Was she the reason he had been looking at the book? Did he yearn to do those terrible things to Miss Ingram? “You saw her, you say, Mrs Fairfax, what was she like?”
“Yes, I saw her. The dining room doors were thrown open and, as it was Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to hear some of the ladies sing and play. Mr Rochester would have me to come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene. The ladies were magnificently dressed—most of them—at least most of the younger ones—looked handsome, but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen.”
“And what was she like?”
“Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders, long, graceful neck, olive complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr Rochester’s, large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then she had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly arranged, a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white; an amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below her knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair, it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls.”
“She was greatly admired, of course?”
“Yes, indeed, and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She was one of the ladies who sang, a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She and Mr Rochester sang a duet.”
“Mr Rochester? I was not aware he could sing.”
“Oh! He has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music.”
“And Miss Ingram, what sort of a voice had she?”
“A very rich and powerful one, she sang delightfully. It was a treat to listen to her—and she played afterwards. I am no judge of music, but Mr Rochester is and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good.”
“And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?”
“It appears not, I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram’s estates were chiefly entailed, and the eldest son came in foreverything almost.”
“But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to her, Mr Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not?”
“Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age, Mr Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five.”
“What of that? More unequal matches are made every day.”
“True, yet I should scarcely fancy Mr Rochester would entertain an idea of the sort. But you eat nothing, you have scarcely tasted since you began tea.”
“No, I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another cup?”
I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between Mr Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adèle came in, and the conversation was turned into another channel.
When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination’s boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.
Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night—of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the ideal;—I pronounced judgement to this effect.
That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.
“You,” I said, “a favourite with Mr Rochester? You gifted with the power of pleasing him? You of importance to him in any way? Go! Your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference—equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe!—Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night?—Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her and it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it and, if discovered and responded to, must lead, ignis-fatus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no extrication.
“Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence, tomorrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.’
“Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory—you have one prepared in your drawing-box. Take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye;—What! You revert to Mr Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!—no sentiment!—no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust. Let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand. Omit neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aërial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it ‘Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.’
“Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them, say, ‘Mr Rochester might probably win that noble lady’s love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?’”
“I’ll do it,” I resolved, and having framed this determination, I grew calm, and fell asleep.
I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in crayons and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face enough, and when compared with the real head in chalk, the contrast was as great as self-control could desire. I derived benefit from the task, it had kept my head and hands employed, and had given force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on my heart.
I took up my pencils again; it seemed my hand moved of its own will, unfettered by my determinations. I sketched Mr Rochester as well, from the waist up, as I remembered him from that night. The sable waves of his hair were more unruly than during the day. I slavishly worked on his stern features, his heavy brows, and those dark, dark eyes that seemed to see so much of me, even into the depths of my very soul, as if he read the unrequited longing there.
Such ramblings of my imaginings! Mr Rochester had expressed his gratitude—to me it seemed most effusive—but perhaps no more so than he would to anyone who had boldly awakened him and doused the flames; only the feverish ramblings of a romantic mind—run wild from looking at explicit sketches—would make it something more. The master had grasped my hand and held it between his. How foolish to conjecture that it meant anything more, indeed, it had not. All the while, and unbeknownst to me, a simple servant, he’d been preparing to meet with Blanche Ingram.
I tore the page into shreds, then I stood and tossed those tiny pieces, relinquishing them to the past as I did my ridiculous pinings.
Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my wayward feelings for him to submit. Thanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm, which, had they found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to maintain, even externally.
Chapter Seventeen
A w
eek passed, and no news arrived of Mr Rochester, ten days, and still he did not come. Mrs Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to go straight from the Leas to London, and thence to the Continent, and not show his face again at Thornfield for a year to come; he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was beginning to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment; but rallying my wits, and recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to order and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder—how I cleared up the mistake of supposing Mr Rochester’s movements a matter in which I had any cause to take a vital interest.
Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of inferiority, on the contrary, I just said, “You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receive the salary he gives you for teaching his protégée, and to be grateful for such respectful and kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right to expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledges between you and him; so don’t make him the object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so forth. He is not of your order. Keep to your caste, and be too self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised.”
I went on with my day’s business tranquilly; but ever and anon vague suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit Thornfield and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and pondering conjectures about new situations, these thoughts I did not think to check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could. Each night, I thought of him as I scanned the book I had secreted. Each night, I learnt more of my own body; each night, I imagined my touch was his.
Mr Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post brought Mrs Fairfax a letter.
“It is from the master,” said she, as she looked at the direction. “Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not.”
And while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on taking my coffee—we were at breakfast—it was hot, and I attributed to that circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand shook, and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into my saucer, I did not choose to consider.
“Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being busy enough now, for a little while at least,” said Mrs Fairfax, still holding the note before her spectacles.
Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of Adèle’s pinafore, which happened to be loose, having helped her also to another bun and refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly, “Mr Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?”
“Indeed he is—in three days, he says, that will be next Thursday and not alone either. I don’t know how many of the fine people at the Leas are coming with him, he sends directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared and the library and drawing rooms are to be cleaned out. I am to get more kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote, and from wherever else I can and the ladies will bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets, so we shall have a full house of it.” And Mrs Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to commence operations.
The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged, but it appears I was mistaken. Three women were got to help and such scrubbing, such brushing, such washing of paint and beating of carpets, such taking down and putting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors and lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld, either before or since. Adèle ran quite wild in the midst of it, the preparations for company and the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies. She would have Sophie to look over all her ‘toilettes’, as she called frocks; to furbish up any that were ‘passées’, and to air and arrange the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the front chambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and piled-up bolsters and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys. From school duties she was exonerated, Mrs Fairfax had pressed me into her service, and I was all day in the storeroom, helping—or hindering—her and the cook, learning to make custards and cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish desert-dishes.
The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for dinner at six. During the intervening period I had no time to nurse chimeras and I believe I was as active and gay as anybody—Adèle excepted. Still, now and then, I received a damping check to my cheerfulness and was, in spite of myself, thrown back on the region of doubts and portents, and dark conjectures. This was when I chanced to see the third-storey staircase door—which of late had always been kept locked—open slowly, and give passage to the form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief. When I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper, when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms—just say a word, perhaps, to the charwoman about the proper way to polish a grate, or clean a marble mantelpiece, or take stains from papered walls, and then pass on. She would thus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. Only one hour in the twenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants below; all the rest of her time was spent in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey, there she sat and sewed—and probably laughed drearily to herself—as companionless as a prisoner in his dungeon.
The strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house, except me, noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them, no one discussed her position or employment; no one pitied her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed, overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen, of which Grace formed the subject. Leah had been saying something I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked, “She gets good wages, I guess?”
“Yes,” said Leah. “I wish I had as good, not that mine are to complain of—there’s no stinginess at Thornfield, but they’re not one fifth of the sum Mrs Poole receives. And she is laying by, she goes every quarter to the bank at Millcote. I should not wonder but she has saved enough to keep her independent if she liked to leave, but I suppose she’s got used to the place and then she’s not forty yet, and strong and able for anything. It is too soon for her to give up business.”
“She is a good hand, I daresay,” said the charwoman.
“Ah!—she understands what she has to do—nobody better,” rejoined Leah significantly, “and it is not every one could fill her shoes—not for all the money she gets.”
“That it is not!” was the reply. “I wonder whether the master—”
The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned and perceived me, and she instantly gave her companion a nudge.
“Doesn’t she know?” I heard the woman whisper.
Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped. All I had gathered from it amounted to this—that there was a mystery at Thornfield and that from participation in that mystery I was purposely excluded.
Thursday came, all work had been completed the previous evening; carpets were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilet tables arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in vases, both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured and the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the dining room, the sideboard flashed resplendent with plate, in the drawing room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed on all sides.
Afternoon arrived, Mrs Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown, her gloves, and her gold watch, for it was her part to receive the com
pany—to conduct the ladies to their rooms, etcetera. Adèle, too, would be dressed, though I thought she had little chance of being introduced to the party that day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie to apparel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself, I had no need to make any change. I should not be called upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was now become to me—“a very pleasant refuge in time of trouble.”
It had been a mild, serene spring day—one of those days which, towards the end of March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth as heralds of summer. It was drawing to an end now, but the evening was even warm, and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open.
“It gets late,” said Mrs Fairfax, entering in rustling state. “I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr Rochester mentioned, for it is past six now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on the road, one can see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote.” She went to the window. “Here he is!” said she. “Well, John”—leaning out—“any news?”
“They’re coming, ma’am,” was the answer. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Adèle flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side, so that, screened by the curtain, I could see without being seen.
The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two open carriages. Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming through them, shone rich raven ringlets.
“Miss Ingram!” exclaimed Mrs Fairfax, and away she hurried to her post below.
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