JANE EYRE
PART 9
CHAPTER XII
The
promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to Thornfield Hall
seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintance with the place and
its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, a
placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent education and average
intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt and
indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was committed
entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever
thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and
became obedient and teachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits
of character, no peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised her one
inch above the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had she any deficiency
or vice which sunk her below it. She made reasonable progress,
entertained for me a vivacious, though perhaps not very profound, affection;
and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in
return, with a degree of attachment sufficient to make us both content in each
other’s society.
This, par
parenthèse, will be thought cool language by persons who entertain solemn
doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and the duty of those charged
with their education to conceive for them an idolatrous devotion: but I am not
writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am
merely telling the truth. I felt a conscientious solicitude for Adèle’s
welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her little self: just as I
cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure
in her society proportionate to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the
moderation of her mind and character.
Anybody
may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, when I took a
walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the gates and looked through
them along the road; or when, while Adèle played with her nurse, and Mrs.
Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, I climbed the three staircases, raised
the trap-door of the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out afar over
sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line—that then I longed for a
power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy
world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen—that then I
desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with
my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my
reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in
Adèle; but I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of
goodness, and what I believed in I wished to behold.
Who blames
me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I could not
help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain
sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the
third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the
spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before
it—and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the
exultant movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with
life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a
tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of
incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual
existence.
It is in
vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must
have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are
condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt
against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political
rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are
supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need
exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their
brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation,
precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged
fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making
puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering
bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek
to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
When thus
alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s laugh: the same peal, the same
low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard, too, her
eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There were days when she was
quite silent; but there were others when I could not account for the sounds she
made. Sometimes I saw her: she would come out of her room with a basin,
or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go down to the kitchen and shortly return,
generally (oh, romantic reader, forgive me for telling the plain truth!)
bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance always acted as a damper to the
curiosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no
point to which interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her
into conversation, but she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply
usually cut short every effort of that sort.
The other
members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the housemaid, and
Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no respect remarkable; with
Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked her questions about her
native country; but she was not of a descriptive or narrative turn, and
generally gave such vapid and confused answers as were calculated rather to
check than encourage inquiry.
October,
November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax
had begged a holiday for Adèle, because she had a cold; and, as Adèle seconded
the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidays
had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it, deeming that I did well in
showing pliability on the point. It was a fine, calm day, though very
cold; I was tired of sitting still in the library through a whole long morning:
Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put
on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two
miles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adèle
comfortably seated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour fireside, and
given her her best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in
a drawer) to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and having
replied to her “Revenez bientôt, ma bonne amie, ma chère Mdlle. Jeannette,”
with a kiss I set out.
The ground
was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast till I got warm,
and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding
for me in the hour and situation. It was three o’clock; the church bell
tolled as I passed under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay in its
approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a
mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and
blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips
and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless
repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was
not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel
bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of
the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no
cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in
the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.
This lane
inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the middle, I sat down on a
stile which led thence into a field. Gathering my mantle about me, and
sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold, though it froze
keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the causeway, where a little
brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days
since. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the grey and
battlemented hall was the principal object in the vale below me; its woods and
dark rookery rose against the west. I lingered till the sun went down
amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear behind them. I then turned
eastward.
On the
hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening
momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue
smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile distant, but in the absolute
hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, felt the
flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could not tell: but there were
many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes.
That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough
of the most remote.
A rude
noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away and so
clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which effaced the soft
wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles
of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, efface the aërial
distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds where tint melts into
tint.
The din
was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the lane yet hid it,
but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet, as the path was
narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, and all
sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery
stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing
youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could
give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through
the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie’s tales, wherein figured a
North-of-England spirit called a “Gytrash,” which, in the form of horse, mule,
or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upon belated
travellers, as this horse was now coming upon me.
It was
very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp, I heard
a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog,
whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the
trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie’s Gytrash—a lion-like creature
with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however, quietly enough; not
staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half
expected it would. The horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a
rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing
ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to my notions, though
they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in
the commonplace human form. No Gytrash was this,—only a traveller taking
the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I
turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of “What the deuce is to do now?”
and a clattering tumble, arrested my attention. Man and horse were down;
they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog
came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the
horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in
proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and
then he ran up to me; it was all he could do,—there was no other help at hand
to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by this time
struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I
thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question—
“Are you
injured, sir?”
I think he
was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing some formula
which prevented him from replying to me directly.
“Can I do
anything?” I asked again.
“You must
just stand on one side,” he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then
to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving, stamping, clattering
process, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually some
yards’ distance; but I would not be driven quite away till I saw the
event. This was finally fortunate; the horse was re-established, and the
dog was silenced with a “Down, Pilot!” The traveller now, stooping, felt
his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something
ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen, and sat down.
I was in
the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now drew near
him again.
“If you
are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either from Thornfield Hall
or from Hay.”
“Thank
you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,—only a sprain;” and again he stood up
and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”
Something
of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could see him
plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared and
steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points
of middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face,
with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked
ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached
middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and
but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young
gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his
will, and offering my services unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome
youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and
homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those
qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that
they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have
shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but
antipathetic.
If even
this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I addressed him; if
he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should have gone
on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries: but the frown, the
roughness of the traveller, set me at my ease: I retained my station when he
waved to me to go, and announced—
“I cannot
think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I
see you are fit to mount your horse.”
He looked
at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before.
“I should
think you ought to be at home yourself,” said he, “if you have a home in this
neighbourhood: where do you come from?”
“From just
below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight: I
will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it: indeed, I am going
there to post a letter.”
“You live
just below—do you mean at that house with the battlements?” pointing to
Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct
and pale from the woods that, by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one
mass of shadow.
“Yes,
sir.”
“Whose
house is it?”
“Mr.
Rochester’s.”
“Do you
know Mr. Rochester?”
“No, I
have never seen him.”
“He is not
resident, then?”
“No.”
“Can you
tell me where he is?”
“I
cannot.”
“You are
not a servant at the hall, of course. You are—” He stopped, ran his
eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, a
black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady’s-maid.
He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.
“I am the
governess.”
“Ah, the
governess!” he repeated; “deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The
governess!” and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he
rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he tried to move.
“I cannot
commission you to fetch help,” he said; “but you may help me a little yourself,
if you will be so kind.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You have
not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?”
“No.”
“Try to
get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me: you are not afraid?”
I should
have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it, I was
disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and went up to the
tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and
would not let me come near its head; I made effort on effort, though in vain:
meantime, I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore-feet. The traveller
waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed.
“I see,”
he said, “the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all you can do is
to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to come here.”
I came.
“Excuse me,” he continued: “necessity compels me to make you useful.” He
laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with some stress, limped to
his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly and
sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched
his sprain.
“Now,”
said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, “just hand me my whip; it
lies there under the hedge.”
I sought
it and found it.
“Thank
you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast as you can.”
A touch of
a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the
dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished,
“Like
heath that, in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away.”
The wild wind whirls away.”
I took up
my muff and walked on. The incident had occurred and was gone for me: it was
an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a sense; yet it marked
with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My help had been needed
and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to have done something; trivial,
transitory though the deed was, it was yet an active thing, and I was weary of
an existence all passive. The new face, too, was like a new picture
introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the others
hanging there: firstly, because it was masculine; and, secondly, because it was
dark, strong, and stern. I had it still before me when I entered Hay, and
slipped the letter into the post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill
all the way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked
round and listened, with an idea that a horse’s hoofs might ring on the
causeway again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland
dog, might be again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before
me, rising up still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the
faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile
distant; and when I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye,
traversing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded me
that I was late, and I hurried on.
I did not
like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return to
stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome staircase, to seek
my own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and spend
the long winter evening with her, and her only, was to quell wholly the faint
excitement wakened by my walk,—to slip again over my faculties the viewless
fetters of an uniform and too still existence; of an existence whose very
privileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciating.
What good it would have done me at that time to have been tossed in the storms
of an uncertain struggling life, and to have been taught by rough and bitter
experience to long for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as
much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a “too easy chair” to
take a long walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my
circumstances, as it would be under his.
I lingered
at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and forwards on the
pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I could not see into the
interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house—from
the grey-hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to me—to that sky
expanded before me,—a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud; the moon ascending
it in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from
behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the
zenith, midnight dark in its fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for
those trembling stars that followed her course; they made my heart tremble, my
veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth; the
clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a
side-door, and went in.
The hall
was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze lamp; a warm
glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This
ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood
open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and
brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture, in the
most pleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I
had scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of
voices, amongst which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adèle, when the door
closed.
I hastened
to Mrs. Fairfax’s room; there was a fire there too, but no candle, and no Mrs.
Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with
gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog, just
like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and
said—“Pilot” and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I
caressed him, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to
be alone with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell,
for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this
visitant. Leah entered.
“What dog
is this?”
“He came
with master.”
“With
whom?”
“With
master—Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.”
“Indeed!
and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?”
“Yes, and
Miss Adèle; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone for a surgeon; for
master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.”
“Did the
horse fall in Hay Lane?”
“Yes,
coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice.”
“Ah!
Bring me a candle will you Leah?”
Leah
brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated the news;
adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with Mr. Rochester:
then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off
my things.
CHAPTER XIII
Mr.
Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon’s orders, went to bed early that night; nor
did he rise soon next morning. When he did come down, it was to attend to
business: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting to speak
with him.
Adèle and
I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily requisition as a
reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an apartment upstairs, and
there I carried our books, and arranged it for the future schoolroom. I
discerned in the course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed place:
no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour or two to a knock at the
door, or a clang of the bell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new
voices spoke in different keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing
through it; it had a master: for my part, I liked it better.
Adèle was
not easy to teach that day; she could not apply: she kept running to the door
and looking over the banisters to see if she could get a glimpse of Mr.
Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as I shrewdly
suspected, to visit the library, where I knew she was not wanted; then, when I
got a little angry, and made her sit still, she continued to talk incessantly
of her “ami, Monsieur Edouard Fairfax de Rochester,” as she dubbed him
(I had not before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what presents he had
brought her: for it appears he had intimated the night before, that when his
luggage came from Millcote, there would be found amongst it a little box in
whose contents she had an interest.
“Et cela
doit signifier,” said she, “qu’il y aura là dedans un cadeau pour moi, et
peut-être pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a parlé de vous: il m’a
demandé le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n’était pas une petite personne,
assez mince et un peu pâle. J’ai dit qu’oui: car c’est vrai, n’est-ce
pas, mademoiselle?”
I and my
pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour; the afternoon was wild and
snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adèle to put
away books and work, and to run downstairs; for, from the comparative silence
below, and from the cessation of appeals to the door-bell, I conjectured that
Mr. Rochester was now at liberty. Left alone, I walked to the window; but
nothing was to be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together thickened the
air, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down the curtain and went
back to the fireside.
In the
clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I remembered to have
seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine, when Mrs. Fairfax came in,
breaking up by her entrance the fiery mosaic I had been piercing together, and
scattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts that were beginning to throng on
my solitude.
“Mr.
Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with him in the
drawing-room this evening,” said she: “he has been so much engaged all day that
he could not ask to see you before.”
“When is
his tea-time?” I inquired.
“Oh, at
six o’clock: he keeps early hours in the country. You had better change
your frock now; I will go with you and fasten it. Here is a candle.”
“Is it
necessary to change my frock?”
“Yes, you
had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester is here.”
This
additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired to my room,
and, with Mrs. Fairfax’s aid, replaced my black stuff dress by one of black
silk; the best and the only additional one I had, except one of light grey,
which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought too fine to be worn,
except on first-rate occasions.
“You want
a brooch,” said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl ornament which
Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put it on, and then we went
downstairs. Unused as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to appear
thus formally summoned in Mr. Rochester’s presence. I let Mrs. Fairfax
precede me into the dining-room, and kept in her shade as we crossed that
apartment; and, passing the arch, whose curtain was now dropped, entered the
elegant recess beyond.
Two wax
candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece; basking in the
light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot—Adèle knelt near him. Half
reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the cushion;
he was looking at Adèle and the dog: the fire shone full on his face. I
knew my traveller with his broad and jetty eyebrows; his square forehead, made
squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his
decisive nose, more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils,
denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw—yes, all three were
very grim, and no mistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived
harmonised in squareness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure
in the athletic sense of the term—broad chested and thin flanked, though
neither tall nor graceful.
Mr.
Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and myself; but
it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us, for he never lifted his head
as we approached.
“Here is
Miss Eyre, sir,” said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He bowed, still not
taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child.
“Let Miss
Eyre be seated,” said he: and there was something in the forced stiff bow, in
the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to express, “What the deuce
is it to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not? At this moment I am not
disposed to accost her.”
I sat down
quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished politeness would probably
have confused me: I could not have returned or repaid it by answering grace and
elegance on my part; but harsh caprice laid me under no obligation; on the
contrary, a decent quiescence, under the freak of manner, gave me the advantage.
Besides, the eccentricity of the proceeding was piquant: I felt interested to
see how he would go on.
He went on
as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Fairfax
seemed to think it necessary that some one should be amiable, and she began to
talk. Kindly, as usual—and, as usual, rather trite—she condoled with him
on the pressure of business he had had all day; on the annoyance it must have
been to him with that painful sprain: then she commended his patience and
perseverance in going through with it.
“Madam, I
should like some tea,” was the sole rejoinder she got. She hastened to
ring the bell; and when the tray came, she proceeded to arrange the cups,
spoons, &c., with assiduous celerity. I and Adèle went to the table;
but the master did not leave his couch.
“Will you
hand Mr. Rochester’s cup?” said Mrs. Fairfax to me; “Adèle might perhaps spill
it.”
I did as
requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adèle, thinking the moment
propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out—
“N’est-ce
pas, monsieur, qu’il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votre petit
coffre?”
“Who talks
of cadeaux?” said he gruffly. “Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre?
Are you fond of presents?” and he searched my face with eyes that I saw were
dark, irate, and piercing.
“I hardly
know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generally thought
pleasant things.”
“Generally
thought? But what do you think?”
“I should
be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answer worthy of your
acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not? and one should consider
all, before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.”
“Miss
Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adèle: she demands a ‘cadeau,’
clamorously, the moment she sees me: you beat about the bush.”
“Because I
have less confidence in my deserts than Adèle has: she can prefer the claim of
old acquaintance, and the right too of custom; for she says you have always
been in the habit of giving her playthings; but if I had to make out a case I
should be puzzled, since I am a stranger, and have done nothing to entitle me
to an acknowledgment.”
“Oh, don’t
fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Adèle, and find you have taken
great pains with her: she is not bright, she has no talents; yet in a short
time she has made much improvement.”
“Sir, you
have now given me my ‘cadeau;’ I am obliged to you: it is the meed teachers
most covet—praise of their pupils’ progress.”
“Humph!”
said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.
“Come to
the fire,” said the master, when the tray was taken away, and Mrs. Fairfax had
settled into a corner with her knitting; while Adèle was leading me by the hand
round the room, showing me the beautiful books and ornaments on the consoles
and chiffonnières. We obeyed, as in duty bound; Adèle wanted to take a
seat on my knee, but she was ordered to amuse herself with Pilot.
“You have
been resident in my house three months?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“And you
came from—?”
“From
Lowood school, in ---shire.”
“Ah! a
charitable concern. How long were you there?”
“Eight
years.”
“Eight
years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time in such a
place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the
look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of
face. When you came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccountably
of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my
horse: I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?”
“I have
none.”
“Nor ever
had, I suppose: do you remember them?”
“No.”
“I thought
not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that stile?”
“For whom,
sir?”
“For the
men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them. Did I break
through one of your rings, that you spread that damned ice on the causeway?”
I shook my
head. “The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago,” said I,
speaking as seriously as he had done. “And not even in Hay Lane, or the
fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I don’t think either
summer or harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more.”
Mrs.
Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows, seemed wondering
what sort of talk this was.
“Well,”
resumed Mr. Rochester, “if you disown parents, you must have some sort of
kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?”
“No; none
that I ever saw.”
“And your
home?”
“I have
none.”
“Where do
your brothers and sisters live?”
“I have no
brothers or sisters.”
“Who
recommended you to come here?”
“I
advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement.”
“Yes,”
said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon, “and I am daily
thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an
invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adèle.”
“Don’t
trouble yourself to give her a character,” returned Mr. Rochester: “eulogiums
will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my
horse.”
“Sir?”
said Mrs. Fairfax.
“I have to
thank her for this sprain.”
The widow
looked bewildered.
“Miss
Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you
seen much society?”
“None but
the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now the inmates of Thornfield.”
“Have you
read much?”
“Only such
books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous or very learned.”
“You have
lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in religious
forms;—Brocklehurst, who I understand directs Lowood, is a parson, is he not?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“And you
girls probably worshipped him, as a convent full of religieuses would worship
their director.”
“Oh, no.”
“You are
very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest! That
sounds blasphemous.”
“I
disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling. He is a
harsh man; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our hair; and for economy’s
sake bought us bad needles and thread, with which we could hardly sew.”
“That was
very false economy,” remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again caught the drift of
the dialogue.
“And was
that the head and front of his offending?” demanded Mr. Rochester.
“He
starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision department,
before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with long lectures once a
week, and with evening readings from books of his own inditing, about sudden
deaths and judgments, which made us afraid to go to bed.”
“What age
were you when you went to Lowood?”
“About
ten.”
“And you
stayed there eight years: you are now, then, eighteen?”
I
assented.
“Arithmetic,
you see, is useful; without its aid, I should hardly have been able to guess
your age. It is a point difficult to fix where the features and
countenance are so much at variance as in your case. And now what did you
learn at Lowood? Can you play?”
“A
little.”
“Of
course: that is the established answer. Go into the library—I mean, if
you please.—(Excuse my tone of command; I am used to say, ‘Do this,’ and it is
done: I cannot alter my customary habits for one new inmate.)—Go, then, into
the library; take a candle with you; leave the door open; sit down to the piano,
and play a tune.”
I
departed, obeying his directions.
“Enough!”
he called out in a few minutes. “You play a little, I see; like
any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than some, but not well.”
I closed
the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued—“Adèle showed me some
sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don’t know whether
they were entirely of your doing; probably a master aided you?”
“No,
indeed!” I interjected.
“Ah! that
pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch for its
contents being original; but don’t pass your word unless you are certain: I can
recognise patchwork.”
“Then I
will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir.”
I brought
the portfolio from the library.
“Approach
the table,” said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adèle and Mrs.
Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.
“No
crowding,” said Mr. Rochester: “take the drawings from my hand as I finish with
them; but don’t push your faces up to mine.”
He
deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside;
the others, when he had examined them, he swept from him.
“Take them
off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,” said he, “and look at them with
Adèle;—you” (glancing at me) “resume your seat, and answer my questions. I
perceive those pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?”
“Yes.”
“And when
did you find time to do them? They have taken much time, and some
thought.”
“I did
them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no other
occupation.”
“Where did
you get your copies?”
“Out of my
head.”
“That head
I see now on your shoulders?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Has it
other furniture of the same kind within?”
“I should
think it may have: I should hope—better.”
He spread
the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.
While he
is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are: and first, I must
premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects had, indeed, risen
vividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual eye, before I
attempted to embody them, they were striking; but my hand would not second my
fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I
had conceived.
These
pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds low and
livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse; so, too,
was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there was no
land. One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on
which sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak
held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints
as my palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could
impart. Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced through
the green water; a fair arm was the only limb clearly visible, whence the
bracelet had been washed or torn.
The second
picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill, with grass and
some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an
expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky was a woman’s
shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could
combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a star; the lineaments below
were seen as through the suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the
hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric
travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight; the same faint
lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision
of the Evening Star.
The third
showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky: a muster of
northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along the
horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,—a
colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it. Two
thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the
lower features a sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye
hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone
were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of black
drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of
white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale
crescent was “the likeness of a kingly crown;” what it diademed was “the shape
which shape had none.”
“Were you
happy when you painted these pictures?” asked Mr. Rochester presently.
“I was
absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to
enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”
“That is
not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few; but
I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist’s dreamland while you blent and
arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?”
“I had
nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at them from morning
till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the midsummer days favoured
my inclination to apply.”
“And you
felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?”
“Far from
it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork: in
each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.”
“Not
quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more,
probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it
full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the
thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have
seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at
all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what meaning
is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint wind?
There is a high gale in that sky, and on this hill-top. Where did you see
Latmos? For that is Latmos. There! put the drawings away!”
I had
scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his watch, he said
abruptly—
“It is
nine o’clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adèle sit up so long?
Take her to bed.”
Adèle went
to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the caress, but scarcely
seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor so much.
“I wish
you all good-night, now,” said he, making a movement of the hand towards the
door, in token that he was tired of our company, and wished to dismiss
us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: we
curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew.
“You said
Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax,” I observed, when I
rejoined her in her room, after putting Adèle to bed.
“Well, is
he?”
“I think
so: he is very changeful and abrupt.”
“True: no
doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed to his manner, I
never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowance
should be made.”
“Why?”
“Partly
because it is his nature—and we can none of us help our nature; and partly
because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits
unequal.”
“What
about?”
“Family
troubles, for one thing.”
“But he
has no family.”
“Not now,
but he has had—or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder brother a few
years since.”
“His elder
brother?”
“Yes.
The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of the property;
only about nine years.”
“Nine
years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to be
still inconsolable for his loss?”
“Why,
no—perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between
them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr. Edward; and perhaps
he prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of
money, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to
diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward
should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon
after he was of age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a
great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined to
bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position, for the sake of
making his fortune: what the precise nature of that position was I never
clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it.
He is not very forgiving: he broke with his family, and now for many years he
has led an unsettled kind of life. I don’t think he has ever been
resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together, since the death of his brother
without a will left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder he shuns
the old place.”
“Why
should he shun it?”
“Perhaps
he thinks it gloomy.”
The answer
was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but Mrs. Fairfax
either could not, or would not, give me more explicit information of the origin
and nature of Mr. Rochester’s trials. She averred they were a mystery to
herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture. It was
evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop the subject, which I did
accordingly.
To be continued
