Jane Eyre (28 page)

I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram—even the military distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native pith and genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearance, their expression, yet I could imagine that most observers would call them attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them smile, laugh—it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much soul in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance as their laugh. I saw Mr Rochester smile—his stern features softened; his eye grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching and sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I wondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so penetrating. I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to rise under it, yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved.
He is not to them what he is to me,
I thought,
he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;—I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of his countenance and movements, though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments, I must smother hope. I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract. I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. The tastes he had—even in the bedchamber—appealed to me! I must, then, repeat continually that we are forever sundered—and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

Coffee is handed. The ladies, since the gentlemen entered, have become lively as larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel Dent and Mr Eshton argue on politics; their wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram, confabulate together. Sir George—whom, by-the-bye, I have forgotten to describe—a very big, and very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa, coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is showing her the engravings of a splendid volume. She looks, smiles now and then, but apparently says little. The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton. She glances up at him, and chatters like a wren, she likes him better than she does Mr Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa, Adèle shares it with him, he is trying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whom will Blanche Ingram pair? She is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully over an album. She seems waiting to be sought, but she will not wait too long, she herself selects a mate.

Mr Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth as solitary as she stands by the table, she confronts him, taking her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.

“Mr Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?”

“Nor am I.”

“Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that?”—pointing to Adèle—“Where did you pick her up?”

“I did not pick her up, she was left on my hands.”

“You should have sent her to school.”

“I could not afford it, schools are so dear.”

“Why, I suppose you have a governess for her, I saw a person with her just now—is she gone? Oh, no! There she is still, behind the window-curtain. You pay her, of course. I should think it quite as expensive—more so, for you have them both to keep in addition.”

I feared—or should I say, hoped?—the allusion to me would make Mr Rochester glance my way and I involuntarily shrank farther into the shade, but he never turned his eyes.

“I have not considered the subject,” said he indifferently, looking straight before him.

“No, you men never do consider economy and common sense. You should hear Mama on the chapter of governesses, Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at least in our day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all incubi—were they not, Mama?”

“Did you speak, my own?”

The young lady thus claimed as the dowager’s special property, reiterated her question with an explanation.

“My dearest, don’t mention governesses; the word makes me nervous. I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice. I thank Heaven I have now done with them!”

Mrs Dent here bent over to the pious lady and whispered something in her ear. I suppose, from the answer elicited, it was a reminder that one of the anathematised race was present.

“Tant pis!” said her Ladyship, “I hope it may do her good!” Then, in a lower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, “I noticed her. I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see all the faults of her class.”

“What are they, madam?” enquired Mr Rochester aloud.

 I doubt the others should notice, but his tone was not eager, rather it was chilled as winter. This man, so gallant even while others never suspected he found the conversation querulous.

“I will tell you in your private ear,” replied she, wagging her turban three times with portentous significancy.

“But my curiosity will be past its appetite. It craves food now.”

“Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I.”

“Oh, don’t refer him to me, Mama! I have just one word to say of the whole tribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I ever suffered much from them. I took care to turn the tables. What tricks Theodore and I used to play on our Miss Wilsons, and Mrs Greys, and Madame Jouberts! Mary was always too sleepy to join in a plot with spirit. The best fun was with Madame Joubert, Miss Wilson was a poor sickly thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the trouble of vanquishing, in short and Mrs Grey was coarse and insensible; no blow took effect on her. But poor Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had driven her to extremities—spilt our tea, crumbled our bread and butter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, and played a charivari with the ruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons. Theodore, do you remember those merry days?”

“Yaas, to be sure I do,” drawled Lord Ingram, “and the poor old stick used to cry out ‘Oh you villains childs!’—and then we sermonised her on the presumption of attempting to teach such clever blades as we were, when she was herself so ignorant.”

“We did and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecuting—or persecuting—your tutor, whey-faced Mr Vining—the parson in the pip, as we used to call him. He and Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling in love with each other—at least Tedo and I thought so; we surprised sundry tender glances and sighs which we interpreted as tokens of ‘la belle passion,’ and I promise you the public soon had the benefit of our discovery, we employed it as a sort of lever to hoist our dead-weights from the house. Dear Mama, there, as soon as she got an inkling of the business, found out that it was of an immoral tendency. Did you not, my lady-mother?”

“Certainly, my best. And I was quite right, depend on that, there are a thousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and tutors should never be tolerated a moment in any well-regulated house; firstly—”

“Oh, gracious, Mama! Spare us the enumeration!
Au reste
, we all know them, danger of bad example to innocence of childhood; distractions and consequent neglect of duty on the part of the attached—mutual alliance and reliance; confidence thence resulting—insolence accompanying—mutiny and general blow-up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram, of Ingram Park?”

“My lily-flower, you are right now, as always.”

“Then no more need be said, change the subject.”

Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum, joined in with her soft, infantine tone, “Louisa and I used to quiz our governess too, but she was such a good creature, she would bear anything, nothing put her out. She was never cross with us; was she, Louisa?”

“No, never, we might do what we pleased; ransack her desk and her workbox, and turn her drawers inside out and she was so good-natured, she would give us anything we asked for.”

“I suppose, now,” said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically, “we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses extant. In order to avert such a visitation, I again move the introduction of a new topic. Mr Rochester, do you second my motion?”

“Madam, I support you on this point, as on every other.”

He never so much as glanced in my direction.

“Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signior Eduardo, are you in voice tonight?”

“Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be.”

“Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to furbish up your lungs and other vocal organs, as they will be wanted on my royal service.”

“Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?”

“A fig for Rizzio!” cried she, tossing her head with all its curls, as she moved to the piano. “It is my opinion the fiddler David must have been an insipid sort of fellow. I like black Bothwell better, to my mind a man is nothing without a spice of the devil in him and history may say what it will of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he was just the sort of wild, fierce, bandit hero whom I could have consented to gift with my hand.”

“Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?” cried Mr Rochester.

“I should say the preference lies with you,” responded Colonel Dent.

“On my honour, I am much obliged to you,” was the reply.

Miss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud grace at the piano, spreading out her snowy robes in queenly amplitude, commenced a brilliant prelude; talking meantime. She appeared to be on her high horse tonight. Both her words and her air seemed intended to excite not only the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors, she was evidently bent on striking them as something very dashing and daring indeed.

“Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!” exclaimed she, rattling away at the instrument. “Poor, puny things, not fit to stir a step beyond papa’s park gates, nor to go even so far without Mama’s permission and guardianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty faces, and their white hands, and their small feet; as if a man had anything to do with beauty! As if loveliness were not the special prerogative of woman—her legitimate appanage and heritage! I grant an ugly
woman
is a blot on the fair face of creation, but as to the
gentlemen
, let them be solicitous to possess only strength and valour, let their motto be— Hunt, shoot, and fight, the rest is not worth a fillip. Such should be my device, were I a man.”

“Whenever I marry,” she continued after a pause which none interrupted, “I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me. I will suffer no competitor near the throne. I shall exact an undivided homage, his devotions shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his mirror. Mr Rochester, now sing, and I will play for you.”

“I am all obedience,” was the response.

“Here then is a Corsair-song. Know that I doat on Corsairs and for that reason, sing it
con spirito
.”

“Commands from Miss Ingram’s lips would put spirit into a mug of milk and water.”

“Take care, then, if you don’t please me, I will shame you by showing how such things
should
be done.”

“That is offering a premium on incapacity. I shall now endeavour to fail.”

“Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully, I shall devise a proportionate punishment.”

“Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her power to inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance.”

“Ha! explain!” commanded the lady.

“Pardon me, madam, no need of explanation; your own fine sense must inform you that one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute for capital punishment.”

“Sing!” said she, and again touching the piano, she commenced an accompaniment in spirited style.

“Now is my time to slip away,” thought I, but the tones that then severed the air arrested me. Mrs Fairfax had said Mr Rochester possessed a fine voice, he did—a mellow, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his own force. Finding a way through the ear to the heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired—till the tide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow. I then quitted my sheltered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall, in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose. I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the staircase. I heard the dining room door unclose; a gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him. It was Mr Rochester.

“How do you do?” he asked.

“I am very well, sir.” I wondered that I could think at all, that I could find my voice.

“Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?”

I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it, but I would not take that freedom. I answered, “I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir.”

“What have you been doing during my absence?”

“Nothing particular; teaching Adèle as usual, indulging in a book.”

“And getting a good deal paler than you were—as I saw at first sight. What is the matter?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?”

 The night I had saved him from a horrid death? The night he had held my hand so scandalously long? The night that had changed my life irrevocably? The night, I fear, I had fallen in love with the enigma that was Thornfield’s master, as well as mine. “Not the least.”

“Return to the drawing room, you are deserting too early.”