“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.
CHAPTER XIV
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.
