Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
Presently a voice blent with the rich tones of the instrument; it was a
lady who sang, and very sweet her notes were. The solo over, a duet
followed, and then a glee: a joyous conversational murmur filled up the
intervals. I listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was
wholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to
discriminate amidst the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester;
and when it caught them, which it soon did, it found a further task in
framing the tones, rendered by distance inarticulate, into words.
The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adèle, whose head leant against my
shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up in my arms and
carried her off to bed. It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies
sought their chambers.
The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by the
party to an excursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They set out
early in the forenoon, some on horseback, the rest in carriages; I
witnessed both the departure and the return. Miss Ingram, as before,
was the only lady equestrian; and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at
her side; the two rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out this
circumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was standing at the window with me—
“You said it was not likely they should think of being married,” said
I, “but you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of the other
ladies.”
“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. “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 prendre 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: naïve, 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