 CHAPTER XI 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 Milcott, with such large-figured papering on the walls as in rooms have, such a carpet, such furniture, such ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait of George III, and another of the prints of Wales, and a representation of the death of Wolf. 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 Lothan at four o'clock a.m., and the Milcott 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 someone 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 mis-air, 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 a drift 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 I was still 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, mum. I'll inquire at the bar. He vanished, but reappeared instantly. Is your name air, 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 lamplet 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? Happened an hour and a half. He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and 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 be surely able to get on with her. I will do my best. It is a pity that doing one's best does not always answer. Had low wood, 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 now on our road, I wonder? I let down the window and looked out. Milcott was behind us. Judging by the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable magnitude, much larger than Lothan. 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 low wood—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 verily believed, to two hours. At last he turned in his seat and said, You're known so far for 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 two behind us. We now slowly ascended a drive, and came upon the long front of a house. Candlelight gleamed from one curtain-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, mum? 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, and yawed. 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 armchair 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 statelyness 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'm 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 things. 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. Lay her, 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 house-wifely 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 Lea now brought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at being the object of more attention that I had ever before received, and that, too, shown by my employer and superior. But as she did not seem herself 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 tonight?' 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 Varen. Varen is the name of your future pupil.' "'Indeed. Then she is not your daughter.' "'No. I have no family.' I should have followed up by first inquiry, by asking in what way Miss Varen's 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 wintertime, one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say alone, Leia 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 am 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 the postman came to the house from November till February, and I really got quite melancholy with sitting night after night alone. I had Leia 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 Varen's 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 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 lattice. Both it and the long gallery into which the bedroom doors open looked as if they belonged to a church rather than a house. The 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 an 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 impulsive 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 and. 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 at a bright little place to me as the sun shone in between the gay blue-chint's window-curtains, showing papered walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of low wood, 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 a 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, quaker-like as it was, at least had the merit of fitting to a nicety, and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought that I should do respectively 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 haul. I halted there a minute. I looked at some pictures on the walls. One, I remember, represented a grim man and a queerness, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace. At a bronze-lamp pendant from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was of oak curiously carved, and ebb and 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 embround groves and still green fields. Advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion. It was three stories 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 gray front stood out well from the background of a rockery, whose corwing tenets were now on the wing. They flew over the lawn and grounds to a light in a great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and were an array of mighty old thorn-trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks, had once explained the etymology of the mansion's designation. Farther off were hills, not so lofty as those round low wood, nor so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living world, but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace thorn-field with the seclusion I had not expected to find existent so near the stirring locality of milk-it. A little hamlet, whose roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills, the church of the district stood near a thorn-field, 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 coring 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 thorn-field? 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 thorn-field, 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, thorn-field 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 Rochester's by the mother's side, or at least my husband was. He was a clergyman incumbent of hay, that little village jonder on the hill, and that church near the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester's mother was a fair fax, 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 blank sheer, I believe. Here she comes, with her bon, as she calls her nurse. The enigma, then, was explained. This affable and kind little widow was no great dame, but a dependent 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 to 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 was to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day. She approached. C'est là ma gouvernante! said she, pointing to me, and addressing her nurse, who answered. Mais oui, c'est amant. 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 until 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 Pirot 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 of mademoiselle Adela. She came and shook hands with me when she heard that I was her governess, and as I led her into breakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her own tongue. She replied briefly at first, but after we was seated at the table, and she had examined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, she subtly 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? Air. Chain air. Air? 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 hôtel. 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 the ponds with beautiful birds in it that I fed with crumbs. Can you understand her when she wrongs 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 has gone to the Holy Virgin. Mama used to teach me to dance and sing and to see 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 decor in her brightest jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false one that night at a ball, and proved to him, by the gaiety of her demeanor, how little his desertion has affected her. The subject seems 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 canzanette tunefully enough, and with a naivete of her age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, Now, Manoiselle, I would repeat you some poetry. Assuming an attitude, she began la ligue de la fable de la fontaine. She then declined 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 very carefully trained. Was it your mamma who taught you that piece? I asked. Yes, and she just used to say it in this way, Qu'avez-vous donc? Lui di un de ses rares, 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 mamma went to the Holy Virgin, as you say. With whom did you live, then? With Madame Frederique 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 mamma. 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 Frederique, 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 has 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, etc. I suppose he had considered that these were all the governess would require for her private perusal, and indeed they contended me ambly for the present. Compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able to glean at low wood, 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 dinnertime and 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 spa, which stood on a sideboard. "'What a beautiful room!' I exclaimed as I looked round, for I had never seen before 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 teary-and-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 sealed 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, parry-and-mantle-piece 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 the air feels chilly, one would think they were inhabited daily.' Why, Miss Fair, 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 and 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 Rochester's 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 he has 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 daresay 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 ingest 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 query is 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-story 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 fashion 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 cherub's 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-story 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 small 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 Rochester's have been rather a violent than a quiet race in their time. Perhaps, though, that's 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 Leeds. Will you come and see the view from thence?' "'I followed still up a very narrow staircase to the Attics, and then spied a ladder and threw a trapped door to the roof of the hall. I was now on 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 sear divided by a path visibly overgrown, greener with moss than the trees or with foliage. The church, 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 repass the trapped 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 trapped door. I, by drift of groping, found the outlet from the Attic, and proceeded to descend the narrow Garrett's staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which this led, separating the front and back rooms of the third story, 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 peel that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber, though it originated but in one, and I could have pointed out the door from which the accents issued. Mrs. Fairfax, I called out, for now I 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 Lea 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 though the laugh was as tragic as preternatural a laugh as any I have heard, and but that it was high noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness have accompanied the curious cacination, 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 curtsied silently, and went in. She is a person we have to sow and assist Lea in her housemaid's work. continued the widow, not altogether unobjectionable in some points, but she does well enough. By the by, 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 êtes sa vie!» adding, « J'ai bien faim, moi!» We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax's room. 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 spoiled 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 parantes, 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 Kant, or prop up Humbug, I am merely telling the truth. I felt a conscientious solicitude for Adele'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 Adele 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 long dim skyline, 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 Adele, 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 this third story, 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 there were many in 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 tranquility. 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 or 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 peel, 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, Leia 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 Adele because she had a cold, and as Adele 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 and 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 Adele comfortably seated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax's parlour fireside, and given her best wax doll, which I usually kept enveloped in a silver paper and a draw to play with, and a storybook for change of amusement, and having replied to her, Revenez bientôt, mon bon ami, ma chère mademoiselle Jeanette, 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 and hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and gleepless 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 uphill all the way to Haye. Having reached the middle, I sat down on the style 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 gray and battle-mitted hall was the principal object in the veil 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 hilltop above me sat the rising moon. Pale yet as a cloud, but brightening momentarily, she looked over Haye, 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 Haye, and doubtless many becks threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the soo 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 evaced the soft wave wanderings, as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough bowls of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, evaced the aerial distance of Asya 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 style, 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 occurred, maturing youth added to them a vigor and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear to the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie's tales, wherein figured a north of England spirit called a guy-trash, which, in the form of a 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 guy-trash, a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head. It passed me, however, quietly enough, not staying to look up with strange, pre-tocanine 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 guy-trash, 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 guy-trash was this, only a traveller taking the shortcut to milk it. 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 to 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 I 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 legs of trying whether they were sound. Apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the style 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 vet 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 eye-full 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 the stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I addressed him, if he had put off my offer with assistance gaily and with thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vacation 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. Do stake me, if I had not forgotten—the governess! And again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the style. 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 style, and went up to the tall steed. I endeavored 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 forefeet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed. I see, he said, the mountain will never be brought to Muhammad, so all you can do is to aid Muhammad 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, limp 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 underlip 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 a 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. 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 downhill all the way home. When I came to the style, 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 guy-trash 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 awakened by my walk, to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters of a uniform and two 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-ions, 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 a dell 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 guy-trash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and said, Pilate? 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 to 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's just arrived. Indeed. And is Mrs. Fairfax with him? Yes, and Miss Adele. They are in the dining-room, as John has gone for a surgeon, for Master has had an accident. His horse fell, and his ankle has sprained. Did the horse fall in hay-lane? Yes, coming downhill. 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. Adele 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 school-room. I designed 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. Adele 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 protects 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. As she dubbed him, I had not before heard his pranoments, and to conjecture what presence he had brought her. For it appears he had intimated the night before, that when his luggage came from Milcott, there would be found amongst it a little box in whose contents she had an interest. 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 Adele to put away books and work, and to run downstairs. For, from the comparative silence below, and from the cessation of appeals to the doorbell, 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 remember 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 stuffed dress by one of black silk, the best and the only additional one I had, except one of light grey, which in my low wood notions of the toilet 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 proceed 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 the light and heat of a superb fire, lay pilot. Adele knelt near him. Half-reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the cushion. He was looking at Adele and the dog, the fire-shown fall on his face. I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty eyebrows, his square forehead, made squareer 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, collar, his grim mouth, chin, and jaw. Yes, all three were very grim and no mistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised and 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 on the mood to notice us, for he never lifted his head as we approached. Here is Miss Air, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He bowed, still not ticking his eyes from the group of the dog and child. Let Miss Air 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 Air is 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 peakant. 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 commanded his patience and perseverance in going through with it. Madam, I should like some tea. Was the soul rejoined as she got? She hastened to ring the bell, and when the tray came she proceeded to arrange the cups, spoons, etc., with assiduous celerity. I and Adele went to the table, but the master did not leave his couch. Will you hand, Mr. Rochester's cup? said Mrs. Fairfax to me. Adele might perhaps spill it. I did, as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adele, 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 air dans votre petit coffre? Who talks of cadeau? said he gruffly. Did you expect a present, Miss Fair? Are you fond of presents? And he searched my face with eyes that I saw were dark, I rate 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 Fair, you are not so unsophisticated as Adele. She demands a cadeau, clamorously, the moment she sees me. You beat about the bush. Because I have less confidence in my desserts than Adele has. She can prefer the claim of all 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 acknowledgement. Oh, don't fall back on over modesty! I have examined Adele, 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 mead teachers most covet. Praise of their pupils' progress." Huh! 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 Adele was leading me by the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful books and ornaments on the consoles in Chiffonier. We obeyed as in duty bound. Adele 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 Lowwoods School, in Blankshire. 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 marveled 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 have I had, I suppose. Do you remember them? No. I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that style. 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—resume, 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 were upon, that I am daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Air has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adele. Don't trouble yourself to give her a character—return, Mr. Rochester. Eulogiums will not bias me. I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse. Sir? said Mrs. Fairfax. I have her to thank for the sprain. The widow looked bewildered. Miss Air, have you ever lived in a town? No, sir. Have you seen much society? None but the pupils and teachers of Lowwood, and now the inmates of Thornfield. Have you read much? Only such books has 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. Brockelhurst, who I understand directs Lowwood as a parson, is he not? Yes, sir. And you girls probably worshipped him as a convent full of religieuse would worship their director. Oh, no. You are very cool. No? What? A novice, not worshipper-priest? That sounds blasphemous. I disliked Mr. Brockelhurst, 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 brought 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 what was the head and front of his offending? demanded Mr. Rochester. He starved us when he had the so superintendents 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 in-diting 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 this 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 schoolgirl. Perhaps rather better than some. But not well. I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued. Adele showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don't know whether they were entirely of your doing. Probably a mastery did 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 recognize patchwork. Then I shall 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. Adele and Mrs. Fairfax do 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 scrutinized each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside. The others, when he examined them, he swept from him. Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax, said he, and look at them with Adele. 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 the last two vacations I spent at Lowwood, 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. How's 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 watercolours. 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 hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky. Dark blue was 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 liniments below were seen as through the suffusion of vapor. The eyes shone dark and wild, the hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or electric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight. The same faint luster 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 wintry 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, a 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 dare say 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 that I sat at them from morning till noon, and from noon till night. The length of the mid-summer days favoured my inclination to apply. "'And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?' Far from it. I was cemented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork. In each case, I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realize. "'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 schoolgirl, 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 hilltop. 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 Adele sit up so long? Take her to bed.'" Adele 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 curtsied 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 Adele 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 of his loss?' "'Why, no, perhaps not. I believe there was some misunderstanding between them. Mr. Roland 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. Roland 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.