CHAPTER XVII

A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester: ten days, and still he did
not come. Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to go
straight from the Leas to London, and thence to the Continent, and not show his
face again at Thornfield for a year to come; he had not unfrequently quitted it
in a manner quite as abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was beginning
to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was actually permitting
myself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment; but rallying my wits,
and recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and it
was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder—how I cleared up the mistake
of supposing Mr. Rochester’s movements a matter in which I had any cause to
take a vital interest. Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of
inferiority: on the contrary, I just said—

“You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receive
the salary he gives you for teaching his protégée, and to be grateful for such
respectful and kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right to
expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledges
between you and him; so don’t make him the object of your fine feelings, your
raptures, agonies, and so forth. He is not of your order: keep to your caste,
and be too self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and
strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised.”

I went on with my day’s business tranquilly; but ever and anon vague
suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit
Thornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and pondering
conjectures about new situations: these thoughts I did not think to check; they
might germinate and bear fruit if they could.

Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post brought
Mrs. Fairfax a letter.

“It is from the master,” said she, as she looked at the direction. “Now I
suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not.”

And while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on taking my
coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed to that
circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand shook,
and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into my saucer, I did
not choose to consider.

“Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being busy
enough now: for a little while at least,” said Mrs. Fairfax, still holding the
note before her spectacles.

Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of Adèle’s
pinafore, which happened to be loose: having helped her also to another bun and
refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly—

“Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?”

“Indeed he is—in three days, he says: that will be next Thursday; and not alone
either. I don’t know how many of the fine people at the Leas are coming with
him: he sends directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and the
library and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; I am to get more kitchen hands
from the George Inn, at Millcote, and from wherever else I can; and the ladies
will bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full
house of it.” And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to
commence operations.

The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought all the
rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged; but it appears I was
mistaken. Three women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such brushing, such
washing of paint and beating of carpets, such taking down and putting up of
pictures, such polishing of mirrors and lustres, such lighting of fires in
bedrooms, such airing of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld,
either before or since. Adèle ran quite wild in the midst of it: the
preparations for company and the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw her
into ecstasies. She would have Sophie to look over all her “toilettes,” as she
called frocks; to furbish up any that were “passées,” and to air and
arrange the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the front
chambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and piled-up
bolsters and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys. From
school duties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into her service,
and I was all day in the storeroom, helping (or hindering) her and the cook;
learning to make custards and cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and
garnish desert-dishes.
passées
The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for dinner at
six. During the intervening period I had no time to nurse chimeras; and I
believe I was as active and gay as anybody—Adèle excepted. Still, now and then,
I received a damping check to my cheerfulness; and was, in spite of myself,
thrown back on the region of doubts and portents, and dark conjectures. This
was when I chanced to see the third-storey staircase door (which of late had
always been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the form of Grace
Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; when I watched her glide
along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her
look into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,—just say a word, perhaps, to the
charwoman about the proper way to polish a grate, or clean a marble
mantelpiece, or take stains from papered walls, and then pass on. She would
thus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate pipe
on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for her
private solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. Only one hour in the
twenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants below; all the rest of her
time was spent in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey: there
she sat and sewed—and probably laughed drearily to herself,—as companionless as
a prisoner in his dungeon.

The strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house, except me,
noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them: no one discussed her position
or employment; no one pitied her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed,
overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen, of which
Grace formed the subject. Leah had been saying something I had not caught, and
the charwoman remarked—

“She gets good wages, I guess?”

“Yes,” said Leah; “I wish I had as good; not that mine are to complain
of,—there’s no stinginess at Thornfield; but they’re not one fifth of the sum
Mrs. Poole receives. And she is laying by: she goes every quarter to the bank
at Millcote. I should not wonder but she has saved enough to keep her
independent if she liked to leave; but I suppose she’s got used to the place;
and then she’s not forty yet, and strong and able for anything. It is too soon
for her to give up business.”

“She is a good hand, I daresay,” said the charwoman.

“Ah!—she understands what she has to do,—nobody better,” rejoined Leah
significantly; “and it is not every one could fill her shoes—not for all the
money she gets.”

“That it is not!” was the reply. “I wonder whether the master—”

The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned and perceived me, and she
instantly gave her companion a nudge.

“Doesn’t she know?” I heard the woman whisper.

Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped. All I had
gathered from it amounted to this,—that there was a mystery at Thornfield; and
that from participation in that mystery I was purposely excluded.

Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening; carpets were
laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilet
tables arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in vases: both chambers and
saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make them. The hall, too, was
scoured; and the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of the
staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the dining-room, the
sideboard flashed resplendent with plate; in the drawing-room and boudoir,
vases of exotics bloomed on all sides.

Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown, her gloves,
and her gold watch; for it was her part to receive the company,—to conduct the
ladies to their rooms, &c. Adèle, too, would be dressed: though I thought
she had little chance of being introduced to the party that day at least.
However, to please her, I allowed Sophie to apparel her in one of her short,
full muslin frocks. For myself, I had no need to make any change; I should not
be called upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was now
become to me,—“a very pleasant refuge in time of trouble.”

It had been a mild, serene spring day—one of those days which, towards the end
of March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth as heralds of
summer. It was drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm, and I sat
at work in the schoolroom with the window open.

“It gets late,” said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state. “I am glad I
ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned; for it is past
six now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on the
road: one can see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote.” She
went to the window. “Here he is!” said she. “Well, John” (leaning out), “any
news?”

“They’re coming, ma’am,” was the answer. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Adèle flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side, so
that, screened by the curtain, I could see without being seen.

The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels were heard;
four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two open carriages.
Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cavaliers
were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on his
black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his side rode a lady, and
he and she were the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept
the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent
folds, and gleaming through them, shone rich raven ringlets.

“Miss Ingram!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she hurried to her post below.

The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly turned the angle of
the house, and I lost sight of it. Adèle now petitioned to go down; but I took
her on my knee, and gave her to understand that she must not on any account
think of venturing in sight of the ladies, either now or at any other time,
unless expressly sent for: that Mr. Rochester would be very angry, &c.
“Some natural tears she shed” on being told this; but as I began to look very
grave, she consented at last to wipe them.

A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen’s deep tones and ladies’
silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and distinguishable above all,
though not loud, was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall,
welcoming his fair and gallant guests under its roof. Then light steps ascended
the stairs; and there was a tripping through the gallery, and soft cheerful
laughs, and opening and closing doors, and, for a time, a hush.

“Elles changent de toilettes,” said Adèle; who, listening attentively, had
followed every movement; and she sighed.

“Chez maman,” said she, “quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais partout, au
salon et à leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coiffer
et habiller les dames, et c’était si amusant: comme cela on apprend.”

“Don’t you feel hungry, Adèle?”

“Mais oui, mademoiselle: voilà cinq ou six heures que nous n’avons pas mangé.”

“Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down and get you
something to eat.”

And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a back-stairs which
conducted directly to the kitchen. All in that region was fire and commotion;
the soup and fish were in the last stage of projection, and the cook hung over
her crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening spontaneous combustion.
In the servants’ hall two coachmen and three gentlemen’s gentlemen stood or sat
round the fire; the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses;
the new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were bustling about
everywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last reached the larder; there I took
possession of a cold chicken, a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two and a
knife and fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regained the
gallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind me, when an accelerated hum
warned me that the ladies were about to issue from their chambers. I could not
proceed to the schoolroom without passing some of their doors, and running the
risk of being surprised with my cargo of victualage; so I stood still at this
end, which, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set and
twilight gathering.

Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another: each came
out gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous through the dusk. For a
moment they stood grouped together at the other extremity of the gallery,
conversing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity: they then descended the
staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill. Their
collective appearance had left on me an impression of high-born elegance, such
as I had never before received.

I found Adèle peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held ajar. “What
beautiful ladies!” cried she in English. “Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do you
think Mr. Rochester will send for us by-and-by, after dinner?”

“No, indeed, I don’t; Mr. Rochester has something else to think about. Never
mind the ladies to-night; perhaps you will see them to-morrow: here is your
dinner.”

She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to divert her attention
for a time. It was well I secured this forage, or both she, I, and Sophie, to
whom I conveyed a share of our repast, would have run a chance of getting no
dinner at all: every one downstairs was too much engaged to think of us. The
dessert was not carried out till after nine; and at ten footmen were still
running to and fro with trays and coffee-cups. I allowed Adèle to sit up much
later than usual; for she declared she could not possibly go to sleep while the
doors kept opening and shutting below, and people bustling about. Besides, she
added, a message might possibly come from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed;
“et alors quel dommage!”

I told her stories as long as she would listen to them; and then for a change I
took her out into the gallery. The hall lamp was now lit, and it amused her to
look over the balustrade and watch the servants passing backwards and forwards.
When the evening was far advanced, a sound of music issued from the
drawing-room, whither the piano had been removed; Adèle and I sat down on the
top step of the stairs to listen. Presently a voice blent with the rich tones
of the instrument; it was a lady who sang, and very sweet her notes were. The
solo over, a duet followed, and then a glee: a joyous conversational murmur
filled up the intervals. I listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was
wholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to discriminate
amidst the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester; and when it caught
them, which it soon did, it found a further task in framing the tones, rendered
by distance inarticulate, into words.

The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adèle, whose head leant against my
shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up in my arms and carried
her off to bed. It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their
chambers.

The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by the party to an
excursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They set out early in the
forenoon, some on horseback, the rest in carriages; I witnessed both the
departure and the return. Miss Ingram, as before, was the only lady equestrian;
and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at her side; the two rode a little apart
from the rest. I pointed out this circumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was
standing at the window with me—

“You said it was not likely they should think of being married,” said I, “but
you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of the other ladies.”

“Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her.”

“And she him,” I added; “look how she leans her head towards him as if she were
conversing confidentially; I wish I could see her face; I have never had a
glimpse of it yet.”

“You will see her this evening,” answered Mrs. Fairfax. “I happened to remark
to Mr. Rochester how much Adèle wished to be introduced to the ladies, and he
said: ‘Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after dinner; and request Miss
Eyre to accompany her.’”

“Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I am sure,” I answered.

“Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, I did not think
you would like appearing before so gay a party—all strangers; and he replied,
in his quick way—‘Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is my particular wish;
and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her in case of contumacy.’”

“I will not give him that trouble,” I answered. “I will go, if no better may
be; but I don’t like it. Shall you be there, Mrs. Fairfax?”

“No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I’ll tell you how to manage so as
to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance, which is the most
disagreeable part of the business. You must go into the drawing-room while it
is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose your seat in any
quiet nook you like; you need not stay long after the gentlemen come in, unless
you please: just let Mr. Rochester see you are there and then slip away—nobody
will notice you.”

“Will these people remain long, do you think?”

“Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the Easter recess, Sir
George Lynn, who was lately elected member for Millcote, will have to go up to
town and take his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him: it
surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay at Thornfield.”

It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I was to
repair with my charge to the drawing-room. Adèle had been in a state of ecstasy
all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the evening;
and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of dressing her that she
sobered down. Then the importance of the process quickly steadied her, and by
the time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her
pink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, she
looked as grave as any judge. No need to warn her not to disarrange her attire:
when she was dressed, she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking care
previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, and
assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly was: my
best dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss Temple’s wedding, and never
worn since) was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed; my sole ornament, the
pearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended.

Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than that through
the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We found the apartment vacant;
a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth, and wax candles shining in
bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorned.
The crimson curtain hung before the arch: slight as was the separation this
drapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low a
key that nothing of their conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing
murmur.

Adèle, who appeared to be still under the influence of a most solemnising
impression, sat down, without a word, on the footstool I pointed out to her. I
retired to a window-seat, and taking a book from a table near, endeavoured to
read. Adèle brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my knee.

“What is it, Adèle?”

“Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendre une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques,
mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma toilette.”

“You think too much of your ‘toilette,’ Adèle: but you may have a flower.” And
I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash. She sighed a sigh of
ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my
face away to conceal a smile I could not suppress: there was something
ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne’s earnest and innate
devotion to matters of dress.

A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept back from the
arch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its lit lustre pouring down
light on the silver and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a long
table; a band of ladies stood in the opening; they entered, and the curtain
fell behind them.

There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave the
impression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall; many were
dressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed to
magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose and curtseyed to
them: one or two bent their heads in return, the others only stared at me.

They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the lightness and buoyancy of
their movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some of them threw themselves
in half-reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans: some bent over the
tables and examined the flowers and books: the rest gathered in a group round
the fire: all talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I
knew their names afterwards, and may as well mention them now.

First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had evidently been a
handsome woman, and was well preserved still. Of her daughters, the eldest,
Amy, was rather little: naïve, and child-like in face and manner, and piquant
in form; her white muslin dress and blue sash became her well. The second,
Louisa, was taller and more elegant in figure; with a very pretty face, of that
order the French term minois chiffoné: both sisters were fair as lilies.
minois chiffoné
Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty, very erect, very
haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful sheen: her dark
hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume, and within the circlet
of a band of gems.

Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more lady-like. She had a
slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her black satin dress, her
scarf of rich foreign lace, and her pearl ornaments, pleased me better than the
rainbow radiance of the titled dame.

But the three most distinguished—partly, perhaps, because the tallest figures
of the band—were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters, Blanche and Mary.
They were all three of the loftiest stature of women. The Dowager might be
between forty and fifty: her shape was still fine; her hair (by candle-light at
least) still black; her teeth, too, were still apparently perfect. Most people
would have termed her a splendid woman of her age: and so she was, no doubt,
physically speaking; but then there was an expression of almost insupportable
haughtiness in her bearing and countenance. She had Roman features and a double
chin, disappearing into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to me
not only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride; and the chin was
sustained by the same principle, in a position of almost preternatural
erectness. She had, likewise, a fierce and a hard eye: it reminded me of Mrs.
Reed’s; she mouthed her words in speaking; her voice was deep, its inflections
very pompous, very dogmatical,—very intolerable, in short. A crimson velvet
robe, and a shawl turban of some gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I
suppose she thought) with a truly imperial dignity.

Blanche and Mary were of equal stature,—straight and tall as poplars. Mary was
too slim for her height, but Blanche was moulded like a Dian. I regarded her,
of course, with special interest. First, I wished to see whether her appearance
accorded with Mrs. Fairfax’s description; secondly, whether it at all resembled
the fancy miniature I had painted of her; and thirdly—it will out!—whether it
were such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester’s taste.

As far as person went, she answered point for point, both to my picture and
Mrs. Fairfax’s description. The noble bust, the sloping shoulders, the graceful
neck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were all there;—but her face? Her face
was like her mother’s; a youthful unfurrowed likeness: the same low brow, the
same high features, the same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a pride!
she laughed continually; her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual
expression of her arched and haughty lip.

Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a
genius, but she was self-conscious—remarkably self-conscious indeed. She
entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs.
Dent had not studied that science: though, as she said, she liked flowers,
“especially wild ones;” Miss Ingram had, and she ran over its vocabulary with
an air. I presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed)
trailing Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance; her trail
might be clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played: her
execution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she talked French apart
to her mamma; and she talked it well, with fluency and with a good accent.
trailingtrail
Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche; softer features too,
and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)—but Mary was
deficient in life: her face lacked expression, her eye lustre; she had nothing
to say, and having once taken her seat, remained fixed like a statue in its
niche. The sisters were both attired in spotless white.

And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be likely
to make? I could not tell—I did not know his taste in female beauty. If he
liked the majestic, she was the very type of majesty: then she was
accomplished, sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and that
he did admire her, I already seemed to have obtained proof: to remove
the last shade of doubt, it remained but to see them together.
did
You are not to suppose, reader, that Adèle has all this time been sitting
motionless on the stool at my feet: no; when the ladies entered, she rose,
advanced to meet them, made a stately reverence, and said with gravity—

“Bon jour, mesdames.”

And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking air, and exclaimed, “Oh,
what a little puppet!”

Lady Lynn had remarked, “It is Mr. Rochester’s ward, I suppose—the little
French girl he was speaking of.”

Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a kiss. Amy and Louisa
Eshton had cried out simultaneously—

“What a love of a child!”

And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensconced between
them, chattering alternately in French and broken English; absorbing not only
the young ladies’ attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and getting
spoilt to her heart’s content.

At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. I sit in the
shade—if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment; the
window-curtain half hides me. Again the arch yawns; they come. The collective
appearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very imposing: they
are all costumed in black; most of them are tall, some young. Henry and
Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed; and Colonel Dent is a fine
soldierly man. Mr. Eshton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like:
his hair is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which gives him
something of the appearance of a “père noble de théâtre.” Lord Ingram, like his
sisters, is very tall; like them, also, he is handsome; but he shares Mary’s
apathetic and listless look: he seems to have more length of limb than vivacity
of blood or vigour of brain.

And where is Mr. Rochester?

He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I try to
concentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes of the purse I
am forming—I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see only the
silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold
his figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after I
had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my
hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart
full and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I
approached him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to change
his and my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were!
So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not
wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of the
room, and began conversing with some of the ladies.

No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I might
gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face;
I could not keep their lids under control: they would rise, and the irids would
fix on him. I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking,—a precious yet
poignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like
what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has
crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.

Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’s
colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep
eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth,—all energy, decision, will,—were not
beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me; they
were full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me,—that took my
feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love
him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of
love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they
spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at
me.

I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the Lynns, the
languid elegance of Lord Ingram,—even the military distinction of Colonel Dent,
contrasted with his look of native pith and genuine power? I had no sympathy in
their appearance, their expression: yet I could imagine that most observers
would call them attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.
Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them smile,
laugh—it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much soul in it as their
smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance as their laugh. I saw Mr.
Rochester smile:—his stern features softened; his eye grew both brilliant and
gentle, its ray both searching and sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to
Louisa and Amy Eshton. I wondered to see them receive with calm that look which
seemed to me so penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to
rise under it; yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved. “He is
not to them what he is to me,” I thought: “he is not of their kind. I believe
he is of mine;—I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of
his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have
something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me
mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him
but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in
any other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good,
true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must
conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care
much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have
his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have
certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat
continually that we are for ever sundered:—and yet, while I breathe and think,
I must love him.”

Coffee is handed. The ladies, since the gentlemen entered, have become lively
as larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel Dent and Mr. Eshton argue
on politics; their wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and Lady
Ingram, confabulate together. Sir George—whom, by-the-bye, I have forgotten to
describe,—a very big, and very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before
their sofa, coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr. Frederick
Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is showing her the engravings of
a splendid volume: she looks, smiles now and then, but apparently says little.
The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the chair-back of
the little and lively Amy Eshton; she glances up at him, and chatters like a
wren: she likes him better than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken
possession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa: Adèle shares it with him: he is
trying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whom
will Blanche Ingram pair? She is standing alone at the table, bending
gracefully over an album. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not wait
too long: she herself selects a mate.

Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth as solitary as
she stands by the table: she confronts him, taking her station on the opposite
side of the mantelpiece.

“Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?”

“Nor am I.”

“Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that?”
(pointing to Adèle). “Where did you pick her up?”

“I did not pick her up; she was left on my hands.”

“You should have sent her to school.”

“I could not afford it: schools are so dear.”

“Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saw a person with her just
now—is she gone? Oh, no! there she is still, behind the window-curtain. You pay
her, of course; I should think it quite as expensive,—more so; for you have
them both to keep in addition.”

I feared—or should I say, hoped?—the allusion to me would make Mr. Rochester
glance my way; and I involuntarily shrank farther into the shade: but he never
turned his eyes.

“I have not considered the subject,” said he indifferently, looking straight
before him.

“No, you men never do consider economy and common sense. You should hear mama
on the chapter of governesses: Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at
least in our day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all
incubi—were they not, mama?”

“Did you speak, my own?”

The young lady thus claimed as the dowager’s special property, reiterated her
question with an explanation.

“My dearest, don’t mention governesses; the word makes me nervous. I have
suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice. I thank Heaven I have
now done with them!”

Mrs. Dent here bent over to the pious lady and whispered something in her ear;
I suppose, from the answer elicited, it was a reminder that one of the
anathematised race was present.

“Tant pis!” said her Ladyship, “I hope it may do her good!” Then, in a lower
tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, “I noticed her; I am a judge of
physiognomy, and in hers I see all the faults of her class.”

“What are they, madam?” inquired Mr. Rochester aloud.

“I will tell you in your private ear,” replied she, wagging her turban three
times with portentous significancy.

“But my curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food now.”

“Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I.”

“Oh, don’t refer him to me, mama! I have just one word to say of the whole
tribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I ever suffered much from them; I took
care to turn the tables. What tricks Theodore and I used to play on our Miss
Wilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and Madame Jouberts! Mary was always too sleepy to
join in a plot with spirit. The best fun was with Madame Joubert: Miss Wilson
was a poor sickly thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the trouble of
vanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and insensible; no blow took
effect on her. But poor Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions,
when we had driven her to extremities—spilt our tea, crumbled our bread and
butter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, and played a charivari with the
ruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons. Theodore, do you remember those
merry days?”

“Yaas, to be sure I do,” drawled Lord Ingram; “and the poor old stick used to
cry out, ‘Oh you villains childs!’—and then we sermonised her on the
presumption of attempting to teach such clever blades as we were, when she was
herself so ignorant.”

“We did; and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecuting (or persecuting) your
tutor, whey-faced Mr. Vining—the parson in the pip, as we used to call him. He
and Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling in love with each other—at least
Tedo and I thought so; we surprised sundry tender glances and sighs which we
interpreted as tokens of ‘la belle passion,’ and I promise you the public soon
had the benefit of our discovery; we employed it as a sort of lever to hoist
our dead-weights from the house. Dear mama, there, as soon as she got an
inkling of the business, found out that it was of an immoral tendency. Did you
not, my lady-mother?”

“Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on that: there are a
thousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and tutors should never be
tolerated a moment in any well-regulated house; firstly—”

“Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the enumeration! Au reste, we all know
them: danger of bad example to innocence of childhood; distractions and
consequent neglect of duty on the part of the attached—mutual alliance and
reliance; confidence thence resulting—insolence accompanying—mutiny and general
blow-up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram, of Ingram Park?”
Au reste
“My lily-flower, you are right now, as always.”

“Then no more need be said: change the subject.”

Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum, joined in with her soft,
infantine tone: “Louisa and I used to quiz our governess too; but she was such
a good creature, she would bear anything: nothing put her out. She was never
cross with us; was she, Louisa?”

“No, never: we might do what we pleased; ransack her desk and her workbox, and
turn her drawers inside out; and she was so good-natured, she would give us
anything we asked for.”

“I suppose, now,” said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically, “we shall
have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses extant: in order to
avert such a visitation, I again move the introduction of a new topic. Mr.
Rochester, do you second my motion?”

“Madam, I support you on this point, as on every other.”

“Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signior Eduardo, are you in
voice to-night?”

“Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be.”

“Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to furbish up your lungs and
other vocal organs, as they will be wanted on my royal service.”

“Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?”

“A fig for Rizzio!” cried she, tossing her head with all its curls, as she
moved to the piano. “It is my opinion the fiddler David must have been an
insipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell better: to my mind a man is
nothing without a spice of the devil in him; and history may say what it will
of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he was just the sort of wild, fierce,
bandit hero whom I could have consented to gift with my hand.”

“Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?” cried Mr.
Rochester.

“I should say the preference lies with you,” responded Colonel Dent.

“On my honour, I am much obliged to you,” was the reply.

Miss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud grace at the piano,
spreading out her snowy robes in queenly amplitude, commenced a brilliant
prelude; talking meantime. She appeared to be on her high horse to-night; both
her words and her air seemed intended to excite not only the admiration, but
the amazement of her auditors: she was evidently bent on striking them as
something very dashing and daring indeed.

“Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!” exclaimed she, rattling
away at the instrument. “Poor, puny things, not fit to stir a step beyond
papa’s park gates: nor to go even so far without mama’s permission and
guardianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty faces, and their
white hands, and their small feet; as if a man had anything to do with beauty!
As if loveliness were not the special prerogative of woman—her legitimate
appanage and heritage! I grant an ugly woman is a blot on the fair face
of creation; but as to the gentlemen, let them be solicitous to possess
only strength and valour: let their motto be:—Hunt, shoot, and fight: the rest
is not worth a fillip. Such should be my device, were I a man.”
womangentlemen
“Whenever I marry,” she continued after a pause which none interrupted, “I am
resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me. I will suffer no
competitor near the throne; I shall exact an undivided homage: his devotions
shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his mirror. Mr.
Rochester, now sing, and I will play for you.”

“I am all obedience,” was the response.

“Here then is a Corsair-song. Know that I doat on Corsairs; and for that
reason, sing it con spirito.”
con spirito
“Commands from Miss Ingram’s lips would put spirit into a mug of milk and
water.”

“Take care, then: if you don’t please me, I will shame you by showing how such
things should be done.”
should
“That is offering a premium on incapacity: I shall now endeavour to fail.”

“Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully, I shall devise a proportionate
punishment.”

“Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her power to inflict a
chastisement beyond mortal endurance.”

“Ha! explain!” commanded the lady.

“Pardon me, madam: no need of explanation; your own fine sense must inform you
that one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute for capital
punishment.”

“Sing!” said she, and again touching the piano, she commenced an accompaniment
in spirited style.

“Now is my time to slip away,” thought I: but the tones that then severed the
air arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice: he
did—a mellow, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his own
force; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and there waking sensation
strangely. I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired—till the
tide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my
sheltered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was fortunately near.
Thence a narrow passage led into the hall: in crossing it, I perceived my
sandal was loose; I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the
mat at the foot of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a
gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him: it was Mr.
Rochester.

“How do you do?” he asked.

“I am very well, sir.”

“Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?”

I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it: but I would not
take that freedom. I answered—

“I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir.”

“What have you been doing during my absence?”

“Nothing particular; teaching Adèle as usual.”

“And getting a good deal paler than you were—as I saw at first sight. What is
the matter?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?”

“Not the least.”

“Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too early.”

“I am tired, sir.”

He looked at me for a minute.

“And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”

“Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.”

“But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words would bring
tears to your eyes—indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead
has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was not
in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know what
all this means. Well, to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as my
visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it is
my wish; don’t neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adèle. Good-night, my—”
He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.

CHAPTER XVIII

Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too: how different from
the first three months of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passed
beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house, all gloomy
associations forgotten: there was life everywhere, movement all day long. You
could not now traverse the gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front
chambers, once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady’s-maid or a
dandy valet.

The kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the servants’ hall, the entrance hall, were
equally alive; and the saloons were only left void and still when the blue sky
and halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather called their occupants out
into the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and continuous rain set in
for some days, no damp seemed cast over enjoyment: indoor amusements only
became more lively and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoor
gaiety.

I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of
entertainment was proposed: they spoke of “playing charades,” but in my
ignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called in, the
dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs
placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr. Rochester and the other
gentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were running up and down
stairs ringing for their maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give information
respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of any
kind; and certain wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked, and their
contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black
modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought down in armfuls by the abigails;
then a selection was made, and such things as were chosen were carried to the
boudoir within the drawing-room.

Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him, and was
selecting certain of their number to be of his party. “Miss Ingram is mine, of
course,” said he: afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and Mrs. Dent. He
looked at me: I happened to be near him, as I had been fastening the clasp of
Mrs. Dent’s bracelet, which had got loose.

“Will you play?” he asked. I shook my head. He did not insist, which I rather
feared he would have done; he allowed me to return quietly to my usual seat.

He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the other party, which was
headed by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of chairs. One of the
gentlemen, Mr. Eshton, observing me, seemed to propose that I should be asked
to join them; but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion.

“No,” I heard her say: “she looks too stupid for any game of the sort.”

Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within the arch, the bulky
figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had likewise chosen, was seen
enveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a large book; and
at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr. Rochester’s cloak, and holding a
book in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adèle (who had
insisted on being one of her guardian’s party), bounded forward, scattering
round her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Then
appeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on
her head, and a wreath of roses round her brow; by her side walked Mr.
Rochester, and together they drew near the table. They knelt; while Mrs. Dent
and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in white, took up their stations behind them. A
ceremony followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the
pantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent and his party
consulted in whispers for two minutes, then the Colonel called out—

“Bride!” Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell.

A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second rising
displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last. The drawing-room, as
I have before observed, was raised two steps above the dining-room, and on the
top of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within the room, appeared a
large marble basin, which I recognised as an ornament of the conservatory—where
it usually stood, surrounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish—and whence
it must have been transported with some trouble, on account of its size and
weight.

Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen Mr. Rochester,
costumed in shawls, with a turban on his head. His dark eyes and swarthy skin
and Paynim features suited the costume exactly: he looked the very model of an
Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring. Presently advanced into
view Miss Ingram. She, too, was attired in oriental fashion: a crimson scarf
tied sash-like round the waist: an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her
temples; her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them upraised in the act of
supporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head. Both her cast of form and
feature, her complexion and her general air, suggested the idea of some
Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was doubtless the
character she intended to represent.

She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her pitcher; she again
lifted it to her head. The personage on the well-brink now seemed to accost
her; to make some request:—“She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and
gave him to drink.” From the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket,
opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and earrings; she acted astonishment
and admiration; kneeling, he laid the treasure at her feet; incredulity and
delight were expressed by her looks and gestures; the stranger fastened the
bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears. It was Eliezer and Rebecca:
the camels only were wanting.

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.

If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and sincerely laid
his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face, turned to the wall, and
(figuratively) have died to them. If Miss Ingram had been a good and noble
woman, endowed with force, fervour, kindness, sense, I should have had one
vital struggle with two tigers—jealousy and despair: then, my heart torn out
and devoured, I should have admired her—acknowledged her excellence, and been
quiet for the rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, the
deeper would have been my admiration—the more truly tranquil my quiescence. But
as matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram’s efforts at fascinating Mr.
Rochester, to witness their repeated failure—herself unconscious that they did
fail; vainly fancying that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly
pluming herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelled
further and further what she wished to allure—to witness this, was to be
at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.

Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows that
continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester’s breast and fell harmless at his
feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proud
heart—have called love into his stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face;
or, better still, without weapons a silent conquest might have been won.

“Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so near to
him?” I asked myself. “Surely she cannot truly like him, or not like him with
true affection! If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly, flash her
glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so elaborate, graces so
multitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by merely sitting quietly at his
side, saying little and looking less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his
face a far different expression from that which hardens it now while she is so
vivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself: it was not elicited by
meretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres; and one had but to accept it—to
answer what he asked without pretension, to address him when needful without
grimace—and it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like a
fostering sunbeam. How will she manage to please him when they are married? I
do not think she will manage it; and yet it might be managed; and his wife
might, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman the sun shines on.”

I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester’s project of
marrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first discovered
that such was his intention: I had thought him a man unlikely to be influenced
by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife; but the longer I considered
the position, education, &c., of the parties, the less I felt justified in
judging and blaming either him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas
and principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood. All their
class held these principles: I supposed, then, they had reasons for holding
them such as I could not fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like
him, I would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the very
obviousness of the advantages to the husband’s own happiness offered by this
plan convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption of
which I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world would act as I
wished to act.

But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to my master:
I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a sharp look-out. It
had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take the
bad with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form an equitable
judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that
had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their
presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid.
And as for the vague something—was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or
a desponding expression?—that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, in
his eye, and closed again before one could fathom the strange depth partially
disclosed; that something which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had
been wandering amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground
quiver and seen it gape: that something, I, at intervals, beheld still; and
with throbbing heart, but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun,
I longed only to dare—to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because
one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets and
analyse their nature.

Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride—saw only them,
heard only their discourse, and considered only their movements of
importance—the rest of the party were occupied with their own separate
interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued to consort in
solemn conferences, where they nodded their two turbans at each other, and held
up their four hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror,
according to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair of magnified
puppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two
sometimes bestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel
Dent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justice
business. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang to and
with one of the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant
speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended their
by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors: for, after all, Mr.
Rochester and—because closely connected with him—Miss Ingram were the life and
soul of the party. If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptible
dulness seemed to steal over the spirits of his guests; and his re-entrance was
sure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity of conversation.

The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt one day that
he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not likely to return till
late. The afternoon was wet: a walk the party had proposed to take to see a
gipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond Hay, was consequently deferred.
Some of the gentlemen were gone to the stables: the younger ones, together with
the younger ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. The dowagers
Ingram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet game at cards. Blanche Ingram, after
having repelled, by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and
Mrs. Eshton to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over some
sentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a novel from
the library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared
to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room and
the house were silent: only now and then the merriment of the billiard-players
was heard from above.

It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already given warning of the hour to
dress for dinner, when little Adèle, who knelt by me in the drawing-room
window-seat, suddenly exclaimed—

“Voilà Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!”

I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the others, too,
looked up from their several occupations; for at the same time a crunching of
wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel. A
post-chaise was approaching.

“What can possess him to come home in that style?” said Miss Ingram. “He rode
Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went out? and Pilot was with
him:—what has he done with the animals?”

As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments so near the
window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking of my spine: in
her eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when she did, she curled her
lip and moved to another casement. The post-chaise stopped; the driver rang the
door-bell, and a gentleman alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not
Mr. Rochester; it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.

“How provoking!” exclaimed Miss Ingram: “you tiresome monkey!” (apostrophising
Adèle), “who perched you up in the window to give false intelligence?” and she
cast on me an angry glance, as if I were in fault.

Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the new-comer entered. He
bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady present.

“It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam,” said he, “when my friend,
Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I arrive from a very long journey, and I think
I may presume so far on old and intimate acquaintance as to instal myself here
till he returns.”

His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck me as being somewhat
unusual,—not precisely foreign, but still not altogether English: his age might
be about Mr. Rochester’s,—between thirty and forty; his complexion was
singularly sallow: otherwise he was a fine-looking man, at first sight
especially. On closer examination, you detected something in his face that
displeased, or rather that failed to please. His features were regular, but too
relaxed: his eye was large and well cut, but the life looking out of it was a
tame, vacant life—at least so I thought.

The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party. It was not till after
dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at his ease. But I liked his
physiognomy even less than before: it struck me as being at the same time
unsettled and inanimate. His eye wandered, and had no meaning in its wandering:
this gave him an odd look, such as I never remembered to have seen. For a
handsome and not an unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there
was no power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness in
that aquiline nose and small cherry mouth; there was no thought on the low,
even forehead; no command in that blank, brown eye.

As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the light of the girandoles
on the mantelpiece beaming full over him—for he occupied an arm-chair drawn
close to the fire, and kept shrinking still nearer, as if he were cold, I
compared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with deference be it spoken) the
contrast could not be much greater between a sleek gander and a fierce falcon:
between a meek sheep and the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian.

He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend. A curious friendship theirs
must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old adage that “extremes
meet.”

Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times scraps of
their conversation across the room. At first I could not make much sense of
what I heard; for the discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary Ingram, who sat
nearer to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that reached me at intervals.
These last were discussing the stranger; they both called him “a beautiful
man.” Louisa said he was “a love of a creature,” and she “adored him;” and Mary
instanced his “pretty little mouth, and nice nose,” as her ideal of the
charming.

“And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!” cried Louisa,—“so smooth—none of
those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and such a placid eye and
smile!”

And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned them to the other side of
the room, to settle some point about the deferred excursion to Hay Common.

I was now able to concentrate my attention on the group by the fire, and I
presently gathered that the new-comer was called Mr. Mason; then I learned that
he was but just arrived in England, and that he came from some hot country:
which was the reason, doubtless, his face was so sallow, and that he sat so
near the hearth, and wore a surtout in the house. Presently the words Jamaica,
Kingston, Spanish Town, indicated the West Indies as his residence; and it was
with no little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he had there first seen and
become acquainted with Mr. Rochester. He spoke of his friend’s dislike of the
burning heats, the hurricanes, and rainy seasons of that region. I knew Mr.
Rochester had been a traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but I thought the
continent of Europe had bounded his wanderings; till now I had never heard a
hint given of visits to more distant shores.

I was pondering these things, when an incident, and a somewhat unexpected one,
broke the thread of my musings. Mr. Mason, shivering as some one chanced to
open the door, asked for more coal to be put on the fire, which had burnt out
its flame, though its mass of cinder still shone hot and red. The footman who
brought the coal, in going out, stopped near Mr. Eshton’s chair, and said
something to him in a low voice, of which I heard only the words, “old
woman,”—“quite troublesome.”

“Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take herself off,”
replied the magistrate.

“No—stop!” interrupted Colonel Dent. “Don’t send her away, Eshton; we might
turn the thing to account; better consult the ladies.” And speaking aloud, he
continued—“Ladies, you talked of going to Hay Common to visit the gipsy camp;
Sam here says that one of the old Mother Bunches is in the servants’ hall at
this moment, and insists upon being brought in before ‘the quality,’ to tell
them their fortunes. Would you like to see her?”

“Surely, colonel,” cried Lady Ingram, “you would not encourage such a low
impostor? Dismiss her, by all means, at once!”

“But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,” said the footman; “nor can any
of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now, entreating her to be gone;
but she has taken a chair in the chimney-corner, and says nothing shall stir
her from it till she gets leave to come in here.”

“What does she want?” asked Mrs. Eshton.

“‘To tell the gentry their fortunes,’ she says, ma’am; and she swears she must
and will do it.”

“What is she like?” inquired the Misses Eshton, in a breath.

“A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as a crock.”

“Why, she’s a real sorceress!” cried Frederick Lynn. “Let us have her in, of
course.”

“To be sure,” rejoined his brother; “it would be a thousand pities to throw
away such a chance of fun.”

“My dear boys, what are you thinking about?” exclaimed Mrs. Lynn.

“I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding,” chimed in the
Dowager Ingram.

“Indeed, mama, but you can—and will,” pronounced the haughty voice of Blanche,
as she turned round on the piano-stool; where till now she had sat silent,
apparently examining sundry sheets of music. “I have a curiosity to hear my
fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame forward.”

“My darling Blanche! recollect—”

“I do—I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will—quick, Sam!”

“Yes—yes—yes!” cried all the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen. “Let her
come—it will be excellent sport!”

The footman still lingered. “She looks such a rough one,” said he.

“Go!” ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went.

Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of raillery and
jests was proceeding when Sam returned.

“She won’t come now,” said he. “She says it’s not her mission to appear before
the ‘vulgar herd’ (them’s her words). I must show her into a room by herself,
and then those who wish to consult her must go to her one by one.”

“You see now, my queenly Blanche,” began Lady Ingram, “she encroaches. Be
advised, my angel girl—and—”

“Show her into the library, of course,” cut in the “angel girl.” “It is not my
mission to listen to her before the vulgar herd either: I mean to have her all
to myself. Is there a fire in the library?”

“Yes, ma’am—but she looks such a tinkler.”

“Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.”

Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expectation rose to full flow once
more.

“She’s ready now,” said the footman, as he reappeared. “She wishes to know who
will be her first visitor.”

“I think I had better just look in upon her before any of the ladies go,” said
Colonel Dent.

“Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming.”

Sam went and returned.

“She says, sir, that she’ll have no gentlemen; they need not trouble themselves
to come near her; nor,” he added, with difficulty suppressing a titter, “any
ladies either, except the young, and single.”

“By Jove, she has taste!” exclaimed Henry Lynn.

Miss Ingram rose solemnly: “I go first,” she said, in a tone which might have
befitted the leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a breach in the van of his men.

“Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause—reflect!” was her mama’s cry; but she swept
past her in stately silence, passed through the door which Colonel Dent held
open, and we heard her enter the library.

A comparative silence ensued. Lady Ingram thought it “le cas” to wring her
hands: which she did accordingly. Miss Mary declared she felt, for her part,
she never dared venture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under their breath, and
looked a little frightened.

The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the library-door
again opened. Miss Ingram returned to us through the arch.

Would she laugh? Would she take it as a joke? All eyes met her with a glance of
eager curiosity, and she met all eyes with one of rebuff and coldness; she
looked neither flurried nor merry: she walked stiffly to her seat, and took it
in silence.

“Well, Blanche?” said Lord Ingram.

“What did she say, sister?” asked Mary.

“What did you think? How do you feel? Is she a real fortune-teller?” demanded
the Misses Eshton.

“Now, now, good people,” returned Miss Ingram, “don’t press upon me. Really
your organs of wonder and credulity are easily excited: you seem, by the
importance of you all—my good mama included—ascribe to this matter, absolutely
to believe we have a genuine witch in the house, who is in close alliance with
the old gentleman. I have seen a gipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed
fashion the science of palmistry and told me what such people usually tell. My
whim is gratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag in
the stocks to-morrow morning, as he threatened.”

Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and so declined further
conversation. I watched her for nearly half-an-hour: during all that time she
never turned a page, and her face grew momently darker, more dissatisfied, and
more sourly expressive of disappointment. She had obviously not heard anything
to her advantage: and it seemed to me, from her prolonged fit of gloom and
taciturnity, that she herself, notwithstanding her professed indifference,
attached undue importance to whatever revelations had been made her.

Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, declared they dared not go alone;
and yet they all wished to go. A negotiation was opened through the medium of
the ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and fro, till, I think, the said
Sam’s calves must have ached with the exercise, permission was at last, with
great difficulty, extorted from the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait upon
her in a body.

Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram’s had been: we heard hysterical
giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library; and at the end of
about twenty minutes they burst the door open, and came running across the
hall, as if they were half-scared out of their wits.

“I am sure she is something not right!” they cried, one and all. “She told us
such things! She knows all about us!” and they sank breathless into the various
seats the gentlemen hastened to bring them.

Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of things they
had said and done when they were mere children; described books and ornaments
they had in their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that different relations had
presented to them. They affirmed that she had even divined their thoughts, and
had whispered in the ear of each the name of the person she liked best in the
world, and informed them of what they most wished for.

Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further enlightened
on these two last-named points; but they got only blushes, ejaculations,
tremors, and titters, in return for their importunity. The matrons, meantime,
offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and again reiterated the
expression of their concern that their warning had not been taken in time; and
the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged their services on the
agitated fair ones.

In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged in
the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I turned, and saw Sam.

“If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is another young single
lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she will not go
till she has seen all. I thought it must be you: there is no one else for it.
What shall I tell her?”

“Oh, I will go by all means,” I answered: and I was glad of the unexpected
opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped out of the room,
unobserved by any eye—for the company were gathered in one mass about the
trembling trio just returned—and I closed the door quietly behind me.

“If you like, miss,” said Sam, “I’ll wait in the hall for you; and if she
frightens you, just call and I’ll come in.”

“No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid.” Nor was I; but
I was a good deal interested and excited.