While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected
to hear in so still a region, a laugh, struck my ear.
It was a curious laugh; distinct, formal, mirthless.
I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant;
it began again, louder: for at first, though
distinct, it was very low. It passed off in a
clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every
lonely chamber; though it originated but in one, and
I could have pointed out the door whence the accents
issued.
“Mrs. Fairfax!” I called out: for
I now heard her descending the great stairs.
“Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is
it?”
“Some of the servants, very likely,” she
answered: “perhaps Grace Poole.”
“Did you hear it?” I again inquired.
“Yes, plainly: I often hear her:
she sews in one of these rooms. Sometimes Leah
is with her; they are frequently noisy together.”
The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone,
and terminated in an odd murmur.
“Grace!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.
I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the
laugh was as tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any
I ever heard; and, but that it was high noon, and
that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the
curious cachinnation; but that neither scene nor season
favoured fear, I should have been superstitiously afraid.
However, the event showed me I was a fool for entertaining
a sense even of surprise.
The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,
— a woman of between thirty and forty;
a set, square-made figure, red-haired, and with a
hard, plain face: any apparition less romantic
or less ghostly could scarcely be conceived.
“Too much noise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfax.
“Remember directions!” Grace curtseyed
silently and went in.
“She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah
in her housemaid’s work,” continued the
widow; “not altogether unobjectionable in some
points, but she does well enough. By-the-bye,
how have you got on with your new pupil this morning?”
The conversation, thus turned on Adele, continued
till we reached the light and cheerful region below.
Adele came running to meet us in the hall, exclaiming
—
“Mesdames, vous etes servies!” adding,
“J’ai bien faim, moi!”
We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs.
Fairfax’s room.
The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm
introduction to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge,
was not belied on a longer acquaintance with the place
and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to
be what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured
woman, of competent education and average intelligence.
My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt
and indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward;
but as she was committed entirely to my care, and
no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted
