A new chapter in
a novel is something like a new
scene in a play; and when I draw
up the curtain this time, reader,
you must fancy you
see a room in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured
papering on the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such
furniture, such ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including
a portrait of George the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales,
and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible to
you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by
that of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet;
my muff and umbrella lie on the table, and I am warming away the
numbness and chill contracted by sixteen hours' exposure to the
rawness of an October day: I left Lowton at four o'clock a.m., and
the Millcote town clock is now just striking eight.
Reader,
though I look
comfortably
accommodated, I am not very tranquil
in my mind. I thought when the
coach stopped here there would
be some one to meet me; I looked
anxiously round as I descended
the wooden steps the "boots" placed
for my convenience, expecting
to hear my name pronounced, and
to see some description of carriage
waiting to convey me to Thornfield.
Nothing of the sort was visible;
and when I asked a waiter if
any one had been to inquire after
a Miss Eyre, I was answered in
the negative: so I had no resource
but to request to be shown into
a private room: and here I am
waiting, while all sorts of doubts
and fears are troubling my thoughts.
It is a very strange sensation
to inexperienced youth to feel
itself quite alone in the world,
cut adrift from every connection,
uncertain whether the port to
which it is bound can be reached,
and prevented by many impediments
from returning to that it has
quitted. The charm of adventure
sweetens that sensation, the
glow of pride warms it; but then
the throb of fear disturbs it;
and fear with me became predominant
when half-an-hour elapsed and
still I was alone. I bethought
myself to ring the bell.
"Is there a place in this neighbourhood
called Thornfield?" I asked of
the waiter who answered the summons.
"Thornfield? I don't know,
ma'am; I'll inquire at the bar." He
vanished, but reappeared instantly
-
"Is
your name Eyre,
Miss?"
"Yes."
"Person
here waiting
for you."
I jumped up, took my muff and
umbrella, and hastened into the
inn- passage: a man was standing
by the open door, and in the
lamp-lit street I dimly saw a
one-horse conveyance.
"This will be your luggage,
I suppose?" said the man rather
abruptly when he saw me, pointing
to my trunk in the passage.
"Yes." He
hoisted it
on to the vehicle,
which was a
sort
of car, and then I got in; before
he shut me up, I asked him how
far it was to Thornfield.
"A
matter of six
miles."
"How
long shall
we be before
we get there?"
"Happen
an hour and
a half."
He fastened the car door, climbed
to his own seat outside, and
we set off. Our progress was
leisurely, and gave me ample
time to reflect; I was content
to be at length so near the end
of my journey; and as I leaned
back in the comfortable though
not elegant conveyance, I meditated
much at my ease.
"I suppose," thought I, "judging
from the plainness of the servant
and carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is
not a very dashing person: so
much the better; I never lived
amongst fine people but once,
and I was very miserable with
them. I wonder if she lives alone
except this little girl; if so,
and if she is in any degree amiable,
I shall surely be able to get
on with her; I will do my best;
it is a pity that doing one's
best does not always answer.
At Lowood, indeed, I took that
resolution, kept it, and succeeded
in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed,
I remember my best was always
spurned with scorn. I pray God
Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out
a second Mrs. Reed; but if she
does, I am not bound to stay
with her! let the worst come
to the worst, I can advertise
again. How far are we on our
road now, I wonder?"
I let down the window and looked
out; Millcote was behind us;
judging by the number of its
lights, it seemed a place of
considerable magnitude, much
larger than Lowton. We were now,
as far as I could see, on a sort
of common; but there were houses
scattered all over the district;
I felt we were in a different
region to Lowood, more populous,
less picturesque; more stirring,
less romantic.
The roads were heavy, the night
misty; my conductor let his horse
walk all the way, and the hour
and a half extended, I verify
believe, to two hours; at last
he turned in his seat and said
-
"You're
noan so far
fro' Thornfield
now."
Again I looked out: we were
passing a church; I saw its low
broad tower against the sky,
and its bell was tolling a quarter;
I saw a narrow galaxy of lights
too, on a hillside, marking a
village or hamlet. About ten
minutes after, the driver got
down and opened a pair of gates:
we passed through, and they clashed
to behind us. We now slowly ascended
a drive, and came upon the long
front of a house: candlelight
gleamed from one curtained bow-window;
all the rest were dark. The car
stopped at the front door; it
was opened by a maid-servant;
I alighted and went in.
"Will you walk this way, ma'am?" said
the girl; and I followed her
across a square hall with high
doors all round: she ushered
me into a room whose double illumination
of fire and candle at first dazzled
me, contrasting as it did with
the darkness to which my eyes
had been for two hours inured;
when I could see, however, a
cosy and agreeable picture presented
itself to my view.
A snug small room; a round
table by a cheerful fire; an
arm-chair high-backed and old-fashioned,
wherein sat the neatest imaginable
little elderly lady, in widow's
cap, black silk gown, and snowy
muslin apron; exactly like what
I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only
less stately and milder looking.
She was occupied in knitting;
a large cat sat demurely at her
feet; nothing in short was wanting
to complete the beau-ideal of
domestic comfort. A more reassuring
introduction for a new governess
could scarcely be conceived;
there was no grandeur to overwhelm,
no stateliness to embarrass;
and then, as I entered, the old
lady got up and promptly and
kindly came forward to meet me.
"How
do you do,
my dear? I
am afraid you
have had a
tedious
ride; John drives so slowly;
you must be cold, come to the
fire."
"Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?" said
I.
"Yes,
you are right:
do sit down."
She conducted me to her own
chair, and then began to remove
my shawl and untie my bonnet-strings;
I begged she would not give herself
so much trouble.
"Oh,
it is no trouble;
I dare say
your own hands
are almost
numbed with cold. Leah, make
a little hot negus and cut a
sandwich or two: here are the
keys of the storeroom."
And she produced from her pocket
a most housewifely bunch of keys,
and delivered them to the servant.
"Now, then, draw nearer to
the fire," she continued. "You've
brought your luggage with you,
haven't you, my dear?"
"Yes,
ma'am."
"I'll see it carried into your
room," she said, and bustled
out.
"She treats me like a visitor," thought
I. "I little expected such a
reception; I anticipated only
coldness and stiffness: this
is not like what I have heard
of the treatment of governesses;
but I must not exult too soon."
She returned; with her own
hands cleared her knitting apparatus
and a book or two from the table,
to make room for the tray which
Leah now brought, and then herself
handed me the refreshments. I
felt rather confused at being
the object of more attention
than I had ever before received,
and, that too, shown by my employer
and superior; but as she did
not herself seem to consider
she was doing anything out of
her place, I thought it better
to take her civilities quietly.
"Shall I have the pleasure
of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?" I
asked, when I had partaken of
what she offered me.
"What did you say, my dear?
I am a little deaf," returned
the good lady, approaching her
ear to my mouth.
I repeated the question more
distinctly.
"Miss
Fairfax? Oh,
you mean Miss
Varens! Varens
is the name
of your future pupil."
"Indeed!
Then she is
not your daughter?"
"No,--I
have no family."
I should have followed up my
first inquiry, by asking in what
way Miss Varens was connected
with her; but I recollected it
was not polite to ask too many
questions: besides, I was sure
to hear in time.
"I am so glad," she continued,
as she sat down opposite to me,
and took the cat on her knee; "I
am so glad you are come; it will
be quite pleasant living here
now with a companion. To be sure
it is pleasant at any time; for
Thornfield is a fine old hall,
rather neglected of late years
perhaps, but still it is a respectable
place; yet you know in winter-time
one feels dreary quite alone
in the best quarters. I say alone--Leah
is a nice girl to be sure, and
John and his wife are very decent
people; but then you see they
are only servants, and one can't
converse with them on terms of
equality: one must keep them
at due distance, for fear of
losing one's authority. I'm sure
last winter (it was a very severe
one, if you recollect, and when
it did not snow, it rained and
blew), not a creature but the
butcher and postman came to the
house, from November till February;
and I really got quite melancholy
with sitting night after night
alone; I had Leah in to read
to me sometimes; but I don't
think the poor girl liked the
task much: she felt it confining.
In spring and summer one got
on better: sunshine and long
days make such a difference;
and then, just at the commencement
of this autumn, little Adela
Varens came and her nurse: a
child makes a house alive all
at once; and now you are here
I shall be quite gay."
My heart really warmed to the
worthy lady as I heard her talk;
and I drew my chair a little
nearer to her, and expressed
my sincere wish that she might
find my company as agreeable
as she anticipated.
"But I'll not keep you sitting
up late to-night," said she; "it
is on the stroke of twelve now,
and you have been travelling
all day: you must feel tired.
If you have got your feet well
warmed, I'll show you your bedroom.
I've had the room next to mine
prepared for you; it is only
a small apartment, but I thought
you would like it better than
one of the large front chambers:
to be sure they have finer furniture,
but they are so dreary and solitary,
I never sleep in them myself."
I thanked her for her considerate
choice, and as I really felt
fatigued with my long journey,
expressed my readiness to retire.
She took her candle, and I followed
her from the room. First she
went to see if the hall-door
was fastened; having taken the
key from the lock, she led the
way upstairs. The steps and banisters
were of oak; the staircase window
was high and latticed; both it
and the long gallery into which
the bedroom doors opened looked
as if they belonged to a church
rather than a house. A very chill
and vault- like air pervaded
the stairs and gallery, suggesting
cheerless ideas of space and
solitude; and I was glad, when
finally ushered into my chamber,
to find it of small dimensions,
and furnished in ordinary, modern
style.
When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden
me a kind good-night, and I had
fastened my door, gazed leisurely
round, and in some measure effaced
the eerie impression made by
that wide hall, that dark and
spacious staircase, and that
long, cold gallery, by the livelier
aspect of my little room, I remembered
that, after a day of bodily fatigue
and mental anxiety, I was now
at last in safe haven. The impulse
of gratitude swelled my heart,
and I knelt down at the bedside,
and offered up thanks where thanks
were due; not forgetting, ere
I rose, to implore aid on my
further path, and the power of
meriting the kindness which seemed
so frankly offered me before
it was earned. My couch had no
thorns in it that night; my solitary
room no fears. At once weary
and content, I slept soon and
soundly: when I awoke it was
broad day.
The chamber looked such a bright
little place to me as the sun
shone in between the gay blue
chintz window curtains, showing
papered walls and a carpeted
floor, so unlike the bare planks
and stained plaster of Lowood,
that my spirits rose at the view.
Externals have a great effect
on the young: I thought that
a fairer era of life was beginning
for me, one that was to have
its flowers and pleasures, as
well as its thorns and toils.
My faculties, roused by the change
of scene, the new field offered
to hope, seemed all astir. I
cannot precisely define what
they expected, but it was something
pleasant: not perhaps that day
or that month, but at an indefinite
future period.
I rose; I dressed myself with
care: obliged to be plain--for
I had no article of attire that
was not made with extreme simplicity--I
was still by nature solicitous
to be neat. It was not my habit
to be disregardful of appearance
or careless of the impression
I made: on the contrary, I ever
wished to look as well as I could,
and to please as much as my want
of beauty would permit. I sometimes
regretted that I was not handsomer;
I sometimes wished to have rosy
cheeks, a straight nose, and
small cherry mouth; I desired
to be tall, stately, and finely
developed in figure; I felt it
a misfortune that I was so little,
so pale, and had features so
irregular and so marked. And
why had I these aspirations and
these regrets? It would be difficult
to say: I could not then distinctly
say it to myself; yet I had a
reason, and a logical, natural
reason too. However, when I had
brushed my hair very smooth,
and put on my black frock--which,
Quakerlike as it was, at least
had the merit of fitting to a
nicety--and adjusted my clean
white tucker, I thought I should
do respectably enough to appear
before Mrs. Fairfax, and that
my new pupil would not at least
recoil from me with antipathy.
Having opened my chamber window,
and seen that I left all things
straight and neat on the toilet
table, I ventured forth.
Traversing the long and matted
gallery, I descended the slippery
steps of oak; then I gained the
hall: I halted there a minute;
I looked at some pictures on
the walls (one, I remember, represented
a grim man in a cuirass, and
one a lady with powdered hair
and a pearl necklace), at a bronze
lamp pendent from the ceiling,
at a great clock whose case was
of oak curiously carved, and
ebon black with time and rubbing.
Everything appeared very stately
and imposing to me; but then
I was so little accustomed to
grandeur. The hall-door, which
was half of glass, stood open;
I stepped over the threshold.
It was a fine autumn morning;
the early sun shone serenely
on embrowned groves and still
green fields; advancing on to
the lawn, I looked up and surveyed
the front of the mansion. It
was three storeys high, of proportions
not vast, though considerable:
a gentleman's manor-house, not
a nobleman's seat: battlements
round the top gave it a picturesque
look. Its grey front stood out
well from the background of a
rookery, whose cawing tenants
were now on the wing: they flew
over the lawn and grounds to
alight in a great meadow, from
which these were separated by
a sunk fence, and where an array
of mighty old thorn trees, strong,
knotty, and broad as oaks, at
once explained the etymology
of the mansion's designation.
Farther off were hills: not so
lofty as those round Lowood,
nor so craggy, nor so like barriers
of separation from the living
world; but yet quiet and lonely
hills enough, and seeming to
embrace Thornfield with a seclusion
I had not expected to find existent
so near the stirring locality
of Millcote. A little hamlet,
whose roofs were blent with trees,
straggled up the side of one
of these hills; the church of
the district stood nearer Thornfield:
its old tower-top looked over
a knoll between the house and
gates.
I was yet enjoying the calm
prospect and pleasant fresh air,
yet listening with delight to
the cawing of the rooks, yet
surveying the wide, hoary front
of the hall, and thinking what
a great place it was for one
lonely little dame like Mrs.
Fairfax to inhabit, when that
lady appeared at the door.
"What! out already?" said she. "I
see you are an early riser." I
went up to her, and was received
with an affable kiss and shake
of the hand.
"How do you like Thornfield?" she
asked. I told her I liked it
very much.
"Yes," she said, "it
is a pretty
place; but I fear it will be
getting out of order, unless
Mr. Rochester should take it
into his head to come and reside
here permanently; or, at least,
visit it rather oftener: great
houses and fine grounds require
the presence of the proprietor."
"Mr. Rochester!" I exclaimed. "Who
is he?"
"The owner of Thornfield," she
responded quietly. "Did you not
know he was called Rochester?"
Of course I did not--I had
never heard of him before; but
the old lady seemed to regard
his existence as a universally
understood fact, with which everybody
must be acquainted by instinct.
"I thought," I continued, "Thornfield
belonged to you."
"To
me? Bless you,
child; what
an idea! To me! I am only the
housekeeper--the manager. To
be sure I am distantly related
to the Rochesters by the mother's
side, or at least my husband
was; he was a clergyman, incumbent
of Hay--that little village yonder
on the hill--and that church
near the gates was his. The present
Mr. Rochester's mother was a
Fairfax, and second cousin to
my husband: but I never presume
on the connection--in fact, it
is nothing to me; I consider
myself quite in the light of
an ordinary housekeeper: my employer
is always civil, and I expect
nothing more."
"And
the little
girl--my pupil!"
"She is Mr. Rochester's ward;
he commissioned me to find a
governess for her. He intended
to have her brought up in -shire,
I believe. Here she comes, with
her 'bonne,' as she calls her
nurse." The enigma then was explained:
this affable and kind little
widow was no great dame; but
a dependant like myself. I did
not like her the worse for that;
on the contrary, I felt better
pleased than ever. The equality
between her and me was real;
not the mere result of condescension
on her part: so much the better--my
position was all the freer.
As I was meditating on this
discovery, a little girl, followed
by her attendant, came running
up the lawn. I looked at my pupil,
who did not at first appear to
notice me: she was quite a child,
perhaps seven or eight years
old, slightly built, with a pale,
small-featured face, and a redundancy
of hair falling in curls to her
waist.
"Good morning, Miss Adela," said
Mrs. Fairfax. "Come and speak
to the lady who is to teach you,
and to make you a clever woman
some day." She approached.
"C'est le ma gouverante!" said
she, pointing to me, and addressing
her nurse; who answered -
"Mais
oui, certainement."
"Are they foreigners?" I
inquired, amazed
at hearing
the French
language.
"The
nurse is a
foreigner,
and Adela was
born on the
Continent;
and, I believe, never left it
till within six months ago. When
she first came here she could
speak no English; now she can
make shift to talk it a little:
I don't understand her, she mixes
it so with French; but you will
make out her meaning very well,
I dare say."
Fortunately I had had the advantage
of being taught French by a French
lady; and as I had always made
a point of conversing with Madame
Pierrot as often as I could,
and had besides, during the last
seven years, learnt a portion
of French by heart daily--applying
myself to take pains with my
accent, and imitating as closely
as possible the pronunciation
of my teacher, I had acquired
a certain degree of readiness
and correctness in the language,
and was not likely to be much
at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela.
She came and shook hand with
me when she heard that I was
her governess; and as I led her
in to breakfast, I addressed
some phrases to her in her own
tongue: she replied briefly at
first, but after we were seated
at the table, and she had examined
me some ten minutes with her
large hazel eyes, she suddenly
commenced chattering fluently.
"Ah!" cried she, in French, "you
speak my language as well as
Mr. Rochester does: I can talk
to you as I can to him, and so
can Sophie. She will be glad:
nobody here understands her:
Madame Fairfax is all English.
Sophie is my nurse; she came
with me over the sea in a great
ship with a chimney that smoked--how
it did smoke!--and I was sick,
and so was Sophie, and so was
Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester
lay down on a sofa in a pretty
room called the salon, and Sophie
and I had little beds in another
place. I nearly fell out of mine;
it was like a shelf. And Mademoiselle--what
is your name?"
"Eyre--Jane
Eyre."
"Aire?
Bah! I cannot
say it. Well,
our ship stopped
in the
morning, before it was quite
daylight, at a great city--a
huge city, with very dark houses
and all smoky; not at all like
the pretty clean town I came
from; and Mr. Rochester carried
me in his arms over a plank to
the land, and Sophie came after,
and we all got into a coach,
which took us to a beautiful
large house, larger than this
and finer, called an hotel. We
stayed there nearly a week: I
and Sophie used to walk every
day in a great green place full
of trees, called the Park; and
there were many children there
besides me, and a pond with beautiful
birds in it, that I fed with
crumbs."
"Can you understand her when
she runs on so fast?" asked Mrs.
Fairfax.
I understood her very well,
for I had been accustomed to
the fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot.
"I wish," continued the good
lady, "you would ask her a question
or two about her parents: I wonder
if she remembers them?"
"Adele," I inquired, "with
whom did you live when you were
in that pretty clean town you
spoke of?"
"I
lived long
ago with mama;
but she is gone to the Holy Virgin.
Mama used to teach me to dance
and sing, and to say verses.
A great many gentlemen and ladies
came to see mama, and I used
to dance before them, or to sit
on their knees and sing to them:
I liked it. Shall I let you hear
me sing now?"
She had finished her breakfast,
so I permitted her to give a
specimen of her accomplishments.
Descending from her chair, she
came and placed herself on my
knee; then, folding her little
hands demurely before her, shaking
back her curls and lifting her
eyes to the ceiling, she commenced
singing a song from some opera.
It was the strain of a forsaken
lady, who, after bewailing the
perfidy of her lover, calls pride
to her aid; desires her attendant
to deck her in her brightest
jewels and richest robes, and
resolves to meet the false one
that night at a ball, and prove
to him, by the gaiety of her
demeanour, how little his desertion
has affected her.
The subject seemed strangely
chosen for an infant singer;
but I suppose the point of the
exhibition lay in hearing the
notes of love and jealousy warbled
with the lisp of childhood; and
in very bad taste that point
was: at least I thought so.
Adele
sang the canzonette
tunefully enough,
and with the
naivete
of her age. This achieved, she
jumped from my knee and said, "Now,
Mademoiselle, I will repeat you
some poetry."
Assuming
an attitude,
she began, "La
Ligue des Rats: fable de La Fontaine." She
then declaimed the little piece
with an attention to punctuation
and emphasis, a flexibility of
voice and an appropriateness
of gesture, very unusual indeed
at her age, and which proved
she had been carefully trained.
"Was it your mama who taught
you that piece?" I asked.
"Yes,
and she just
used to say
it in this
way: 'Qu' avez
vous donc? lui dit un de ces
rats; parlez!' She made me lift
my hand--so--to remind me to
raise my voice at the question.
Now shall I dance for you?"
"No,
that will do:
but after your
mama went to
the Holy Virgin,
as you say, with whom did you
live then?"
"With
Madame Frederic
and her husband:
she took care
of me,
but she is nothing related to
me. I think she is poor, for
she had not so fine a house as
mama. I was not long there. Mr.
Rochester asked me if I would
like to go and live with him
in England, and I said yes; for
I knew Mr. Rochester before I
knew Madame Frederic, and he
was always kind to me and gave
me pretty dresses and toys: but
you see he has not kept his word,
for he has brought me to England,
and now he is gone back again
himself, and I never see him."
After
breakfast,
Adele and I
withdrew to
the library,
which
room, it appears, Mr. Rochester
had directed should be used as
the schoolroom. Most of the books
were locked up behind glass doors;
but there was one bookcase left
open containing everything that
could be needed in the way of
elementary works, and several
volumes of light literature,
poetry, biography, travels, a
few romances, &c. I suppose he
had considered that these were
all the governess would require
for her private perusal; and,
indeed, they contented me amply
for the present; compared with
the scanty pickings I had now
and then been able to glean at
Lowood, they seemed to offer
an abundant harvest of entertainment
and information. In this room,
too, there was a cabinet piano,
quite new and of superior tone;
also an easel for painting and
a pair of globes.
I found my pupil sufficiently
docile, though disinclined to
apply: she had not been used
to regular occupation of any
kind. I felt it would be injudicious
to confine her too much at first;
so, when I had talked to her
a great deal, and got her to
learn a little, and when the
morning had advanced to noon,
I allowed her to return to her
nurse. I then proposed to occupy
myself till dinner-time in drawing
some little sketches for her
use.
As
I was going
upstairs to
fetch my portfolio and pencils,
Mrs. Fairfax called to me: "Your
morning school-hours are over
now, I suppose," said she. She
was in a room the folding-doors
of which stood open: I went in
when she addressed me. It was
a large, stately apartment, with
purple chairs and curtains, a
Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled
walls, one vast window rich in
slanted glass, and a lofty ceiling,
nobly moulded. Mrs. Fairfax was
dusting some vases of fine purple
spar, which stood on a sideboard.
"What a beautiful room!" I
exclaimed, as I looked round;
for I had never before seen any
half so imposing.
"Yes;
this is the
dining-room.
I have just opened the window,
to let in a little air and sunshine;
for everything gets so damp in
apartments that are seldom inhabited;
the drawing-room yonder feels
like a vault."
She pointed to a wide arch
corresponding to the window,
and hung like it with a Tyrian-dyed
curtain, now looped up. Mounting
to it by two broad steps, and
looking through, I thought I
caught a glimpse of a fairy place,
so bright to my novice-eyes appeared
the view beyond. Yet it was merely
a very pretty drawing-room, and
within it a boudoir, both spread
with white carpets, on which
seemed laid brilliant garlands
of flowers; both ceiled with
snowy mouldings of white grapes
and vine-leaves, beneath which
glowed in rich contrast crimson
couches and ottomans; while the
ornaments on the pale Pariain
mantelpiece were of sparkling
Bohemian glass, ruby red; and
between the windows large mirrors
repeated the general blending
of snow and fire.
"In what order you keep these
rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!" said I. "No
dust, no canvas coverings: except
that the air feels chilly, one
would think they were inhabited
daily."
"Why,
Miss Eyre,
though Mr.
Rochester's
visits here
are rare,
they are always sudden and unexpected;
and as I observed that it put
him out to find everything swathed
up, and to have a bustle of arrangement
on his arrival, I thought it
best to keep the rooms in readiness."
"Is
Mr. Rochester
an exacting,
fastidious sort of man?"
"Not
particularly
so; but he
has a gentleman's
tastes and
habits, and he expects to have
things managed in conformity
to them."
"Do
you like him?
Is he generally
liked?"
"Oh,
yes; the family
have always
been respected here. Almost all
the land in this neighbourhood,
as far as you can see, has belonged
to the Rochesters time out of
mind."
"Well,
but, leaving
his land out
of the question,
do you like
him? Is he liked for himself?"
"I
have no cause
to do otherwise
than like him; and I believe
he is considered a just and liberal
landlord by his tenants: but
he has never lived much amongst
them."
"But
has he no peculiarities?
What, in short, is his character?"
"Oh!
his character
is unimpeachable,
I suppose. He is rather peculiar,
perhaps: he has travelled a great
deal, and seen a great deal of
the world, I should think. I
dare say he is clever, but I
never had much conversation with
him."
"In
what way is
he peculiar?"
"I
don't know--it
is not easy
to describe--nothing striking,
but you feel it when he speaks
to you; you cannot be always
sure whether he is in jest or
earnest, whether he is pleased
or the contrary; you don't thoroughly
understand him, in short--at
least, I don't: but it is of
no consequence, he is a very
good master."
This was all the account I
got from Mrs. Fairfax of her
employer and mine. There are
people who seem to have no notion
of sketching a character, or
observing and describing salient
points, either in persons or
things: the good lady evidently
belonged to this class; my queries
puzzled, but did not draw her
out. Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester
in her eyes; a gentleman, a landed
proprietor--nothing more: she
inquired and searched no further,
and evidently wondered at my
wish to gain a more definite
notion of his identity.
When we left the dining-room,
she proposed to show me over
the rest of the house; and I
followed her upstairs and downstairs,
admiring as I went; for all was
well arranged and handsome. The
large front chambers I thought
especially grand: and some of
the third-storey rooms, though
dark and low, were interesting
from their air of antiquity.
The furniture once appropriated
to the lower apartments had from
time to time been removed here,
as fashions changed: and the
imperfect light entering by their
narrow casement showed bedsteads
of a hundred years old; chests
in oak or walnut, looking, with
their strange carvings of palm
branches and cherubs' heads,
like types of the Hebrew ark;
rows of venerable chairs, high-backed
and narrow; stools still more
antiquated, on whose cushioned
tops were yet apparent traces
of half-effaced embroideries,
wrought by fingers that for two
generations had been coffin-dust.
All these relics gave to the
third storey of Thornfield Hall
the aspect of a home of the past:
a shrine of memory. I liked the
hush, the gloom, the quaintness
of these retreats in the day;
but I by no means coveted a night's
repose on one of those wide and
heavy beds: shut in, some of
them, with doors of oak; shaded,
others, with wrought old English
hangings crusted with thick work,
portraying effigies of strange
flowers, and stranger birds,
and strangest human beings,--
all which would have looked strange,
indeed, by the pallid gleam of
moonlight.
"Do the servants sleep in these
rooms?" I asked.
"No;
they occupy
a range of
smaller apartments
to the back;
no one ever sleeps here: one
would almost say that, if there
were a ghost at Thornfield Hall,
this would be its haunt."
"So
I think: you
have no ghost,
then?"
"None that I ever heard of," returned
Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.
"Nor
any traditions
of one? no
legends or
ghost stories?"
"I
believe not.
And yet it
is said the
Rochesters
have been
rather a violent than a quiet
race in their time: perhaps,
though, that is the reason they
rest tranquilly in their graves
now."
"Yes--'after life's fitful
fever they sleep well,'" I muttered. "Where
are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?" for
she was moving away.
"On to the leads; will you
come and see the view from thence?" I
followed still, up a very narrow
staircase to the attics, and
thence by a ladder and through
a trap-door to the roof of the
hall. I was now on a level with
the crow colony, and could see
into their nests. Leaning over
the battlements and looking far
down, I surveyed the grounds
laid out like a map: the bright
and velvet lawn closely girdling
the grey base of the mansion;
the field, wide as a park, dotted
with its ancient timber; the
wood, dun and sere, divided by
a path visibly overgrown, greener
with moss than the trees were
with foliage; the church at the
gates, the road, the tranquil
hills, all reposing in the autumn
day's sun; the horizon bounded
by a propitious sky, azure, marbled
with pearly white. No feature
in the scene was extraordinary,
but all was pleasing. When I
turned from it and repassed the
trap-door, I could scarcely see
my way down the ladder; the attic
seemed black as a vault compared
with that arch of blue air to
which I had been looking up,
and to that sunlit scene of grove,
pasture, and green hill, of which
the hall was the centre, and
over which I had been gazing
with delight.
Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind
a moment to fasten the trap-door;
I, by drift of groping, found
the outlet from the attic, and
proceeded to descend the narrow
garret staircase. I lingered
in the long passage to which
this led, separating the front
and back rooms of the third storey:
narrow, low, and dim, with only
one little window at the far
end, and looking, with its two
rows of small black doors all
shut, like a corridor in some
Bluebeard's castle.
While I paced softly on, the
last sound I expected to hear
in so still a region, a laugh,
struck my ear. It was a curious
laugh; distinct, formal, mirthless.
I stopped: the sound ceased,
only for an instant; it began
again, louder: for at first,
though distinct, it was very
low. It passed off in a clamorous
peal that seemed to wake an echo
in every lonely chamber; though
it originated but in one, and
I could have pointed out the
door whence the accents issued.
"Mrs. Fairfax!" I called out:
for I now heard her descending
the great stairs. "Did you hear
that loud laugh? Who is it?"
"Some of the servants, very
likely," she answered: "perhaps
Grace Poole."
"Did you hear it?" I
again inquired.
"Yes,
plainly: I
often hear
her: she sews
in one of these
rooms. Sometimes Leah is with
her; they are frequently noisy
together."
The laugh was repeated in its
low, syllabic tone, and terminated
in an odd murmur.
"Grace!" exclaimed
Mrs. Fairfax.
I really did not expect any
Grace to answer; for the laugh
was as tragic, as preternatural
a laugh as any I ever heard;
and, but that it was high noon,
and that no circumstance of ghostliness
accompanied the curious cachinnation;
but that neither scene nor season
favoured fear, I should have
been superstitiously afraid.
However, the event showed me
I was a fool for entertaining
a sense even of surprise.
The door nearest me opened,
and a servant came out,--a woman
of between thirty and forty;
a set, square-made figure, red-haired,
and with a hard, plain face:
any apparition less romantic
or less ghostly could scarcely
be conceived.
"Too much noise, Grace," said
Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!" Grace
curtseyed silently and went in.
"She is a person we have to
sew and assist Leah in her housemaid's
work," continued the widow; "not
altogether unobjectionable in
some points, but she does well
enough. By-the-bye, how have
you got on with your new pupil
this morning?"
The conversation, thus turned
on Adele, continued till we reached
the light and cheerful region
below. Adele came running to
meet us in the hall, exclaiming
-
"Mesdames, vous etes servies!" adding, "J'ai
bien faim, moi!"
We found dinner ready, and
waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax's
room.
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