CHAPTER XVI

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this
sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye.
During the early part of the morning, I momentarily expected his coming; he was
not in the frequent habit of entering the schoolroom, but he did step in for a
few minutes sometimes, and I had the impression that he was sure to visit it
that day.

But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened to interrupt the quiet
course of Adèle’s studies; only soon after breakfast, I heard some bustle in
the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester’s chamber, Mrs. Fairfax’s voice, and Leah’s,
and the cook’s—that is, John’s wife—and even John’s own gruff tones. There were
exclamations of “What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!” “It is always
dangerous to keep a candle lit at night.” “How providential that he had
presence of mind to think of the water-jug!” “I wonder he waked nobody!” “It is
to be hoped he will not take cold with sleeping on the library sofa,” &c.

To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to rights; and
when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I saw through the open
door that all was again restored to complete order; only the bed was stripped
of its hangings. Leah stood up in the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glass
dimmed with smoke. I was about to address her, for I wished to know what
account had been given of the affair: but, on advancing, I saw a second person
in the chamber—a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, and sewing rings to
new curtains. That woman was no other than Grace Poole.

There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown stuff gown,
her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap. She was intent on her work, in
which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard forehead, and in her
commonplace features, was nothing either of the paleness or desperation one
would have expected to see marking the countenance of a woman who had attempted
murder, and whose intended victim had followed her last night to her lair, and
(as I believed), charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate. I was
amazed—confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her: no start, no
increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt, or fear
of detection. She said “Good morning, Miss,” in her usual phlegmatic and brief
manner; and taking up another ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.

“I will put her to some test,” thought I: “such absolute impenetrability is
past comprehension.”

“Good morning, Grace,” I said. “Has anything happened here? I thought I heard
the servants all talking together a while ago.”

“Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep with his
candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he awoke before the
bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to quench the flames with
the water in the ewer.”

“A strange affair!” I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her fixedly—“Did
Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move?”

She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something of
consciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine me warily; then she
answered—

“The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be likely to
hear. Mrs. Fairfax’s room and yours are the nearest to master’s; but Mrs.
Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people get elderly, they often sleep
heavy.” She paused, and then added, with a sort of assumed indifference, but
still in a marked and significant tone—“But you are young, Miss; and I should
say a light sleeper: perhaps you may have heard a noise?”

“I did,” said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still polishing the
panes, could not hear me, “and at first I thought it was Pilot: but Pilot
cannot laugh; and I am certain I heard a laugh, and a strange one.”

She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her needle
with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure—

“It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he was in
such danger: You must have been dreaming.”

“I was not dreaming,” I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolness
provoked me. Again she looked at me; and with the same scrutinising and
conscious eye.

“Have you told master that you heard a laugh?” she inquired.

“I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning.”

“You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?” she
further asked.

She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me information
unawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew or suspected her
guilt, she would be playing of some of her malignant pranks on me; I thought it
advisable to be on my guard.

“On the contrary,” said I, “I bolted my door.”

“Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before you get
into bed?”

“Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans accordingly!”
Indignation again prevailed over prudence: I replied sharply, “Hitherto I have
often omitted to fasten the bolt: I did not think it necessary. I was not aware
any danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall: but in future”
(and I laid marked stress on the words) “I shall take good care to make all
secure before I venture to lie down.”

“It will be wise so to do,” was her answer: “this neighbourhood is as quiet as
any I know, and I never heard of the hall being attempted by robbers since it
was a house; though there are hundreds of pounds’ worth of plate in the
plate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for such a large house, there are
very few servants, because master has never lived here much; and when he does
come, being a bachelor, he needs little waiting on: but I always think it best
to err on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it is as well to have a
drawn bolt between one and any mischief that may be about. A deal of people,
Miss, are for trusting all to Providence; but I say Providence will not
dispense with the means, though He often blesses them when they are used
discreetly.” And here she closed her harangue: a long one for her, and uttered
with the demureness of a Quakeress.

I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her miraculous
self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the cook entered.

“Mrs. Poole,” said she, addressing Grace, “the servants’ dinner will soon be
ready: will you come down?”

“No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and I’ll carry it
upstairs.”

“You’ll have some meat?”

“Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that’s all.”

“And the sago?”

“Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime: I’ll make it
myself.”

The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me: so I
departed.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax’s account of the curtain conflagration during
dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical
character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her
position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into custody
that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master’s service. He
had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night:
what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me,
too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold, vindictive, and haughty gentleman
seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependents; so much in
her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not
openly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think that
tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf;
but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could not be admitted.
“Yet,” I reflected, “she has been young once; her youth would be contemporary
with her master’s: Mrs. Fairfax told me once, she had lived here many years. I
don’t think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may
possess originality and strength of character to compensate for the want of
personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric:
Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to
a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and
she now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own
indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?” But, having
reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole’s square, flat figure, and
uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind’s eye, that
I thought, “No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,” suggested
the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, “you are not
beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any rate, you have
often felt as if he did; and last night—remember his words; remember his look;
remember his voice!”
you
I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment vividly
renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Adèle was drawing; I bent over her and
directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.

“Qu’avez-vous, mademoiselle?” said she. “Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille,
et vos joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme des cerises!”

“I am hot, Adèle, with stooping!” She went on sketching; I went on thinking.

I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been conceiving
respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared myself with her, and found
we were different. Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady; and she spoke
truth—I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me;
I had more colour and more flesh, more life, more vivacity, because I had
brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.

“Evening approaches,” said I, as I looked towards the window. “I have never
heard Mr. Rochester’s voice or step in the house to-day; but surely I shall see
him before night: I feared the meeting in the morning; now I desire it, because
expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impatient.”

When dusk actually closed, and when Adèle left me to go and play in the nursery
with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for the bell to ring
below; I listened for Leah coming up with a message; I fancied sometimes I
heard Mr. Rochester’s own tread, and I turned to the door, expecting it to open
and admit him. The door remained shut; darkness only came in through the
window. Still it was not late; he often sent for me at seven and eight o’clock,
and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be wholly disappointed to-night,
when I had so many things to say to him! I wanted again to introduce the
subject of Grace Poole, and to hear what he would answer; I wanted to ask him
plainly if he really believed it was she who had made last night’s hideous
attempt; and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It little mattered
whether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing
him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and a sure instinct always
prevented me from going too far; beyond the verge of provocation I never
ventured; on the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill. Retaining every
minute form of respect, every propriety of my station, I could still meet him
in argument without fear or uneasy restraint; this suited both him and me.

A tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her appearance; but it was
only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax’s room. Thither I repaired,
glad at least to go downstairs; for that brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr.
Rochester’s presence.

“You must want your tea,” said the good lady, as I joined her; “you ate so
little at dinner. I am afraid,” she continued, “you are not well to-day: you
look flushed and feverish.”

“Oh, quite well! I never felt better.”

“Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill the teapot
while I knit off this needle?” Having completed her task, she rose to draw down
the blind, which she had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of making the
most of daylight, though dusk was now fast deepening into total obscurity.

“It is fair to-night,” said she, as she looked through the panes, “though not
starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day for his
journey.”

“Journey!—Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he was out.”

“Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas, Mr.
Eshton’s place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe there is quite
a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and
others.”

“Do you expect him back to-night?”

“No—nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay a week or
more: when these fine, fashionable people get together, they are so surrounded
by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with all that can please and
entertain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gentlemen especially are often in
request on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is so talented and so lively in
society, that I believe he is a general favourite: the ladies are very fond of
him; though you would not think his appearance calculated to recommend him
particularly in their eyes: but I suppose his acquirements and abilities,
perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any little fault of look.”

“Are there ladies at the Leas?”

“There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters—very elegant young ladies
indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram, most beautiful
women, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven years since, when
she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr.
Rochester gave. You should have seen the dining-room that day—how richly it was
decorated, how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies and
gentlemen present—all of the first county families; and Miss Ingram was
considered the belle of the evening.”

“You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?”

“Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown open; and, as it was
Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to hear some
of the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to come in, and I sat
down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene: the
ladies were magnificently dressed; most of them—at least most of the younger
ones—looked handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen.”

“And what was she like?”

“Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive complexion,
dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr. Rochester’s: large and
black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then she had such a fine head of
hair; raven-black and so becomingly arranged: a crown of thick plaits behind,
and in front the longest, the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in
pure white; an amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her
breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below her knee.
She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair: it contrasted well with
the jetty mass of her curls.”

“She was greatly admired, of course?”

“Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She was
one of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She and
Mr. Rochester sang a duet.”

“Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing.”

“Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music.”

“And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?”

“A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it was a treat to listen
to her;—and she played afterwards. I am no judge of music, but Mr. Rochester
is; and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good.”

“And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?”

“It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large fortunes.
Old Lord Ingram’s estates were chiefly entailed, and the eldest son came in for
everything almost.”

“But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to her: Mr.
Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not?”

“Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age: Mr. Rochester
is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five.”

“What of that? More unequal matches are made every day.”

“True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an idea of the
sort. But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted since you began tea.”

“No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another cup?”

I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between Mr. Rochester
and the beautiful Blanche; but Adèle came in, and the conversation was turned
into another channel.

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my
heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a
strict hand such as had been straying through imagination’s boundless and
trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes,
sentiments I had been cherishing since last night—of the general state of mind
in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward
and told, in her own quiet way, a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had
rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the ideal;—I pronounced judgment to
this effect:—

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that
a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed
poison as if it were nectar.

“You,” I said, “a favourite with Mr. Rochester? You gifted with
the power of pleasing him? You of importance to him in any way? Go! your
folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of
preference—equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the
world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe!—Could not
even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the
brief scene of last night?—Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in
praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on
your own accursed senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by
her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all
women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and
unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded
to, must lead, ignis-fatuus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no
extrication.
YouYouYouignis-fatuus
“Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass before
you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without softening one
defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write
under it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.’

“Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory—you have one prepared in your
drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints;
choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest
face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines,
according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember
the raven ringlets, the oriental eye;—What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a
model! Order! No snivel!—no sentiment!—no regret! I will endure only sense and
resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and
bust; let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit
neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,
aërial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it
‘Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.’

“Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of
you, take out these two pictures and compare them: say, ‘Mr. Rochester might
probably win that noble lady’s love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely
he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?’”

“I’ll do it,” I resolved: and having framed this determination, I grew calm,
and fell asleep.

I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in crayons;
and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory miniature of an imaginary
Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face enough, and when compared with the real
head in chalk, the contrast was as great as self-control could desire. I
derived benefit from the task: it had kept my head and hands employed, and had
given force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on
my heart.

Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome
discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit. Thanks to it, I
was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm, which, had they
found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to maintain, even
externally.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.