Chapter Chapter 11 · A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and

. A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and

when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a

room in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured papering on

the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such

ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait of

George the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales, and a

representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible to you by the

light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by that of an

excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my muff and

umbrella lie on the table, and I am warming away the numbness and chill

contracted by sixteen hours’ exposure to the rawness of an October day:

I left Lowton at four o’clock A.M., and the Millcote town clock is now

just striking eight.

Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil

in my mind. I thought when the coach stopped here there would be some

one to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the wooden

steps the “boots” placed for my convenience, expecting to hear my name

pronounced, and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey

me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible; and when I asked a

waiter if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answered

in the negative: so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a

private room: and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and

fears are troubling my thoughts.

It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself

quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain

whether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by

many impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of

adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then

the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant when

half-an-hour elapsed and still I was alone. I bethought myself to ring

the bell.

“Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?” I asked of

the waiter who answered the summons.

“Thornfield? I don’t know, ma’am; I’ll inquire at the bar.” He

vanished, but reappeared instantly—

“Is your name Eyre, Miss?”

“Yes.”

“Person here waiting for you.”

I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened into the

inn-passage: a man was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lit

street I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance.

“This will be your luggage, I suppose?” said the man rather abruptly

when he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage.

“Yes.” He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of car, and

then I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to

Thornfield.

“A matter of six miles.”

“How long shall we be before we get there?”

“Happen an hour and a half.”

He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set

off. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me ample time to reflect; I

was content to be at length so near the end of my journey; and as I

leaned back in the comfortable though not elegant conveyance, I

meditated much at my ease.

“I suppose,” thought I, “judging from the plainness of the servant and

carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person: so much the

better; I never lived amongst fine people but once, and I was very

miserable with them. I wonder if she lives alone except this little

girl; if so, and if she is in any degree amiable, I shall surely be

able to get on with her; I will do my best; it is a pity that doing

one’s best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that

resolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, I

remember my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray God Mrs. Fairfax

may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she does, I am not bound to

stay with her! let the worst come to the worst, I can advertise again.

How far are we on our road now, I wonder?”

I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us; judging

by the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable

magnitude, much larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could see,

on a sort of common; but there were houses scattered all over the

district; I felt we were in a different region to Lowood, more

populous, less picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.

The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse walk

all the way, and the hour and a half extended, I verily believe, to two

hours; at last he turned in his seat and said—

“You’re noan so far fro’ Thornfield now.”

Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad tower

against the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a narrow

galaxy of lights too, on a hillside, marking a village or hamlet. About

ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair of gates: we

passed through, and they clashed to behind us. We now slowly ascended a

drive, and came upon the long front of a house: candlelight gleamed

from one curtained bow-window; all the rest were dark. The car stopped

at the front door; it was opened by a maid-servant; I alighted and went

in.

“Will you walk this way, ma’am?” said the girl; and I followed her

across a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered me into a

room whose double illumination of fire and candle at first dazzled me,

contrasting as it did with the darkness to which my eyes had been for

two hours inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and agreeable

picture presented itself to my view.

A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair

high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable

little elderly lady, in widow’s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin

apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately

and milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat

demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the

beau-ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a

new governess could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur to

overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the old

lady got up and promptly and kindly came forward to meet me.

“How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; John

drives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire.”

“Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?” said I.

“Yes, you are right: do sit down.”

She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my shawl

and untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she would not give herself so

much trouble.

“Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed with

cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two: here are

the keys of the storeroom.”

And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys, and

delivered them to the servant.

“Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,” she continued. “You’ve brought

your luggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll see it carried into your room,” she said, and bustled out.

“She treats me like a visitor,” thought I. “I little expected such a

reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is not like

what I have heard of the treatment of governesses; but I must not exult

too soon.”

She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a

book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now

brought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather

confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before

received, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior; but as she

did not herself seem to consider she was doing anything out of her

place, I thought it better to take her civilities quietly.

“Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?” I asked,

when I had partaken of what she offered me.

“What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf,” returned the good

lady, approaching her ear to my mouth.

I repeated the question more distinctly.

“Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your

future pupil.”

“Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?”

“No,—I have no family.”

I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in what way Miss

Varens was connected with her; but I recollected it was not polite to

ask too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in time.

“I am so glad,” she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took

the cat on her knee; “I am so glad you are come; it will be quite

pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it is pleasant at

any time; for Thornfield is a fine old hall, rather neglected of late

years perhaps, but still it is a respectable place; yet you know in

winter-time one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say

alone—Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and John and his wife are very

decent people; but then you see they are only servants, and one can’t

converse with them on terms of equality: one must keep them at due

distance, for fear of losing one’s authority. I’m sure last winter (it

was a very severe one, if you recollect, and when it did not snow, it

rained and blew), not a creature but the butcher and postman came to

the house, from November till February; and I really got quite

melancholy with sitting night after night alone; I had Leah in to read

to me sometimes; but I don’t think the poor girl liked the task much:

she felt it confining. In spring and summer one got on better: sunshine

and long days make such a difference; and then, just at the

commencement of this autumn, little Adela Varens came and her nurse: a

child makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be

quite gay.”

My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk; and I

drew my chair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere wish

that she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.

“But I’ll not keep you sitting up late to-night,” said she; “it is on

the stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all day: you

must feel tired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I’ll show you

your bedroom. I’ve had the room next to mine prepared for you; it is

only a small apartment, but I thought you would like it better than one

of the large front chambers: to be sure they have finer furniture, but

they are so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in them myself.”

I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt fatigued

with my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She took her

candle, and I followed her from the room. First she went to see if the

hall-door was fastened; having taken the key from the lock, she led the

way upstairs. The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window

was high and latticed; both it and the long gallery into which the

bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a church rather than

a house. A very chill and vault-like air pervaded the stairs and

gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas of space and solitude; and I was

glad, when finally ushered into my chamber, to find it of small

dimensions, and furnished in ordinary, modern style.

When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night, and I had fastened

my door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced the eerie

impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase,

and that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room,

I remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, I

was now at last in safe haven. The impulse of gratitude swelled my

heart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and offered up thanks where

thanks were due; not forgetting, ere I rose, to implore aid on my

further path, and the power of meriting the kindness which seemed so

frankly offered me before it was earned. My couch had no thorns in it

that night; my solitary room no fears. At once weary and content, I

slept soon and soundly: when I awoke it was broad day.

The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the sun shone in

between the gay blue chintz window curtains, showing papered walls and

a carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of

Lowood, that my spirits rose at the view. Externals have a great effect

on the young: I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me,

one that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns

and toils. My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the new field

offered to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely define what they

expected, but it was something pleasant: not perhaps that day or that

month, but at an indefinite future period.

I rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain—for I had no

article of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity—I was still

by nature solicitous to be neat. It was not my habit to be disregardful

of appearance or careless of the impression I made: on the contrary, I

ever wished to look as well as I could, and to please as much as my

want of beauty would permit. I sometimes regretted that I was not

handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and

small cherry mouth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed

in figure; I felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and

had features so irregular and so marked. And why had I these

aspirations and these regrets? It would be difficult to say: I could

not then distinctly say it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a

logical, natural reason too. However, when I had brushed my hair very

smooth, and put on my black frock—which, Quakerlike as it was, at least

had the merit of fitting to a nicety—and adjusted my clean white

tucker, I thought I should do respectably enough to appear before Mrs.

Fairfax, and that my new pupil would not at least recoil from me with

antipathy. Having opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all

things straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.

Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery steps

of oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there a minute; I looked at

some pictures on the walls (one, I remember, represented a grim man in

a cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace), at

a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was

of oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and rubbing.

Everything appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then I was so

little accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door, which was half of glass,

stood open; I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning;

the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green

fields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of

the mansion. It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, though

considerable: a gentleman’s manor-house, not a nobleman’s seat:

battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front

stood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants

were now on the wing: they flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in

a great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and

where an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as

oaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansion’s designation.

Farther off were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor so

craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living world; but

yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace Thornfield

with a seclusion I had not expected to find existent so near the

stirring locality of Millcote. A little hamlet, whose roofs were blent

with trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills; the church of

the district stood nearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a

knoll between the house and gates.

I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet

listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the

wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place it was

for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady

appeared at the door.

“What! out already?” said she. “I see you are an early riser.” I went

up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand.

“How do you like Thornfield?” she asked. I told her I liked it very

much.

“Yes,” she said, “it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting

out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come

and reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener:

great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor.”

“Mr. Rochester!” I exclaimed. “Who is he?”

“The owner of Thornfield,” she responded quietly. “Did you not know he

was called Rochester?”

Of course I did not—I had never heard of him before; but the old lady

seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with

which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

“I thought,” I continued, “Thornfield belonged to you.”

“To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the

housekeeper—the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to the

Rochesters by the mother’s side, or at least my husband was; he was a

clergyman, incumbent of Hay—that little village yonder on the hill—and

that church near the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester’s mother

was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my husband: but I never presume on

the connection—in fact, it is nothing to me; I consider myself quite in

the light of an ordinary housekeeper: my employer is always civil, and

I expect nothing more.”

“And the little girl—my pupil!”

“She is Mr. Rochester’s ward; he commissioned me to find a governess

for her. He intended to have her brought up in ——shire, I believe. Here

she comes, with her ‘bonne,’ as she calls her nurse.” The enigma then

was explained: this affable and kind little widow was no great dame;

but a 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 at my pupil, who did not

at first appear to notice me: she was quite a child, perhaps seven or

eight years old, slightly built, with a pale, small-featured face, and

a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.

“Good morning, Miss Adela,” said Mrs. Fairfax. “Come and speak to the

lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day.” She

approached.

“C’est là ma gouvernante!” said she, pointing to me, and addressing her

nurse; who answered—

“Mais oui, certainement.”

“Are they foreigners?” I inquired, amazed at hearing the French

language.

“The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent; and, I

believe, never left it till within six months ago. When she first came

here she could speak no English; now she can make shift to talk it a

little: I don’t understand her, she mixes it so with French; but you

will make out her meaning very well, I dare say.”

Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French

lady; and as I had always made a point of conversing with Madame

Pierrot as often as I could, and had besides, during the last seven

years, learnt a portion of French by heart daily—applying myself to

take pains with my accent, and imitating as closely as possible the

pronunciation of my teacher, I had acquired a certain degree of

readiness and correctness in the language, and was not likely to be

much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She came and shook hands with

me when she heard that I was her governess; and as I led her in to

breakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her own tongue: she

replied briefly at first, but after we were seated at the table, and

she had examined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, she

suddenly commenced chattering fluently.

“Ah!” cried she, in French, “you speak my language as well as Mr.

Rochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie.

She will be glad: nobody here understands her: Madame Fairfax is all

English. Sophie is my nurse; she came with me over the sea in a great

ship with a chimney that smoked—how it did smoke!—and I was sick, and

so was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester lay down on a

sofa in a pretty room called the salon, and Sophie and I had little

beds in another place. I nearly fell out of mine; it was like a shelf.

And Mademoiselle—what is your name?”

“Eyre—Jane Eyre.”

“Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the morning,

before it was quite daylight, at a great city—a huge city, with very

dark houses and all smoky; not at all like the pretty clean town I came

from; and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank to the

land, and Sophie came after, and we all got into a coach, which took us

to a beautiful large house, larger than this and finer, called an

hotel. We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to walk every

day in a great green place full of trees, called the Park; and there

were many children there besides me, and a pond with beautiful birds in

it, that I fed with crumbs.”

“Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?” asked Mrs. Fairfax.

I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the fluent

tongue of Madame Pierrot.

“I wish,” continued the good lady, “you would ask her a question or two

about her parents: I wonder if she remembers them?”

“Adèle,” I inquired, “with whom did you live when you were in that

pretty clean town you spoke of?”

“I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy Virgin. Mama

used to teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A great many

gentlemen and ladies came to see mama, and I used to dance before them,

or to sit on their knees and sing to them: I liked it. Shall I let you

hear me sing now?”

She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give a specimen

of her accomplishments. Descending from her chair, she came and placed

herself on my knee; then, folding her little hands demurely before her,

shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she

commenced singing a song from some opera. It was the strain of a

forsaken lady, who, after bewailing the perfidy of her lover, calls

pride to her aid; desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest

jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false one that night

at a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her demeanour, how little

his desertion has affected her.

The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I suppose

the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and

jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very bad taste that

point was: at least I thought so.

Adèle sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the _naïveté_ of

her age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, “Now,

Mademoiselle, I will repeat you some poetry.”

Assuming an attitude, she began, “La Ligue des Rats: fable de La

Fontaine.” She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to

punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness

of gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and which proved she had

been carefully trained.

“Was it your mama who taught you that piece?” I asked.

“Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: ‘Qu’avez vous donc? lui

dit un de ces rats; parlez!’ She made me lift my hand—so—to remind me

to raise my voice at the question. Now shall I dance for you?”

“No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy Virgin, as you

say, with whom did you live then?”

“With Madame Frédéric and her husband: she took care of me, but she is

nothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a

house as mama. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I would

like to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr.

Rochester before I knew Madame Frédéric, and he was always kind to me

and gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you see he has not kept his

word, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back again

himself, and I never see him.”

After breakfast, Adèle and I withdrew to the library, which room, it

appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the schoolroom.

Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one

bookcase left open containing everything that could be needed in the

way of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature,

poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, &c. I suppose he had

considered that these were all the governess would require for her

private perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply for the present;

compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able to glean

at Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment

and information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite

new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting and a pair of

globes.

I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply: she

had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would be

injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to

her a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the morning

had advanced to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then

proposed to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little

sketches for her use.

As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax

called to me: “Your morning school-hours are over now, I suppose,” said

she. She was in a room the folding-doors of which stood open: I went in

when she addressed me. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple

chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast

window rich in stained glass, and a lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Mrs.

Fairfax was dusting some vases of fine purple spar, which stood on a

sideboard.

“What a beautiful room!” I exclaimed, as I looked round; for I had

never before seen any half so imposing.

“Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to let in

a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in apartments

that are seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault.”

She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like

it with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two

broad steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glimpse of a

fairy place, so bright to my novice-eyes appeared the view beyond. Yet

it was merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within it a boudoir, both

spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant garlands of

flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of white grapes and

vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast crimson couches and

ottomans; while the ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of

sparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between the windows large

mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.

“In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!” said I. “No dust,

no canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly, one would think

they were inhabited daily.”

“Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester’s visits here are rare, they are

always sudden and unexpected; and as I observed that it put him out to

find everything swathed up, and to have a bustle of arrangement on his

arrival, I thought it best to keep the rooms in readiness.”

“Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?”

“Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman’s tastes and habits, and

he expects to have things managed in conformity to them.”

“Do you like him? Is he generally liked?”

“Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost all the

land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to the

Rochesters time out of mind.”

“Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you like him? Is

he liked for himself?”

“_I_ have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I believe he is

considered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants: but he has never

lived much amongst them.”

“But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his character?”

“Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is rather peculiar,

perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great deal of the

world, I should think. I dare say he is clever, but I never had much

conversation with him.”

“In what way is he peculiar?”

“I don’t know—it is not easy to describe—nothing striking, but you feel

it when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether he is in

jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don’t

thoroughly understand him, in short—at least, I don’t: but it is of no

consequence, he is a very good master.”

This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer and

mine. There are people who seem to have no notion of sketching a

character, or observing and describing salient points, either in

persons or things: the good lady evidently belonged to this class; my

queries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr.

Rochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor—nothing more:

she inquired and searched no further, and evidently wondered at my wish

to gain a more definite notion of his identity.

When we left the dining-room, she proposed to show me over the rest of

the house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs, admiring as I

went; for all was well arranged and handsome. The large front chambers

I thought especially grand: and some of the third-storey rooms, though

dark and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity. The

furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments had from time to

time been removed here, as fashions changed: and the imperfect light

entering by their narrow casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years

old; chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strange carvings of

palm branches and cherubs’ heads, like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of

venerable chairs, high-backed and narrow; stools still more antiquated,

on whose cushioned tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced

embroideries, wrought by fingers that for two generations had been

coffin-dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield

Hall the aspect of a home of the past: a shrine of memory. I liked the

hush, the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats in the day; but I by

no means coveted a night’s repose on one of those wide and heavy beds:

shut in, some of them, with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought

old English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies of

strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings,—all

which would have looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam of

moonlight.

“Do the servants sleep in these rooms?” I asked.

“No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no one ever

sleeps here: one would almost say that, if there were a ghost at

Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt.”

“So I think: you have no ghost, then?”

“None that I ever heard of,” returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.

“Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?”

“I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a

violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the

reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now.”

“Yes—‘after life’s fitful fever they sleep well,’” I muttered. “Where

are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?” for she was moving away.

“On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?” I

followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by

a ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on

a level with the crow colony, and could see into their nests. Leaning

over the battlements and looking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid

out like a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey

base of the mansion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with its ancient

timber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a path visibly overgrown,

greener with moss than the trees were with foliage; the church at the

gates, the road, the tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day’s

sun; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with

pearly white. No feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all was

pleasing. When I turned from it and repassed the trap-door, I could

scarcely see my way down the ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault

compared with that arch of blue air to which I had been looking up, and

to that sunlit scene of grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the

hall was the centre, and over which I had been gazing with delight.

Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by dint

of groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded to descend

the narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which

this led, separating the front and back rooms of the third storey:

narrow, low, and dim, with only one little window at the far end, and

looking, with its two rows of small black doors all shut, like a

corridor in some Bluebeard’s castle.

While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear in so still

a region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curious laugh; distinct,

formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant; it

began again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was very low. It

passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every

lonely chamber; though it originated but in one, and I could have

pointed out the door whence the accents issued.

“Mrs. Fairfax!” I called out: for I now heard her descending the great

stairs. “Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?”

“Some of the servants, very likely,” she answered: “perhaps Grace

Poole.”

“Did you hear it?” I again inquired.

“Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms.

Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together.”

The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an

odd murmur.

“Grace!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as

tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it

was high noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the

curious cachinnation; but that neither scene nor season favoured fear,

I should have been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me

I was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.

The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,—a woman of between

thirty and forty; a set, square-made figure, red-haired, and with a

hard, plain face: any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could

scarcely be conceived.

“Too much noise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfax. “Remember directions!”

Grace curtseyed silently and went in.

“She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid’s

work,” continued the widow; “not altogether unobjectionable in some

points, but she does well enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on with

your new pupil this morning?”

The conversation, thus turned on Adèle, continued till we reached the

light and cheerful region below. Adèle came running to meet us in the

hall, exclaiming—

“Mesdames, vous êtes servies!” adding, “J’ai bien faim, moi!”

We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax’s room.