Chapter 17

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    A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester: ten days, and still he did not e. Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to ght from the Leas to London, and theo the ti, and not show his face again at Thornfield for a year to e; he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as abrupt and ued. When I heard this, I was beginning to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was actually permitting myself to experience a siing sense of disappoi; but rallying my wits, and recolleg my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder—how I cleared up the mistake of supposing Mr. Rochester’s movements a matter in which I had any cause to take a vital i. Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of inferiority: on the trary, I just said—

    “You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receive the salary he gives you for teag his protégée, and to be grateful for such respectful and kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right to expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously aowledges between you and him; so don’t make him the object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so forth. He is not of your order: keep to your caste, aoo self-respeg to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised.”

    I went on with my day’s busiranquilly; but ever and anon vague suggestio wandering ay brain of reasons why I should quit Thornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and p jectures about new situations: these thoughts I did not think check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.

    Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fht, when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.

    “It is from the master,” said she, as she looked at the dire. “Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not.”

    And while she broke the seal and perused the dot, I went on taking my coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed to that circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand shook, and why I involuntarily spilt half the tents of my cup into my saucer, I did not choose to sider.

    “Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a ce of being busy enough now: for a little while at least,” said Mrs. Fairfax, still holding the note before her spectacles.

    Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of Adèle’s pinafore, which happeo be loose: having helped her also to another bun and refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly—

    “Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?”

    “Indeed he is—in three days, he says: that will be hursday; and not aloher. I don’t know how many of the fine people at the Leas are ing with him: he sends dires for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and the library and drawing-rooms are to be ed out; I am to get more kit hands from the Gee Inn, at Millcote, and from wherever else I ; and the ladies will bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full house of it.” And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to ence operations.

    The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully  and well arranged; but it appears I was mistaken. Three women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such brushing, such washing of paint aing of carpets, such taking doutting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors and lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing of sheets aher-beds ohs, I never beheld, either before or since. Adèle ran quite wild in the midst of it: the preparations for pany and the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw her iasies. She would have Sophie to look over all her “toilettes,” as she called frocks; to furbish up any that were “passées,” and to air and arrahe new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the front chambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie otresses and piled-up bolsters and pillows before the enormous fires r in the eys. From school duties she was exoed: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into her service, and I was all day ioreroom, helping (or hindering) her and the cook; learning to make custards and cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish desert-dishes.

    The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for di six. During the intervening period I had no time to nurse chimeras; and I believe I was as active and gay as anybody—Adèle excepted. Still, now and then, I received a damping chey cheerfulness; and was, in spite of myself, thrown ba the region of doubts and portents, and dark jectures. This was when I ced to see the third-storey staircase door (which of late had always bee locked) open slowly, and give passage to the form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; when I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,—just say a word, perhaps, to the charwoman about the proper way to polish a grate, or  a marble mantelpiece, or take stains from papered walls, and then pass on. She would thus desd to the kit once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. Only one hour iwenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants below; all the rest of her time ent in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the sed storey: there she sat and serobably laughed drearily to herself,—as panionless as a prisoner in his dungeon.

    The strahing of all was, that not a soul in the house, except me, noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them: no one discussed her position or employment; no oied her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed, overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen, of which Graed the subject. Leah had been saying something I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked—

    “She gets good wages, I guess?”

    “Yes,” said Leah; “I wish I had as good; not that mine are to plain of,—there’s no stinginess at Thornfield; but they’re not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives. And she is laying by: she goes every quarter to the bank at Millcote. I should not wonder but she has saved enough to keep her indepe if she liked to leave; but I suppose she’s got used to the place; and then she’s not forty yet, and strong and able for anything. It is too soon for her to give up business.”

    “She is a good hand, I daresay,” said the charwoman.

    “Ah!—she uands what she has to do,—nobody better,” rejoined Leah signifitly; “and it is not every one could fill her shoes— not for all the money she gets.”

    “That it is not!” was the reply. “I wonder whether the master—”

    The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned and perceived me, and she instantly gave her panion a nudge.

    “Doesn’t she know?” I heard the woman whisper.

    Leah shook her head, and the versation was of course dropped. All I had gathered from it amouo this,—that there was a mystery at Thornfield; and that from participation in that mystery I urposely excluded.

    Thursday came: all work had been pleted the previous evening; carpets were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white terpanes spread, toilet tables arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in vases: both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured; and the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the dining-room, the sideboard flashed resple with plate; in the drawing-room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed on all sides.

    Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown, her gloves, and her gold watch; for it was her part to receive the pany,—to duct the ladies to their rooms, &c. Adèle, too, would be dressed: though I thought she had little ce of being introduced to the party that day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie to apparel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself, I had o make any ge; I should not be called upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was now bee to me,—“a very pleasant refuge in time of trouble.”

    It had been a mild, serene spring day—one of those days which, towards the end of March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth as heralds of summer. It was drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm, and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open.

    “It gets late,” said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state. “I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned; for it is past six now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on the road: one  see a long way from then the dire of Millcote.” She went to the window. “Here he is!” said she. “Well, John” (leaning out), “any news?”

    “They’re ing, ma’am,” was the answer. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

    Adèle flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side, so that, sed by the curtain, I could see without being seen.

    The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two open carriages. Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-lookilemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming through them, shone rich raven ris.

    “Miss Ingram!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she hurried to her post below.

    The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly turhe angle of the house, and I lost sight of it. Adèle now petitioo go down; but I took her on my knee, and gave her to uand that she must not on any at think of venturing in sight of the ladies, either now or at any other time, unless expressly sent for: that Mr. Rochester would be very angry, &c. “Some natural tears she shed” on being told this; but as I began to look very grave, she se last to wipe them.

    A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen’s deep tones and ladies’ silvery ats blent harmoniously together, and distinguishable above all, though not loud, was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall, weling his fair and gallant guests us roof. Then light steps asded the stairs; and there was a tripping through the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and closing doors, and, for a time, a hush.

    “Elles geoilettes,” said Adèle; who, listening attentively, had followed every movement; and she sighed.

    “Chez maman,” said she, “quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais partout, au salo à leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller les dames, et c’était si amusant: e cela on apprend.”

    “Don’t you feel hungry, Adèle?”

    “Mais oui, mademoiselle: voilà q ou six heures que nous n’avons pas mangé.”

    “Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down a you something to eat.”

    And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a back-stairs which ducted directly to the kit. All in that region was fire and otion; the soup and fish were in the last stage of proje, and the cook hung over her crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening spontaneous bustion. In the servants’ hall two en and three gentlemen’s gentlemen stood or sat round the fire; the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses; the new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were bustling about everywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last reached the larder; there I took possession of a cold chi, a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two and a knife and fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regaihe gallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind me, when an accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were about to issue from their chambers. I could not proceed to the schoolroom without passing some of their doors, and running the risk of being surprised with my cargo of victualage; so I stood still at this end, which, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set and twilight gathering.

    Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants oer another: each came out gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous through the dusk. For a moment they stood grouped togeth<q>藏书网</q>er at the other extremity of the gallery, versing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity: they then desded the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill. Their collective appearance had left on me an impression of high-born elegance, such as I had never before received.

    I found Adèle peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held ajar. “What beautiful ladies!” cried she in English. “Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send for us by- and-bye, after dinner?”

    “No, indeed, I don’t; Mr. Rochester has something else to think about. Never mind the ladies to-night; perhaps you will see them to-morrow: here is your dinner.”

    She was really hungry, so the chi and tarts served to divert her attention for a time. It was well I secured this fe, or both she, I, and Sophie, to whom I veyed a share of our repast, would have run a ce of getting no di all: every one downstairs was too mugaged to think of us. The dessert was not carried out till after nine and at ten footmen were still running to and fro with trays and coffee-cups. I allowed Adèle to sit up much later than usual; for she Then the importance of the process quickly steadied her, and by the time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her pink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, she looked as grave as any judge. o warn her not to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed, she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking care previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, and assured me she would not stir theill I was ready. This I quickly was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss Temple’s wedding, and never worn since) was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed; my sole or, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We desded.

    Fortuhere was another entrao the drawing-room than that through the saloohey were all seated at dinner. We found the apartment vat; a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth, and wax dles shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorhe crimson curtain hung before the arch: slight as was the separation this drapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low a key that nothing of their versation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.

    Adèle, eared to be still uhe influence of a most solemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on the footstool I pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat, and taking a book from a table near, endeavoured to read. Adèle brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my knee.

    “What is it, Adèle?”

    “Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques, mademoiselle? Seulement pour pleter ma toilette.”

    “You think too much of your ‘toilette,’ Adèle: but you may have a flower.” And I took a rose from a vase and faste in her sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfa, as if her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my face away to ceal a smile I could not suppress: there was something ludicrous as well as painful itle Parisienne’s ear and innate devotion to matters of dress.

    A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept back from the arch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its lit lustre p down light on the silver and glass of a magnifit dessert-service c a long table; a band of ladies stood in the opening; they entered, and the curtain fell behind them.

    There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave the impression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall; many were dressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed to magnify their persons as a mist maghe moon. I rose and curtseyed to them: one or two bent their heads iurn, the others only stared at me.

    They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the lightness and buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some of them threw themselves in half-reing positions on the sofas and ottomans: some bent over the tables and examihe flowers and books: the rest gathered in a group round the fire: all talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I kheir names afterwards, and may as well mention them now.

    First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had evidently been a handsome woman, and was well preserved still. Of her daughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather little: naive, and child-like in fad manner, and piquant in form; her white muslin dress and blue sash became her well. The sed, Louisa, was taller and more elegant in figure; with a very pretty face, of that order the French term minois chiffoné: both sisters were fair as lilies.

    Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty, very erect, very haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin robe of geful sheen: her dark hair shone glossily uhe shade of an azure plume, and within the circlet of a band of gems.

    Mrs. el Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more lady-like. She had a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her black satin dress, her scarf of rich fn lace, and her pearl ors, pleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame.

    But the three most distinguished—partly, perhaps, because the tallest figures of the bahe Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters, Blanche and Mary. They were all three of the loftiest stature of women. The Dowager might be between forty and fifty: her shape was still fine; her hair (by dle-light at least) still black; her teeth, too, were still apparently perfect. Most people would have termed her a splendid woman of her age: and so she was, no doubt, physically speaking; but then there was an expression of almost insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and tenance. She had Romaures and a double , disappearing into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to me not only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride; and the  was sustained by the same principle, in a position of almost preternatural ereess. She had, likewise, a fierd a hard eye: it reminded me of Mrs. Reed’s; she mouthed her words in speaking; her voice was deep, its iions very pompous, very dogmatical,—very intolerable, in short. A crimso robe, and a shawl turban of some gold-wrought Indian fabrivested her (I suppose she thought) with a truly imperial dignity.

    Blanche and Mary were of equal stature,—straight and tall as poplars. Mary was too slim for her height, but Blanche was moulded like a Dian. I regarded her, of course, with special i. First, I wished to see whether her appearance accorded with Mrs. Fairfax’s description; sedly, whether it at all resembled the fancy miniature I had painted of her; and thirdly—it will out!— whether it were such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester’s taste.

    As far as perso, she answered point for point, both to my picture and Mrs. Fairfax’s description. The noble bust, the sloping shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and black ris were all there;—but her face? Her face was like her mother’s; a youthful unf<tt></tt>urrowed likeness: the same low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a pride! she laughed tinually; her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of her arched and haughty lip.

    Genius is said to be self-scious. I ot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-scious—remarkably self- scious indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that sce: though, as she said, she liked flowers, “especially wild ones;” Miss Ingram had, and she ras vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed) trailing Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance—her trail might be clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played: her execution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she talked French apart to her mamma; and she talked it well, with fluend with a good at.

    Mary had a milder and more open tehan Blanche; softer features too, and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)—but Mary was defit in life: her face lacked expression, her eye lustre; she had nothing to say, and having oaken her seat, remained fixed like a statue in its he sisters were both attired in spotless white.

    And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be likely to make? I could not tell—I did not know his taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic, she was the very type of majesty: then she was aplished, sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and that he did admire her, I already seemed to have obtained proof: to remove the last shade of doubt, it remained but to see them together.

    You are not to suppose, reader, that Adèle has all this time been sitting motionless oool at my feet: no; when the ladies entered, she rose, advao meet them, made a stately reverence, and said with gravity—

    “Bon jour, mesdames.”

    And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mog air, and exclaimed, “Oh, what a little puppet!”

    Lady Lynn had remarked, “It is Mr. Rochester’s ward, I suppose—the little French girl he eaking of.”

    Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a kiss.

    Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously—“What a love of a child!”

    And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensced between them, chattering alternately in Frend broken English; abs not only the young ladies’ attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, aing spoilt to her heart’s tent.

    At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. I sit in the shade—if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment; the window-curtain half hides me. Again the arch yawns; they e. The collective appearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very imposing: they are all ed in black; most of them are tall, some young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed; and el Dent is a fine soldierly man. Mr. Eshton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like: his hair is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which gives him something of the appearance of a “père noble de théatre.” Lord Ingram, like his sisters, is very tall; like them, also, he is handsome; but he shares Mary’s apathetid listless look: he seems to have more length of limb than vivacity of bloour of brain.

    And where is Mr. Rochester?

    He es in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I try to trate my attention on those ing-needles, on the meshes of the purse I am f—I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I iably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to ge his and my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were! So far estrahat I did not expect him to e and speak to me. I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of the room, and began versing with some of the ladies.

    No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I might gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face; I could not keep their lids under trol: they would rise, and the irids would fix on him. I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking,—a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts heless.

    Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’s colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad ay eyebrows, deep eyes, stroures, firm, grim mouth,—all energy, decision, will,—were not beautiful, acc to rule; but they were more thaiful to me; they were full of an i, an influehat quite mastered me,—that took my feelings from my own power aered them in his. I had not inteo love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.

    I pared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,—even the military distin of el Dent, trasted with his look of native pith and genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearaheir expressio I could imagihat 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 dles had as much soul in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significe as their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile:- his sterures softened; his eye grew both brilliant ale, its ray both searg and sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I woo see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so peing: I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to rise u; 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 uand the language of his tenand movements: though rank ah sever us widely, I have something in my brain a, in my blood and hat assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days sihat 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 ht than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must ceal my ses: I must smother hope; I must remember that he ot care mue. 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 on with him. I must, the tinually that we are for ever sundered:- a, while I breathe and think, I must love him.”

    Coffee is hahe ladies, sihe gentlemeered, have bee lively as larks; versation waxes brisk and merry. el Dent and Mr. Eshtue on politics; their wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram, fabulate together. Sir Gee—whom, by-the-bye, I have fotten to describe,—a very big, and very fresh-looking try 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 showihe 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 alo 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 fronts him, takiation 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 seo school.”

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

    “Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saerson 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 urned his eyes.

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

    “No, you men never do sider ey and on 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 goverhe word makes me nervous. I have suffered a martyrdom from their inpetend caprice. I thank Heaven I have now doh 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 remihat one of the aised race resent.

    “Tant pis!” said her Ladyship, “I hope it may dood!” 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?” inquired Mr. Rochester aloud.

    “I will tell you in your private ear,” replied she, waggiurban three times with portentous significy.

    “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 nuisanot that I ever suffered much from them; I took care to turables. 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 oor sickly thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the trouble of vanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and insensible; no blow took effe her. But poor Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had driveo 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 proseg (or perseg) 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 be 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 liaisoween governesses and tutors should never be tolerated a moment in any well-regulated house; firstly—”

    “Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the eion! Au reste, we all know them: danger of bad example to innoce of childhood; distras and sequent  of duty on the part of the attached—mutual alliand reliance; fidehence resulting—insolence apanying—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: ge the subject.”

    Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum, joined in with her soft, infaone: “Louisa and I used to quiz overoo; 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 i; and she was so good- natured, she would give as 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 introdu of a opic. Mr. Rochester, do you sey motion?”

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

    “Then on me be the onus ing it forward. Signior Eduardo, are you in voice to-night?”

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

    “Then, signior, I lay on you my s to furbish up your lungs and other vocal ans, 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 seo 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 el 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, enced a brilliant prelude; talkiime. She appeared to be on her high horse to-night; both her words and her air seemed inteo 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 aage! I grant an ugly woman is a.９９ｌｉb. blot on the fair face of creation; but as to the gentlemehem 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 tinued after a pause whioerrupted, “I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me. I will suffer no petitor he throne; I shall exa 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  spirito.”

    “ands 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  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!” ahe lady.

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

    “Sing!” said she, and again toug the piano, she enced an apa in spirited style.

    “Now is my time to slip away,” thought I: but the tohat 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 wakiion 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 er 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 o 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.”

    “Why did you not e 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; teag Adèle as usual.”

    “Aing 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?”

    “Not she least.”

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

    “I am tired, sir.”

    He looked at me for a minute.

    “And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”

    “Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.”

    “But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes—ihey are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well, to-night I excuse you; but uand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it is my wish; don’t  it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adèle. Good-night, my—” He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.

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