; and, as Adèle seconded
the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidays
had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it, deeming that I did well in
showing pliability on the point. It was a fine, calm day, though very cold; I
was tired of sitting still in the library through a whole long morning: Mrs.
Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on
my bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two
miles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adèle comfortably
seated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour fireside, and given her
her best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a drawer)
to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and having replied to
her “Revenez bientôt, ma bonne amie, ma chère Mdlle. Jeannette,” with a kiss, I
set out.

The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast till
I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of
pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was three o’clock; the
church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay in
its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile
from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and
blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips
and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless
repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a
holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes
were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the
path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now
browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge,
looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.

This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the middle, I sat
down on a stile which led thence into a field. Gathering my mantle about me,
and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold, though it froze
keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the causeway, where a little
brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days since.
From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall
was the principal object in the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose
against the west. I lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank
crimson and clear behind them. I then turned eastward.

On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but
brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in trees, sent
up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile distant, but in the
absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, felt
the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could not tell: but there were
many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes. That
evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough of the
most remote.

A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away
and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which effaced the
soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough
boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, efface the
aërial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds where
tint melts into tint.

The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the lane yet
hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet, as the path was
narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, and all sorts
of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery stories
were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added
to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse
approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I remembered
certain of Bessie’s tales, wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a
“Gytrash,” which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary
ways, and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming
upon me.

It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp,
I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a
great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the
trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie’s Gytrash—a lion-like creature with
long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however, quietly enough; not staying
to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it
would. The horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the
human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was
always alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb
carcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form.
No Gytrash was this,—only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He
passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and an
exclamation of “What the deuce is to do now?” and a clattering tumble, arrested
my attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice
which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in
a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills
echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed
round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could
do,—there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to
the traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts
were so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the
question—

“Are you injured, sir?”

I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing some
formula which prevented him from replying to me directly.

“Can I do anything?” I asked again.

“You must just stand on one side,” he answered as he rose, first to his knees,
and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving, stamping, clattering
process, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually some
yards’ distance; but I would not be driven quite away till I saw the event.
This was finally fortunate; the horse was re-established, and the dog was
silenced with a “Down, Pilot!” The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and
leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for
he halted to the stile whence I had just risen, and sat down.

I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now
drew near him again.

“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either from
Thornfield Hall or from Hay.”

“Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,—only a sprain;” and again he
stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”

Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could
see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared and
steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points
of middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with
stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful
and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached middle-age;
perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little shyness.
Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young gentleman, I should not have dared
to stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my services
unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to
one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry,
fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I
should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy
with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning,
or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.

If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I addressed
him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should
have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries: but the
frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at my ease: I retained my station
when he waved to me to go, and announced—

“I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane,
till I see you are fit to mount your horse.”

He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction
before.

“I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” said he, “if you have a home
in this neighbourhood: where do you come from?”

“From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is
moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it:
indeed, I am going there to post a letter.”

“You live just below—do you mean at that house with the battlements?” pointing
to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out
distinct and pale from the woods that, by contrast with the western sky, now
seemed one mass of shadow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Whose house is it?”

“Mr. Rochester’s.”

“Do you know Mr. Rochester?”

“No, I have never seen him.”

“He is not resident, then?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“I cannot.”

“You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are—” He stopped, ran his
eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, a
black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady’s-maid. He
seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.

“I am the governess.”

“Ah, the governess!” he repeated; “deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The
governess!” and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose
from the stile: his face expressed pain when he tried to move.

“I cannot commission you to fetch help,” he said; “but you may help me a little
yourself, if you will be so kind.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?”

“No.”

“Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me: you are not afraid?”

I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it,
I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and went up to the
tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and
would not let me come near its head; I made effort on effort, though in vain:
meantime, I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore-feet. The traveller
waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed.

“I see,” he said, “the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all you
can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to come
here.”

I came. “Excuse me,” he continued: “necessity compels me to make you useful.”
He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with some stress, limped
to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly and sprang
to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched his
sprain.

“Now,” said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, “just hand me my
whip; it lies there under the hedge.”

I sought it and found it.

“Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast as you
can.”

A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then bound
away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished,

“Like heath that, in the wilderness,
    The wild wind whirls away.”

I took up my muff and walked on. The incident had occurred and was gone for me:
it was an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a sense; yet
it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My help had been
needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to have done something;
trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was yet an active thing, and I was
weary of an existence all passive. The new face, too, was like a new picture
introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the others
hanging there: firstly, because it was masculine; and, secondly, because it was
dark, strong, and stern. I had it still before me when I entered Hay, and
slipped the letter into the post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill
all the way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round
and listened, with an idea that a horse’s hoofs might ring on the causeway
again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might
be again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me, rising
up still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft of
wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when
I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing the
hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded me that I was
late, and I hurried on.
was
I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return to
stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome staircase, to seek
my own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and spend
the long winter evening with her, and her only, was to quell wholly the faint
excitement wakened by my walk,—to slip again over my faculties the viewless
fetters of an uniform and too still existence; of an existence whose very
privileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciating. What
good it would have done me at that time to have been tossed in the storms of an
uncertain struggling life, and to have been taught by rough and bitter
experience to long for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as much
good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a “too easy chair” to take
a long walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my circumstances,
as it would be under his.

I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and forwards
on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I could not see
into the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy
house—from the grey hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to me—to
that sky expanded before me,—a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud; the moon
ascending it in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the
hill-tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and
aspired to the zenith, midnight dark in its fathomless depth and measureless
distance; and for those trembling stars that followed her course; they made my
heart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to
earth; the clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and
stars, opened a side-door, and went in.

The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze lamp; a
warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy
shine issued from the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood open, and
showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and brass
fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture, in the most
pleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I had
scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices,
amongst which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adèle, when the door closed.

I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax’s room; there was a fire there too, but no candle,
and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing
with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog,
just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and
said—“Pilot,” and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed
him, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone
with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a
candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.

“What dog is this?”

“He came with master.”

“With whom?”

“With master—Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.”

“Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?”

“Yes, and Miss Adèle; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone for a
surgeon; for master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle is
sprained.”

“Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?”

“Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice.”

“Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?”

Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated the news;
adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with Mr. Rochester:
then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off
my things.

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon’s orders, went to bed early that night;
nor did he rise soon next morning. When he did come down, it was to attend to
business: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting to speak
with him.

Adèle and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily requisition as
a reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an apartment upstairs, and
there I carried our books, and arranged it for the future schoolroom. I
discerned in the course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed
place: no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour or two to a knock at
the door, or a clang of the bell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new
voices spoke in different keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing
through it; it had a master: for my part, I liked it better.

Adèle was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply: she kept running to
the door and looking over the banisters to see if she could get a glimpse of
Mr. Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as I
shrewdly suspected, to visit the library, where I knew she was not wanted;
then, when I got a little angry, and made her sit still, she continued to talk
incessantly of her “ami, Monsieur Edouard Fairfax de Rochester,” as she
dubbed him (I had not before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what
presents he had brought her: for it appears he had intimated the night before,
that when his luggage came from Millcote, there would be found amongst it a
little box in whose contents she had an interest.

“Et cela doit signifier,” said she, “qu’il y aura là dedans un cadeau pour moi,
et peut-être pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a parlé de vous: il m’a
demandé le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n’était pas une petite personne,
assez mince et un peu pâle. J’ai dit qu’oui: car c’est vrai, n’est-ce pas,
mademoiselle?”

I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour; the afternoon was wild
and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adèle to put
away books and work, and to run downstairs; for, from the comparative silence
below, and from the cessation of appeals to the door-bell, I conjectured that
Mr. Rochester was now at liberty. Left alone, I walked to the window; but
nothing was to be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together thickened the
air, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down the curtain and went back
to the fireside.

In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I remembered to
have seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine, when Mrs. Fairfax came in,
breaking up by her entrance the fiery mosaic I had been piercing together, and
scattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts that were beginning to throng on
my solitude.

“Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with him in
the drawing-room this evening,” said she: “he has been so much engaged all day
that he could not ask to see you before.”

“When is his tea-time?” I inquired.

“Oh, at six o’clock: he keeps early hours in the country. You had better change
your frock now; I will go with you and fasten it. Here is a candle.”

“Is it necessary to change my frock?”

“Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester is
here.”

This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired to my
room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax’s aid, replaced my black stuff dress by one of
black silk; the best and the only additional one I had, except one of light
grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought too fine to be
worn, except on first-rate occasions.

“You want a brooch,” said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl ornament
which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put it on, and then we went
downstairs. Unused as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to appear thus
formally summoned in Mr. Rochester’s presence. I let Mrs. Fairfax precede me
into the dining-room, and kept in her shade as we crossed that apartment; and,
passing the arch, whose curtain was now dropped, entered the elegant recess
beyond.

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece; basking
in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot—Adèle knelt near him. Half
reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the cushion;
he was looking at Adèle and the dog: the fire shone full on his face. I knew my
traveller with his broad and jetty eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer
by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose, more
remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought,
choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw—yes, all three were very grim, and no
mistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in squareness
with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of
the term—broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful.

Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and myself;
but it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us, for he never lifted his
head as we approached.

“Here is Miss Eyre, sir,” said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He bowed, still
not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child.

“Let Miss Eyre be seated,” said he: and there was something in the forced stiff
bow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to express, “What
the deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not? At this moment I am
not disposed to accost her.”

I sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished politeness would
probably have confused me: I could not have returned or repaid it by answering
grace and elegance on my part; but harsh caprice laid me under no obligation;
on the contrary, a decent quiescence, under the freak of manner, gave me the
advantage. Besides, the eccentricity of the proceeding was piquant: I felt
interested to see how he would go on.

He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Fairfax
seemed to think it necessary that some one should be amiable, and she began to
talk. Kindly, as usual—and, as usual, rather trite—she condoled with him on the
pressure of business he had had all day; on the annoyance it must have been to
him with that painful sprain: then she commended his patience and perseverance
in going through with it.

“Madam, I should like some tea,” was the sole rejoinder she got. She hastened
to ring the bell; and when the tray came, she proceeded to arrange the cups,
spoons, &c., with assiduous celerity. I and Adèle went to the table; but
the master did not leave his couch.

“Will you hand Mr. Rochester’s cup?” said Mrs. Fairfax to me; “Adèle might
perhaps spill it.”

I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adèle, thinking the moment
propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out—

“N’est-ce pas, monsieur, qu’il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votre
petit coffre?”

“Who talks of cadeaux?” said he gruffly. “Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre?
Are you fond of presents?” and he searched my face with eyes that I saw were
dark, irate, and piercing.

“I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generally
thought pleasant things.”

“Generally thought? But what do you think?”

“I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answer
worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not? and one
should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.”

“Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adèle: she demands a ‘cadeau,’
clamorously, the moment she sees me: you beat about the bush.”

“Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adèle has: she can prefer
the claim of old acquaintance, and the right too of custom; for she says you
have always been in the habit of giving her playthings; but if I had to make
out a case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger, and have done nothing to
entitle me to an acknowledgment.”

“Oh, don’t fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Adèle, and find you have
taken great pains with her: she is not bright, she has no talents; yet in a
short time she has made much improvement.”

“Sir, you have now given me my ‘cadeau;’ I am obliged to you: it is the meed
teachers most covet—praise of their pupils’ progress.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.

“Come to the fire,” said the master, when the tray was taken away, and Mrs.
Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting; while Adèle was leading me
by the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful books and ornaments on the
consoles and chiffonnières. We obeyed, as in duty bound; Adèle wanted to take a
seat on my knee, but she was ordered to amuse herself with Pilot.

“You have been resident in my house three months?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you came from—?”

“From Lowood school, in ——shire.”

“Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you there?”

“Eight years.”

“Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time in such a
place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the look
of another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When you
came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and
had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure
yet. Who are your parents?”

“I have none.”

“Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them?”

“No.”

“I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that
stile?”

“For whom, sir?”

“For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them. Did I break
through one of your rings, that you spread that damned ice on the causeway?”

I shook my head. “The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago,”
said I, speaking as seriously as he had done. “And not even in Hay Lane, or the
fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I don’t think either summer or
harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more.”

Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows, seemed
wondering what sort of talk this was.

“Well,” resumed Mr. Rochester, “if you disown parents, you must have some sort
of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?”

“No; none that I ever saw.”

“And your home?”

“I have none.”

“Where do your brothers and sisters live?”

“I have no brothers or sisters.”

“Who recommended you to come here?”

“I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement.”

“Yes,” said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon, “and I am
daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an
invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adèle.”

“Don’t trouble yourself to give her a character,” returned Mr. Rochester:
“eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my
horse.”

“Sir?” said Mrs. Fairfax.

“I have to thank her for this sprain.”

The widow looked bewildered.

“Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you seen much society?”

“None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now the inmates of
Thornfield.”

“Have you read much?”

“Only such books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous or very
learned.”

“You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in religious
forms;—Brocklehurst, who I understand directs Lowood, is a parson, is he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent full of religieuses would
worship their director.”

“Oh, no.”

“You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest! That sounds
blasphemous.”

“I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling. He is a harsh
man; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our hair; and for economy’s sake
bought us bad needles and thread, with which we could hardly sew.”

“That was very false economy,” remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again caught the
drift of the dialogue.

“And was that the head and front of his offending?” demanded Mr. Rochester.

“He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision
department, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with long
lectures once a week, and with evening readings from books of his own inditing,
about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us afraid to go to bed.”

“What age were you when you went to Lowood?”

“About ten.”

“And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then, eighteen?”

I assented.

“Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should hardly have been
able to guess your age. It is a point difficult to fix where the features and
countenance are so much at variance as in your case. And now what did you learn
at Lowood? Can you play?”

“A little.”

“Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the library—I mean, if you
please.—(Excuse my tone of command; I am used to say, ‘Do this,’ and it is
done: I cannot alter my customary habits for one new inmate.)—Go, then, into
the library; take a candle with you; leave the door open; sit down to the
piano, and play a tune.”

I departed, obeying his directions.

“Enough!” he called out in a few minutes. “You play a little, I see;
like any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than some, but not
well.”

I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued—

“Adèle showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don’t
know whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a master aided you?”

“No, indeed!” I interjected.

“Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch for its
contents being original; but don’t pass your word unless you are certain: I can
recognise patchwork.”

“Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir.”

I brought the portfolio from the library.

“Approach the table,” said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adèle and Mrs.
Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.

“No crowding,” said Mr. Rochester: “take the drawings from my hand as I finish
with them; but don’t push your faces up to mine.”

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside; the
others, when he had examined them, he swept from him.

“Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,” said he, “and look at them
with Adèle;—you” (glancing at me) “resume your seat, and answer my questions. I
perceive those pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time, and some
thought.”

“I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no other
occupation.”

“Where did you get your copies?”

“Out of my head.”

“That head I see now on your shoulders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has it other furniture of the same kind within?”

“I should think it may have: I should hope—better.”

He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.

While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are: and first, I
must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects had, indeed, risen
vividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual eye, before I attempted to
embody them, they were striking; but my hand would not second my fancy, and in
each case it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.

These pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds low and
livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse; so, too,
was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there was no land. One
gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on which sat a
cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak held a gold
bracelet set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints as my
palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart.
Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced through the green
water; a fair arm was the only limb clearly visible, whence the bracelet had
been washed or torn.

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill, with
grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an
expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky was a woman’s
shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. The
dim forehead was crowned with a star; the lineaments below were seen as through
the suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamed
shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail. On the
neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight; the same faint lustre touched the
train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.

The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky: a
muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along the
horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,—a
colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thin
hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower
features a sable veil; a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow
and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone were
visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of black drapery,
vague in its character and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame,
gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was “the
likeness of a kingly crown;” what it diademed was “the shape which shape had
none.”

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?” asked Mr. Rochester
presently.

“I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to
enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

“That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few;
but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist’s dreamland while you blent and
arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?”

“I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at them from
morning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the midsummer days
favoured my inclination to apply.”

“And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?”

“Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork:
in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.”

“Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably.
You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet
the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are
elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could
you make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet above
quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who
taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on this
hill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For that is Latmos. There! put the drawings
away!”

I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his watch, he
said abruptly—

“It is nine o’clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adèle sit up so
long? Take her to bed.”

Adèle went to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the caress, but
scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor so much.

“I wish you all good-night, now,” said he, making a movement of the hand
towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company, and wished to
dismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: we
curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew.

“You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax,” I observed,
when I rejoined her in her room, after putting Adèle to bed.

“Well, is he?”

“I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt.”

“True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed to his
manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities of temper,
allowance should be made.”

“Why?”

“Partly because it is his nature—and we can none of us help our nature; and
partly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make his
spirits unequal.”

“What about?”

“Family troubles, for one thing.”

“But he has no family.”

“Not now, but he has had—or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder brother a
few years since.”

“His elder brother?”

“Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of the
property; only about nine years.”

“Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to be
still inconsolable for his loss?”

“Why, no—perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them.
Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr. Edward; and perhaps he
prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of money, and
anxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to diminish the
property by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have
wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he was of
age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a great deal of
mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into
what he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune: what
the precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit
could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke
with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life. I
don’t think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together,
since the death of his brother without a will left him master of the estate;
and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place.”

“Why should he shun it?”

“Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.”

The answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but Mrs. Fairfax
either could not, or would not, give me more explicit information of the origin
and nature of Mr. Rochester’s trials. She averred they were a mystery to
herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident,
indeed, that she wished me to drop the subject, which I did accordingly.