JANE EYRE
PART 12
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-bye, 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 prendrie 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: naive, 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.
To be
continued
