“Now is my time to slip away,” thought
I: but the tones that 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 waking sensation 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 corner 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
on the mat 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 come 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; teaching Adele as usual.”
“And getting 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 the 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
— indeed, they 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 understand that so long
as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the
drawing-room every evening; it is my wish; don’t
neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adele.
Good-night, my — " He stopped, bit his
lip, and abruptly left me.
Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy
days too: how different from the first three
months of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had
passed beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed
now driven from the house, all gloomy associations
forgotten: there was life everywhere, movement
all day long. You could not now traverse the
gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers,
once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady’s-maid
or a dandy valet.
