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 and 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 pass me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance. This startled and upset me and I thought earnestly of our night in the ditch on the causeway, almost as if it were a dream.
One day, however, he rang the bell and a message came that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I was at once nervous again, least this should be the moment of my dismissal. I told myself that I should be relieved that Mr. Rochester kept me at such a distance, but I would rather be sent away then to forever be treated coldly by him.
As we descended the stairs, Adele cajoled me at length with wanderings whether the petit coffre was finally come, for, owing to some mistake, its arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified when we entered the dining room since there it stood; a little carton, on the table. 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 and be seated here.” He drew a chair near his own. “I am not fond of the prattle of children,” he continued, “it would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening téte-å-téte with a brat. Don’t draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre, sit down exactly where I placed it.”
As he rang and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, I stared at him uncertainly. I could not see where this warmth of character had suddenly sprung from or why he was now directing so much attention on me.
Mrs. Fairfax 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 and it will be one of the most benevolent acts you ever performed.”
Adele no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax than she summoned her to her sofa and there, quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory and the waxen contents of her “boite,” pouring out 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, “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 and I cannot see you.”
I did as I was bid, wondering what he might do. He was wearing that playful, mocking expression once more but his cold looks of the days past weighed on my mind, making me guarded. I could not understand what he wanted from me. I knew what I hoped for, but his recent behavior did not warrant such thoughts.
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, fueled by the bitter resentment I had harbored over the last few days of being ignored.
“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. 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 and I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied that beauty is of little consequence, or something of that sort.”
“You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little consequence, indeed! 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, it was only a blunder.”
“No, no, you shall be answerable for it. Criticise me, does my forehead not please you?”
He lifted up the dark sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his brow, and showed a smooth, alabaster stretch of skin. I wished to tug his hair back myself and kiss it. A shiver went through my body and I said nothing.
“You look 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 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. I am sure that others would not have found him handsome and that is what I had meant, I suppose, when I answered him before. He had none of the freshness of youth and his features were rough and rugged, but I found in their form an exciting, dashing quality. His air and manor was confident and magnetic and I was taken away by him completely.
“I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative tonight,” he repeated, sitting back down “and that is why I sent for you. Pilot cannot talk, Adele is a degree better, but still far below the mark, Mrs. Fairfax ditto, but you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will. It would please me now 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.
“Stubborn?” he said.
I stood up.
“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 I am certainly not afraid.”
“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. You fear in the presence of a man to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly, but in time, I think you will learn to be natural with me. 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.”
“Wait a minute, Adele is not ready to go to bed yet. While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched her and she pulled out of her box about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock. ‘Il faut que je l’essaie!’ cried she, ‘et e l’instant meme!’ and she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process and in a few minutes she will re-enter. I know what I shall see—a miniature of Celine Varens as she used to appear . . . but never mind that. My tenderest feelings are about to receive a shock.”
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 and her feet were dressed in 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 sashayed 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, Miss Eyre. 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. 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.”