Jane Eyre (27 page)

“Yes, I daresay, no doubt he admires her.”

“And she him,” I added. “Look how she leans her head towards him as if she were conversing confidentially. I wish I could see her face. I have never had a glimpse of it yet.”

“You will see her this evening,” answered Mrs Fairfax. “I happened to remark to Mr Rochester how much Adèle wished to be introduced to the ladies, and he said, ‘Oh! Let her come into the drawing room after dinner and request Miss Eyre to accompany her.’”

“Yes, he said that from mere politeness. I need not go, I am sure,” I answered.

“Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, I did not think you would like appearing before so gay a party—all strangers and he replied, in his quick way—‘Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is my particular wish and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her in case of contumacy.’”

“I will not give him that trouble,” I answered. A terrible pounding was in my heart. The invitation had not been issued from mere politeness, yet how terribly unkind it was. Why should I be summonsed when he had Miss Ingram at his whim? In spite of my valiant reminder that I was merely the disconnected, poor, and plain governess while Miss Ingram was an accomplished lady of rank, feverish thoughts did seize me. How would I endure his presence after all the nights I had spent with him in my mind? “I will go, if no better may be, but I don’t like it. Shall you be there, Mrs Fairfax?”

“No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I’ll tell you how to manage so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance, which is the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go into the drawing room while it is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose your seat in any quiet nook you like. You need not stay long after the gentlemen come in, unless you please, just let Mr Rochester see you are there and then slip away—nobody will notice you.”

“Will these people remain long, do you think?”

“Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the Easter recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected member for Millcote, will have to go up to town and take his seat. I daresay Mr Rochester will accompany him, it surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay at Thornfield.”

It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I was to repair with my charge to the drawing room. Adèle had been in a state of ecstasy all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the evening and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of dressing her that she sobered down. 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. No need to 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 thence till 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 ornament, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended.

Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing room than that through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We found the apartment vacant—a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth, and wax candles shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorned. The 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 conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.

Adèle, who appeared to be still under the 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 completer 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 fastened it in her sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I could not suppress. There was something ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne’s earnest 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 pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering 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 magnifies the moon. I rose and curtseyed to them, one or two bent their heads in return, 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-reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans, some bent over the tables and examined the 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 knew their 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 face and manner, and piquant in form. Her white muslin dress and blue sash became her well. The second, 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 changeful sheen, her dark hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume, and within the circlet of a band of gems.

Mrs Colonel 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 foreign lace, and her pearl ornaments, pleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame.

But the three most distinguished—partly, perhaps, because the tallest figures of the band—were the 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 candle-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 countenance. She had Roman features and a double chin, disappearing into a throat like a pillar, these features appeared to me not only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride and the chin was sustained by the same principle, in a position of almost preternatural erectness. She had, likewise, a fierce and a hard eye, it reminded me of Mrs Reed’s. She mouthed her words in speaking, her voice was deep, its inflections very pompous, very dogmatical—very intolerable, in short. A crimson velvet robe, and a shawl turban of some gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested 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 interest. First, I wished to see whether her appearance accorded with Mrs Fairfax’s description; secondly, 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 person went, 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 ringlets were all there—but her face? Her face was like her mother’s. A youthful unfurrowed likeness, the same low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a pride! She laughed continually. Her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of her arched and haughty lip.

Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious—remarkably self-conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs Dent. It seemed Mrs Dent had not studied that science, though, as she said, she liked flowers, ‘especially wild ones’ Miss Ingram had, and she ran over its 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 fluency and with a good accent.

Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche, softer features too, and a skin some shades fairer—Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard—but Mary was deficient in life, her face lacked expression, her eye lustre. She had nothing to say, and having once taken her seat, remained fixed like a statue in its niche. The 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 accomplished, 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 on the stool at my feet. No, when the ladies entered, she rose, advanced to meet them, made a stately reverence, and said with gravity, “Bon jour, mesdames.”

And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking 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 was speaking 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, ensconced between them, chattering alternately in French and broken English; absorbing not only the young ladies’ attention, but that of Mrs Eshton and Lady Lynn, and getting spoilt to her heart’s content.

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 come. The collective appearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very imposing, they are all costumed in black. Most of them are tall, some young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed and Colonel 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 théâtre’. Lord Ingram, like his sisters, is very tall; like them, also, he is handsome, but he shares Mary’s apathetic and listless look, he seems to have more length of limb than vivacity of blood or vigour of brain.

And where is Mr Rochester?

He comes in last. I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes of the purse I am forming—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 inevitably 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! How I had yearned for something—I know not what!—more. What had occurred since, calculated to change his and my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were! So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me as he had not before leaving. I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of the room, and began conversing 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 control, 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 nevertheless.

Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’s colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth—all energy, decision, will—were not beautiful, according to rule, but they were more than beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me—that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to 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. He made me desire him without a touch.