Jane Slayre (20 page)

"For the fairy folk. 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 fairies 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."

Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting and, with raised eyebrows, seemed wondering what sort of talk this was.

"Well," resumed Mr. Rochester, "if you disown parents, you must have some sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?"

"No; none." None to acknowledge.

"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 we were upon, "and I am daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Slayre has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adele."

"Don't trouble yourself to give her a character," returned Mr. Rochester. "I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse."

"Sir?" said Mrs. Fairfax.

"I have to thank her for this sprain."

The widow looked bewildered.

I sat still, quite untroubled by his accusations. Better he lived with a sprain than the fate that might have befallen him had I not been present.

"Miss Slayre, have you ever lived in a town?"

"No, sir."

"Have you seen much society?"

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"None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now the inmates of Thornfield."

"Inmates indeed." he laughed. "Have you read much?"

"Only such books as came in my way, and they have not been numerous or very learned."

"No doubt you've lived the life of a nun. What age were you when you went to school?"

"About ten."

"And you stayed there eight years. You are now, then, eighteen. And 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. You must excuse my tone of command. I am used to say, 'Do this,' and it is done. I cannot alter my customary habits for 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. I hid my astonishment that he would even ask for me to excuse his commanding tone. And why should I? Was I not in his employ? But it touched me that he would ask for my consideration on it. I did as he asked. I played.

"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.

"Adele showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours," Mr. Rochester said. "I don't know whether they were entirely of your doing. Probably a master aided you?"

"No, indeed!"

"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."

"Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir."

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I brought the portfolio from the library.

"Approach the table," said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside. The others, when he had 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 time and thought."

"I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood."

"Where did you get your copies?"

"Out of my head."

"That head I see now on your shoulders?"

"The very same." I was not a zombie. I only had one, and it was not detachable.

He spread the pictures before him and again surveyed them alternately.

"Were you happy when you painted these pictures?"

"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. I daresay, though, you did exist in a kind of artist's dreamland while you blended and arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?"

"From morning until noon, and from noon until night. It was vacation. I had little else to do."

"And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?"

"Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork. In each case, I had imagined something which I turned out to be quite powerless to realise."

"Not quite, I'm guessing. You have secured the shadow of your

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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 you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? 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. And this last one? Such a terrible sense of justice there. How could you know it? Put the drawings away!"

"Yes, sir."

"It is nine o'clock," he said, glancing at his watch before I could even put the drawings away. "What are you about, Miss Slayre, 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 he seemed to relish it little more than Pilot would have done, nor so much.

"I wish you all good night, now." He made 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. 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?"

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"Family troubles, for one thing. 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."

"Was he so very fond of his brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?"

"Why, no--perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them. Mr. Rowland 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, and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune. I never knew the precise nature of that position, 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. 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 her, 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.

I thought of him all night, that pained look in his eyes when he spoke of my paintings and the feelings that might have inspired them. No doubt he had read some of his personal tragedies into my

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work. Well, I could indentify with family struggles. Yet I did not pity him. I rather liked him. He was, at least, direct with his words if evasive with his emotions.

CHAPTER 17

FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL days, I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he seemed much engaged with business. In the afternoon, gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called. When his sprain was well enough for him to return to exercise, he rode out a good deal. I would usually be awake to hear him just coming in.

During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence, and all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional passing in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he would sometimes look with a haughty stare in my direction and just barely acknowledge my presence with a nod. Other times, when he would make the effort to bow and smile, I didn't know what to make of him. His changes of mood did not offend me because I saw I had nothing to do with it; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite disconnected with me.

One day, he had company to dinner and sent for my portfolio. I had no idea why he would wish to exhibit its contents, but I was agreeable. Soon after his guests were gone, a message came that I was to bring Adele downstairs.

I brushed Adele's hair and made her neat and checked my own appearance before we descended. As usual, Adele prattled on, wondering whether her presents were at last arrived, and how did her

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hair look, and was her dress quite the right one for the occasion. I told her she should concern herself more with her behavior than her appearance, and she pouted prettily. A little carton greeted her on the table, and she beamed again.

"Ma boîte! ma boîte!"
she exclaimed, running towards it.

"Yes, there is your
boîte
at last. Take it into a corner, you genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disemboweling it," said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the depths of an immense easy chair at the fireside.

"And mind," he continued, "don't bother me with any details. Let your operation be conducted in silence.
Tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?
"

She was then absorbed in the contents of the box.

"Is Miss Slayre there?" he demanded, half rising from his seat to look around to the door, near which I still stood.

I caught his gaze, and my heart gave the tiniest little skip. What was it? I'd already established that he did not make me nervous. It must have been excitement at considering a chance for some interesting conversation.

"Ah! Well, come forward. Be seated here." He drew a chair near his own. "I am not fond of the prattle of children, I must explain. Old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their lisping voices."

I suppose he wanted me to simper or protest, as women might over the dismissal of their children's charms. But Adele was only my pupil, not my child, and furthermore, I found his honesty engaging. Still, I pushed my chair a little back from where he'd placed it, so close to his own.

"Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss Slayre. Sit down exactly where I placed it--if you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually forget them. I suppose I should call for the old lady, too."

He rang and dispatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon arrived, knitting basket in hand.

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"Good evening, madam. I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents. Have the goodness to attend to her."

Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax than she summoned her to her sofa and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory, and the waxen contents of her
boîte,
pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in her usual broken English.

"Now I have performed the part of a good host," said Mr. Rochester. "I've put my guests into the way of amusing each other, so I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Slayre, draw your chair still a little farther forward. You are yet too far back. I cannot see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair, which I have no mind to do."

I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained sitting not quite so close to him. Everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adele and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes.

Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different to what I had seen him look before, not quite so stern and much less gloomy. A definite smile was on his lips, and his eyes sparkled. Still, an air of the grim remained about him. I doubted he could help it. His rugged, rough-hewn masculinity leant itself to natural intimidation of others.

He had been looking at the fire, and I had been looking at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on him.

"You examine me, Miss Slayre. Do you think me handsome?"

I should have said something conventionally vague and polite, but a different, more provoking answer somehow slipped from my tongue. "No, sir."

"Ah! By my word! There is something singular about you. You have the air of a little abbess. You sit with your hands on your lap, with your eyes generally bent on the carpet except when they are directed to my face, as just now, for instance. And when one asks