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, etcetera. 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, foreverything 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 Parian 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 enquired 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 trapdoor 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 trapdoor, 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 trapdoor.
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 Adèle, continued till we reached the light and cheerful region below. Adèle came running to meet us in the hall, exclaiming, “Mesdames, vous êtes servies!” adding, “J’ai bien faim, moi!”
We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs Fairfax’s room.
Chapter Twelve
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 trapdoor 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 and to deny any knowledge of their own physical desires. To my mind, God endowed all of us to be reasoning beings, it is therefore 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 tha
n encourage enquiry.
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. I confess my gaze had drifted on more than one occasion to the books kept locked up. Surely they would help pass the time more quickly? I felt restless. 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.
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