Chapter: Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon's orders, went to bed early that
night; nor did he rise soon next morning.  When he did come down, it was
to attend to business: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived,
and waiting to speak with him.

Adele and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily
requisition as a reception-room for callers.  A fire was lit in an
apartment upstairs, and there I carried our books, and arranged it for
the future schoolroom.  I discerned in the course of the morning that
Thornfield Hall was a changed place: no longer silent as a church, it
echoed every hour or two to a knock at the door, or a clang of the bell;
steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different
keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing through it; it had a
master: for my part, I liked it better.

Adele was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply: she kept
running to the door and looking over the banisters to see if she could
get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go
downstairs, in order, as I shrewdly suspected, to visit the library,
where I knew she was not wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and
made her sit still, she continued to talk incessantly of her "ami,
Monsieur Edouard Fairfax _de_ Rochester," as she dubbed him (I had not
before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what presents he had
brought her: for it appears he had intimated the night before, that when
his luggage came from Millcote, there would be found amongst it a little
box in whose contents she had an interest.

"Et cela doit signifier," said she, "qu'il y aura la dedans un cadeau
pour moi, et peut-etre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle.  Monsieur a parle
de vous: il m'a demande le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n'etait pas
une petite personne, assez mince et un peu pale.  J'ai dit qu'oui: car
c'est vrai, n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?"

I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax's parlour; the afternoon
was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom.  At dark I
allowed Adele to put away books and work, and to run downstairs; for,
from the comparative silence below, and from the cessation of appeals to
the door-bell, I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at liberty.  Left
alone, I walked to the window; but nothing was to be seen thence:
twilight and snowflakes together thickened the air, and hid the very
shrubs on the lawn.  I let down the curtain and went back to the
fireside.

In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I
remembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine, when
Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by her entrance the fiery mosaic I had
been piercing together, and scattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts
that were beginning to throng on my solitude.

"Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with
him in the drawing-room this evening," said she: "he has been so much
engaged all day that he could not ask to see you before."

"When is his tea-time?" I inquired.

"Oh, at six o'clock: he keeps early hours in the country.  You had better
change your frock now; I will go with you and fasten it.  Here is a
candle."

"Is it necessary to change my frock?"

"Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester
is here."

This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired to
my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax's aid, replaced my black stuff dress by
one of black silk; the best and the only additional one I had, except one
of light grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought too
fine to be worn, except on first-rate occasions.

"You want a brooch," said Mrs. Fairfax.  I had a single little pearl
ornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put it on,
and then we went downstairs.  Unused as I was to strangers, it was rather
a trial to appear thus formally summoned in Mr. Rochester's presence.  I
let Mrs. Fairfax precede me into the dining-room, and kept in her shade
as we crossed that apartment; and, passing the arch, whose curtain was
now dropped, entered the elegant recess beyond.

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece;
basking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot--Adele knelt
near him.  Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot
supported by the cushion; he was looking at Adele and the dog: the fire
shone full on his face.  I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty
eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of
his black hair.  I recognised his decisive nose, more remarkable for
character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought, choler;
his grim mouth, chin, and jaw--yes, all three were very grim, and no
mistake.  His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in
squareness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the
athletic sense of the term--broad chested and thin flanked, though
neither tall nor graceful.

Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and
myself; but it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us, for he never
lifted his head as we approached.

"Here is Miss Eyre, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way.  He bowed,
still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child.

"Let Miss Eyre be seated," said he: and there was something in the forced
stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to
express, "What the deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not?
At this moment I am not disposed to accost her."

I sat down quite disembarrassed.  A reception of finished politeness
would probably have confused me: I could not have returned or repaid it
by answering grace and elegance on my part; but harsh caprice laid me
under no obligation; on the contrary, a decent quiescence, under the
freak of manner, gave me the advantage.  Besides, the eccentricity of the
proceeding was piquant: I felt interested to see how he would go on.

He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved.  Mrs.
Fairfax seemed to think it necessary that some one should be amiable, and
she began to talk.  Kindly, as usual--and, as usual, rather trite--she
condoled with him on the pressure of business he had had all day; on the
annoyance it must have been to him with that painful sprain: then she
commended his patience and perseverance in going through with it.

"Madam, I should like some tea," was the sole rejoinder she got.  She
hastened to ring the bell; and when the tray came, she proceeded to
arrange the cups, spoons, &c., with assiduous celerity.  I and Adele went
to the table; but the master did not leave his couch.

"Will you hand Mr. Rochester's cup?" said Mrs. Fairfax to me; "Adele
might perhaps spill it."

I did as requested.  As he took the cup from my hand, Adele, thinking the
moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out--

"N'est-ce pas, monsieur, qu'il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans
votre petit coffre?"

"Who talks of cadeaux?" said he gruffly.  "Did you expect a present, Miss
Eyre?  Are you fond of presents?" and he searched my face with eyes that
I saw were dark, irate, and piercing.

"I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generally
thought pleasant things."

"Generally thought?  But what do _you_ think?"

"I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answer
worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not?
and one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as to its
nature."

"Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adele: she demands a
'cadeau,' clamorously, the moment she sees me: you beat about the bush."

"Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adele has: she can
prefer the claim of old acquaintance, and the right too of custom; for
she says you have always been in the habit of giving her playthings; but
if I had to make out a case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger,
and have done nothing to entitle me to an acknowledgment."

"Oh, don't fall back on over-modesty!  I have examined Adele, and find
you have taken great pains with her: she is not bright, she has no
talents; yet in a short time she has made much improvement."

"Sir, you have now given me my 'cadeau;' I am obliged to you: it is the
meed teachers most covet--praise of their pupils' progress."

"Humph!" said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.

"Come to the fire," said the master, when the tray was taken away, and
Mrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting; while Adele was
leading me by the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful books and
ornaments on the consoles and chiffonnieres.  We obeyed, as in duty
bound; Adele wanted to take a seat on my knee, but she was ordered to
amuse herself with Pilot.

"You have been resident in my house three months?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you came from--?"

"From Lowood school, in ---shire."

"Ah! a charitable concern.  How long were you there?"

"Eight years."

"Eight years! you must be tenacious of life.  I thought half the time in
such a place would have done up any constitution!  No wonder you have
rather the look of another world.  I marvelled where you had got that
sort of face.  When you came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought
unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you
had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet.  Who are your parents?"

"I have none."

"Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them?"

"No."

"I thought not.  And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on
that stile?"

"For whom, sir?"

"For the men in green: 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 men in green 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.  I don't
think either summer or harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their
revels more."

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 that I ever saw."

"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 Eyre
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:
"eulogiums will not bias me; 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.

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

"No, sir."

"Have you seen much society?"

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

"Have you read much?"

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

"You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in
religious forms;--Brocklehurst, who I understand directs Lowood, is a
parson, is he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent full of religieuses
would worship their director."

"Oh, no."

"You are very cool!  No!  What! a novice not worship her priest!  That
sounds blasphemous."

"I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling.  He is
a harsh man; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our hair; and for
economy's sake bought us bad needles and thread, with which we could
hardly sew."

"That was very false economy," remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again
caught the drift of the dialogue.

"And was that the head and front of his offending?" demanded Mr.
Rochester.

"He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision
department, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with long
lectures once a week, and with evening readings from books of his own
inditing, about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us afraid to go
to bed."

"What age were you when you went to Lowood?"

"About ten."

"And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then, eighteen?"

I assented.

"Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should hardly have
been able to guess your age.  It is a point difficult to fix where the
features and countenance are so much at variance as in your case.  And
now 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.--(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.

"Enough!" he called out in a few minutes.  "You play _a little_, I see;
like any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than some, but
not well."

I closed the piano and returned.  Mr. Rochester continued--"Adele showed
me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours.  I don't know
whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a master aided you?"

"No, indeed!" I interjected.

"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: I can recognise patchwork."

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

I brought the portfolio from the library.

"Approach the table," said he; and I wheeled it to his couch.  Adele and
Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.

"No crowding," said Mr. Rochester: "take the drawings from my hand as I
finish with them; but don't push your faces up to mine."

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 much time, and
some thought."

"I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no
other occupation."

"Where did you get your copies?"

"Out of my head."

"That head I see now on your shoulders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has it other furniture of the same kind within?"

"I should think it may have: I should hope--better."

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

While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are: and
first, I must premise that they are nothing wonderful.  The subjects had,
indeed, risen vividly on my mind.  As I saw them with the spiritual eye,
before I attempted to embody them, they were striking; but my hand would
not second my fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a pale
portrait of the thing I had conceived.

These pictures were in water-colours.  The first represented clouds low
and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse;
so, too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there
was no land.  One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged
mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with
foam; its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had touched
with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and as glittering
distinctness as my pencil could impart.  Sinking below the bird and mast,
a drowned corpse glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the only
limb clearly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill,
with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze.  Beyond and above
spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky
was a woman's shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I
could combine.  The dim forehead was crowned with a star; the lineaments
below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark
and wild; the hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm
or by electric travail.  On the neck lay a pale reflection like
moonlight; the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from
which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.

The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky:
a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along
the horizon.  Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a
head,--a colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against
it.  Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew
up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white
as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the
glassiness of despair, alone were visible.  Above the temples, amidst
wreathed turban folds of black drapery, vague in its character and
consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles
of a more lurid tinge.  This pale crescent was "the likeness of a kingly
crown;" what it diademed was "the shape which shape had none."

"Were you happy when you painted these pictures?" asked Mr. Rochester
presently.

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

"I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at them
from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the
midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply."

"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 was quite
powerless to realise."

"Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your 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 school-girl, peculiar.  As to
the thoughts, they are elfish.  These eyes in the Evening Star you must
have seen in a dream.  How could you make them look so clear, and yet not
at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays.  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 hill-top.  Where did you
see Latmos?  For that is Latmos.  There! put the drawings away!"

I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his
watch, he said abruptly--

"It is nine o'clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, 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 scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor so
much.

"I wish you all good-night, now," said he, making 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 curtseyed 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, I never think of it; 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?"

"Family troubles, for one thing."

"But he has no family."

"Not now, but he has had--or, at least, relatives.  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."

"Nine years is a tolerable time.  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.  He did
not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious
that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of
the name; and, soon after he was of age, some steps were taken that were
not quite fair, and made a great deal of mischief.  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: what the precise
nature of that position was I never clearly knew, 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; and, 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 herself, 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.





For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester.  In the
mornings he seemed much engaged with business, and, in the afternoon,
gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes stayed
to dine with him.  When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse
exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return these visits, as he
generally did not come back till late at night.

During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence, and
all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional rencontre in
the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he would sometimes pass
me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod
or a cool glance, and sometimes bow and smile with gentlemanlike
affability.  His changes of mood did not offend me, because I saw that I
had nothing to do with their alternation; the ebb and flow depended on
causes quite disconnected with me.

One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio; in
order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went away early,
to attend a public meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but
the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany them.
Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message came that I and
Adele were to go downstairs.  I brushed Adele's hair and made her neat,
and having ascertained that I was myself in my usual Quaker trim, where
there was nothing to retouch--all being too close and plain, braided
locks included, to admit of disarrangement--we descended, Adele wondering
whether the _petit coffre_ was at length come; for, owing to some
mistake, its arrival had hitherto been delayed.  She was gratified: there
it stood, a little carton, on the table when we entered the dining-room.
She appeared to know it by instinct.

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

"Yes, there is your 'boite' at last: take it into a corner, you genuine
daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling 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 of the anatomical process,
or any notice of the condition of the entrails: let your operation be
conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?"

Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning--she had already retired to a
sofa with her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which secured the
lid.  Having removed this impediment, and lifted certain silvery
envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed--

"Oh ciel!  Que c'est beau!" and then remained absorbed in ecstatic
contemplation.

"Is Miss Eyre there?" now demanded the master, half rising from his seat
to look round to the door, near which I still stood.

"Ah! well, come forward; be seated here."  He drew a chair near his own.
"I am not fond of the prattle of children," he continued; "for, old
bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their
lisp.  It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening
_tete-a-tete_ with a brat.  Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre;
sit down exactly where I placed it--if you please, that is.  Confound
these civilities!  I continually forget them.  Nor do I particularly
affect simple-minded old ladies.  By-the-bye, I must have mine in mind;
it won't do to neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and blood is
said to be thicker than water."

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

"Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable purpose.  I have
forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents, and she is bursting
with repletion: have the goodness to serve her as auditress and
interlocutrice; it will be one of the most benevolent acts you ever
performed."

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, the
waxen contents of her "boite;" pouring out, meantime, explanations and
raptures in such broken English as she was mistress of.

"Now I have performed the part of a good host," pursued Mr. Rochester,
"put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at
liberty to attend to my own pleasure.  Miss Eyre, 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 somewhat in
the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it
seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.

We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which had been
lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light; the large
fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains hung rich and ample
before the lofty window and loftier arch; everything was still, save the
subdued chat of Adele (she dared not speak loud), 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--much less gloomy.
There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine
or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable.  He was, in short,
in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also more self-
indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning; still he
looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the swelling
back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-
hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes,
and very fine eyes, too--not without a certain change in their depths
sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of that
feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the
same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze
fastened on his physiognomy.

"You examine me, Miss Eyre," said he: "do you think me handsome?"

I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by
something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped
from my tongue before I was aware--"No, sir."

"Ah!  By my word! there is something singular about you," said he: "you
have the air of a little _nonnette_; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as
you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes generally bent on the
carpet (except, by-the-bye, when they are directed piercingly to my face;
as just now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or makes a
remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap out a round rejoinder,
which, if not blunt, is at least brusque.  What do you mean by it?"

"Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon.  I ought to have replied that
it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about
appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little
consequence, or something of that sort."

"You ought to have replied no such thing.  Beauty of little consequence,
indeed!  And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage, of
stroking and soothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife under
my ear!  Go on: what fault do you find with me, pray?  I suppose I have
all my limbs and all my features like any other man?"

"Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no pointed
repartee: it was only a blunder."

"Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it.  Criticise me:
does my forehead not please you?"

He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his
brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs, but an
abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should have risen.

"Now, ma'am, am I a fool?"

"Far from it, sir.  You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired in
return whether you are a philanthropist?"

"There again!  Another stick of the penknife, when she pretended to pat
my head: and that is because I said I did not like the society of
children and old women (low be it spoken!).  No, young lady, I am not a
general philanthropist; but I bear a conscience;" and he pointed to the
prominences which are said to indicate that faculty, and which,
fortunately for him, were sufficiently conspicuous; giving, indeed, a
marked breadth to the upper part of his head: "and, besides, I once had a
kind of rude tenderness of heart.  When I was as old as you, I was a
feeling fellow enough, partial to the unfledged, unfostered, and unlucky;
but Fortune has knocked me about since: she has even kneaded me with her
knuckles, and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-rubber
ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with one
sentient point in the middle of the lump.  Yes: does that leave hope for
me?"

"Hope of what, sir?"

"Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh?"

"Decidedly he has had too much wine," I thought; and I did not know what
answer to make to his queer question: how could I tell whether he was
capable of being re-transformed?

"You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not pretty
any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it
is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from my
physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug; so
puzzle on.  Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative
to-night."

With this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning his arm
on the marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape was seen plainly as
well as his face; his unusual breadth of chest, disproportionate almost
to his length of limb.  I am sure most people would have thought him an
ugly man; yet there was so much unconscious pride in his port; so much
ease in his demeanour; such a look of complete indifference to his own
external appearance; so haughty a reliance on the power of other
qualities, intrinsic or adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere
personal attractiveness, that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared
the indifference, and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the
confidence.

"I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night," he repeated,
"and that is why I sent for you: the fire and the chandelier were not
sufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have been, for none of these
can talk.  Adele is a degree better, but still far below the mark; Mrs.
Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will: you puzzled
me the first evening I invited you down here.  I have almost forgotten
you since: other ideas have driven yours from my head; but to-night I am
resolved to be at ease; to dismiss what importunes, and recall what
pleases.  It would please me now to draw you out--to learn more of
you--therefore speak."

Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive
smile either.

"Speak," he urged.

"What about, sir?"

"Whatever you like.  I leave both the choice of subject and the manner of
treating it entirely to yourself."

Accordingly I sat and said nothing: "If he expects me to talk for the
mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has addressed
himself to the wrong person," I thought.

"You are dumb, Miss Eyre."

I was dumb still.  He bent his head a little towards me, and with a
single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.

"Stubborn?" he said, "and annoyed.  Ah! it is consistent.  I put my
request in an absurd, almost insolent form.  Miss Eyre, I beg your
pardon.  The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you like an
inferior: that is" (correcting himself), "I claim only such superiority
as must result from twenty years' difference in age and a century's
advance in experience.  This is legitimate, _et j'y tiens_, as Adele
would say; and it is by virtue of this superiority, and this alone, that
I desire you to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and divert
my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on one point--cankering as a
rusty nail."

He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not feel
insensible to his condescension, and would not seem so.

"I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir--quite willing; but I cannot
introduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest you?  Ask me
questions, and I will do my best to answer them."

"Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to be
a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on the grounds I
stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your father, and that I have
battled through a varied experience with many men of many nations, and
roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly with one set of
people in one house?"

"Do as you please, sir."

"That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because a very
evasive one.  Reply clearly."

"I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because you
are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have;
your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time
and experience."

"Humph!  Promptly spoken.  But I won't allow that, seeing that it would
never suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to say a bad, use
of both advantages.  Leaving superiority out of the question, then, you
must still agree to receive my orders now and then, without being piqued
or hurt by the tone of command.  Will you?"

I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester _is_ peculiar--he seems to
forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for receiving his orders.

"The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing
expression; "but speak too."

"I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves to
inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and hurt by
their orders."

"Paid subordinates!  What! you are my paid subordinate, are you?  Oh yes,
I had forgotten the salary!  Well then, on that mercenary ground, will
you agree to let me hector a little?"

"No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you did forget it,
and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in his
dependency, I agree heartily."

"And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional forms
and phrases, without thinking that the omission arises from insolence?"

"I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence: one I
rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even for a
salary."

"Humbug!  Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary;
therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of which
you are intensely ignorant.  However, I mentally shake hands with you for
your answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for the manner in which
it was said, as for the substance of the speech; the manner was frank and
sincere; one does not often see such a manner: no, on the contrary,
affectation, or coldness, or stupid, coarse-minded misapprehension of
one's meaning are the usual rewards of candour.  Not three in three
thousand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me as you have
just done.  But I don't mean to flatter you: if you are cast in a
different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours: Nature did it.
And then, after all, I go too fast in my conclusions: for what I yet
know, you may be no better than the rest; you may have intolerable
defects to counterbalance your few good points."

"And so may you," I thought.  My eye met his as the idea crossed my mind:
he seemed to read the glance, answering as if its import had been spoken
as well as imagined--

"Yes, yes, you are right," said he; "I have plenty of faults of my own: I
know it, and I don't wish to palliate them, I assure you.  God wot I need
not be too severe about others; I have a past existence, a series of
deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within my own breast, which might
well call my sneers and censures from my neighbours to myself.  I
started, or rather (for like other defaulters, I like to lay half the
blame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances) was thrust on to a wrong
tack at the age of one-and-twenty, and have never recovered the right
course since: but I might have been very different; I might have been as
good as you--wiser--almost as stainless.  I envy you your peace of mind,
your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory.  Little girl, a memory
without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure--an
inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?"

"How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?"

"All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water had turned it
to fetid puddle.  I was your equal at eighteen--quite your equal.  Nature
meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre; one of the better
kind, and you see I am not so.  You would say you don't see it; at least
I flatter myself I read as much in your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what you
express with that organ; I am quick at interpreting its language).  Then
take my word for it,--I am not a villain: you are not to suppose that--not
to attribute to me any such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe,
rather to circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace
sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with which the rich
and worthless try to put on life.  Do you wonder that I avow this to you?
Know, that in the course of your future life you will often find yourself
elected the involuntary confidant of your acquaintances' secrets: people
will instinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte to
tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of themselves; they
will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their
indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comforting
and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations."

"How do you know?--how can you guess all this, sir?"

"I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were
writing my thoughts in a diary.  You would say, I should have been
superior to circumstances; so I should--so I should; but you see I was
not.  When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool: I turned
desperate; then I degenerated.  Now, when any vicious simpleton excites
my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that I am
better than he: I am forced to confess that he and I are on a level.  I
wish I had stood firm--God knows I do!  Dread remorse when you are
tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life."

"Repentance is said to be its cure, sir."

"It is not its cure.  Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform--I
have strength yet for that--if--but where is the use of thinking of it,
hampered, burdened, cursed as I am?  Besides, since happiness is
irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I
_will_ get it, cost what it may."

"Then you will degenerate still more, sir."

"Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure?  And I
may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the
moor."

"It will sting--it will taste bitter, sir."

"How do you know?--you never tried it.  How very serious--how very solemn
you look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head"
(taking one from the mantelpiece).  "You have no right to preach to me,
you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely
unacquainted with its mysteries."

"I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brought
remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence."

"And who talks of error now?  I scarcely think the notion that flittered
across my brain was an error.  I believe it was an inspiration rather
than a temptation: it was very genial, very soothing--I know that.  Here
it comes again!  It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on
the robes of an angel of light.  I think I must admit so fair a guest
when it asks entrance to my heart."

"Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel."

"Once more, how do you know?  By what instinct do you pretend to
distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the
eternal throne--between a guide and a seducer?"

"I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said the
suggestion had returned upon you.  I feel sure it will work you more
misery if you listen to it."

"Not at all--it bears the most gracious message in the world: for the
rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don't make yourself uneasy.
Here, come in, bonny wanderer!"

He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own;
then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he
seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.

"Now," he continued, again addressing me, "I have received the pilgrim--a
disguised deity, as I verily believe.  Already it has done me good: my
heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine."

"To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all: I cannot keep up the
conversation, because it has got out of my depth.  Only one thing, I
know: you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that
you regretted your own imperfection;--one thing I can comprehend: you
intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane.  It seems
to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to
become what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you
began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in
a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to
which you might revert with pleasure."

"Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I am
paving hell with energy."

"Sir?"

"I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint.
Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have
been."

"And better?"

"And better--so much better as pure ore is than foul dross.  You seem to
doubt me; I don't doubt myself: I know what my aim is, what my motives
are; and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes
and Persians, that both are right."

"They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalise them."

"They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute:
unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules."

"That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once that it
is liable to abuse."

"Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods not to
abuse it."

"You are human and fallible."

"I am: so are you--what then?"

"The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine
and perfect alone can be safely intrusted."

"What power?"

"That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,--'Let it be
right.'"

"'Let it be right'--the very words: you have pronounced them."

"_May_ it be right then," I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to
continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides, sensible
that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration; at
least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the uncertainty, the vague
sense of insecurity, which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.

"Where are you going?"

"To put Adele to bed: it is past her bedtime."

"You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx."

"Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered, I am
certainly not afraid."

"You _are_ afraid--your self-love dreads a blunder."

"In that sense I do feel apprehensive--I have no wish to talk nonsense."

"If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake
it for sense.  Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre?  Don't trouble yourself to
answer--I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe
me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious.
The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your
features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear
in the presence of a man and a brother--or father, or master, or what you
will--to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in
time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it
impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and movements
will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now.  I see at
intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars
of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but
free, it would soar cloud-high.  You are still bent on going?"

"It has struck nine, sir."

"Never mind,--wait a minute: Adele is not ready to go to bed yet.  My
position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room,
favours observation.  While talking to you, I have also occasionally
watched Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious
study,--reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day).
She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk
frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her
blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones.  'Il
faut que je l'essaie!' cried she, 'et a l'instant meme!' and she rushed
out of the room.  She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in
a few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see,--a
miniature of Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the
rising of--But never mind that.  However, my tenderest feelings are about
to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether it
will be realised."

Ere long, Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall.  She
entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted.  A dress of
rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could be
gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of
rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings
and small white satin sandals.

"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she, bounding forwards; "et mes
souliers? et mes bas?  Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!"

And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room till, having
reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe,
then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming--

"Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;" then rising, she
added, "C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"

"Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and, 'comme cela,' she charmed my English
gold out of my British breeches' pocket.  I have been green, too, Miss
Eyre,--ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once
freshened me.  My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French
floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of.  Not
valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort
which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the
blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now.  I keep it
and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous
sins, great or small, by one good work.  I'll explain all this some day.
Good-night."

 Life at Thornfield changes through Mr. Rochester's presence. The servants seem to have more purpose in their work and Jane is ousted from the library, and has to make alternative arrangements for a classroom. Mr. Rochester continues in his cantankerous mood, but is overly interested in Jane, wishing to know her skills in music and any other talents she may have, in particular her artwork, which greatly impresses him. Ad'le has been anticipating receiving a present from Mr. Rochester, and after a few days they are summoned and Ad'le receives a box of presents. Ad'le tries on her new dress, stockings and sandals, and as she dances about, Rochester describes her as a French floweret" and she reminds him of her mother. Rochester passes comment on Jane's behavior saying that she is prim and too reserved and asks her to comment on his looks. Jane attempts to keep her opinion to herself, and fearing that Rochester may be under the influence of wine, she selects her words carefully.

