A NEW chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play;

and when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you

see a room in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured

papering on the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such

furniture, such ornaments on the mantel-piece, such prints,

including a portrait of George the Third, and another of the Prince of

Wales, and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible

to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by

that of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my

muff and umbrella lie on the table, and I am warming away the numbness

and chill contracted by sixteen hours' exposure to the rawness of an

October day: I left Lowton at four o'clock A.M., and the Millcote town

clock is now just striking eight.

   Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very

tranquil in my mind. I thought when the coach stopped here there would

be some one to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the

wooden steps the 'boots' placed for my convenience, expecting to

hear my name pronounced, and to see some description of carriage

waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible;

and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire after a

Miss Eyre, I was answered in the negative: so I had no resource but to

request to be shown into a private room: and here I am waiting,

while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling my thoughts.

   It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel

itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection,

uncertain whether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and

prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has quitted.

The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride

warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me

became predominant when half an hour elapsed and still I was alone.

I bethought myself to ring the bell.

   'Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?' I asked

of the waiter who answered the summons.

   'Thornfield? I don't know, ma'am; I'll inquire at the bar.' He

vanished, but reappeared instantly-

   'Is your name Eyre, Miss?'

   'Yes.'

   'Person here waiting for you.'

   I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened into the

inn-passage: a man was standing by the open door, and in the

lamp-lit street I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance.

   'This will be your luggage, I suppose?' said the man rather

abruptly when he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage.

   'Yes.' He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of car,

and then I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to

Thornfield.

   'A matter of six miles.'

   'How long shall we be before we get there?'

   'Happen an hour and a half.'

   He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we

set off. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me ample time to

reflect; I was content to be at length so near the end of my

journey; and as I leaned back in the comfortable though not elegant

conveyance, I meditated much at my ease.

   'I suppose,' thought I, 'judging from the plainness of the

servant and carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person: so

much the better; I never lived amongst fine people but once, and I was

very miserable with them. I wonder if she lives alone except this

little girl; if so, and if she is in any degree amiable, I shall

surely be able to get on with her; I will do my best; it is a pity

that doing one's best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I

took that resolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with

Mrs. Reed, I remember my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray

God Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she does,

I am not bound to stay with her! let the worst come to the worst, I

can advertise again. How far are we on our road now, I wonder?'

   I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us;

judging by the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable

magnitude, much larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could

see, on a sort of common; but there were houses scattered all over the

district; I felt we were in a different region to Lowood, more

populous, less picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.

   The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse

walk all the way, and the hour and a half extended, I verily

believe, to two hours; at last he turned in his seat and said-

   'You're noan so far fro' Thornfield now.'

   Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad

tower against the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a

narrow galaxy of lights too, on a hillside, marking a village or

hamlet. About ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair

of gates: we passed through, and they clashed to behind us. We now

slowly ascended a drive, and came upon the long front of a house:

candlelight gleamed from one curtained bow-window; all the rest were

dark. The car stopped at the front door; it was opened by a

maid-servant; I alighted and went in.

   'Will you walk this way, ma'am?' said the girl; and I followed

her across a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered me

into a room whose double illumination of fire and candle at first

dazzled me, contrasting as it did with the darkness to which my eyes

had been for two hours inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and

agreeable picture presented itself to my view.

   A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair

high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable

little elderly lady, in widow's cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin

apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately

and milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat

demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the

beau-ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a

new governess could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur to

overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the

old lady got up and promptly and kindly came forward to meet me.

   'How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride;

John drives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire.'

   'Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?' said I.

   'Yes, you are right: do sit down.'

   She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my

shawl and untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she would not give herself

so much trouble.

   'Oh, it is no trouble; I daresay your own hands are almost numbed

with cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two:

here are the keys of the storeroom.'

   And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of

keys, and delivered them to the servant.

   'Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,' she continued. 'You've

brought your luggage with you, haven't you, my dear?'

   'Yes, ma'am.'

   'I'll see it carried into your room,' she said, and bustled out.

   'She treats me like a visitor,' thought I. 'I little expected

such a reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is

not like what I have heard of the treatment of governesses; but I must

not exult too soon.'

   She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and

a book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now

brought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather

confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever

before received, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior; but

as she did not herself seem to consider she was doing anything out

of her place, I thought it better to take her civilities quietly.

   'Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?' I

asked, when I had partaken of what she offered me.

   'What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf,' returned the

good lady, approaching her ear to my mouth.

   I repeated the question more distinctly.

   'Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your

future pupil.'

   'Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?'

   'No,- I have no family.'

   I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in what way

Miss Varens was connected with her; but I recollected it was not

polite to ask too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in time.

   'I am so glad,' she continued, as she sat down opposite to me,

and took the cat on her knee; 'I am so glad you are come; it will be

quite pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it is

pleasant at any time; for Thornfield is a fine old hall, rather

neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is a respectable

place; yet you know in winter-time one feels dreary quite alone in the

best quarters. I say alone- Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and John

and his wife are very decent people; but then you see they are only

servants, and one can't converse with them on terms of equality: one

must keep them at due distance, for fear of losing one's authority.

I'm sure last winter (it was a very severe one, if you recollect,

and when it did not snow, it rained and blew), not a creature but

the butcher and postman came to the house, from November till

February; and I really got quite melancholy with sitting night after

night alone; I had Leah in to read to me sometimes; but I don't

think the poor girl liked the task much: she felt it confining. In

spring and summer one got on better: sunshine and long days make

such a difference; and then, just at the commencement of this

autumn, little Adela Varens came and her nurse: a child makes a

house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay.'

   My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk;

and I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere

wish that she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.

   'But I'll not keep you sitting up late to-night,' said she; 'it

is on the stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all

day: you must feel tired. If you have got your feet well warmed,

I'll show you your bedroom. I've had the room next to mine prepared

for you; it is only a small apartment, but I thought you would like it

better than one of the large front chambers: to be sure they have

finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in

them myself.'

   I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt

fatigued with my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She

took her candle, and I followed her from the room. First she went to

see if the hall-door was fastened; having taken the key from the lock,

she led the way upstairs. The steps and banisters were of oak; the

staircase window was high and latticed; both it and the long gallery

into which the bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a

church rather than a house. A very chill and vault-like air pervaded

the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas of space and

solitude; and I was glad, when finally ushered into my chamber, to

find it of small dimensions, and furnished in ordinary, modern style.

   When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night, and I had

fastened my door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced

the eerie impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious

staircase, and that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my

little room, I remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and

mental anxiety, I was now at last in safe haven. The impulse of

gratitude swelled my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and

offered up thanks where thanks were due; not forgetting, ere I rose,

to implore aid on my further path, and the power of meriting the

kindness which seemed so frankly offered me before it was earned. My

couch had no thorns in it that night; my solitary room no fears. At

once weary and content, I slept soon and soundly: when I awoke it

was broad day.

   The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the sun

shone in between the gay blue chintz window curtains, showing

papered walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and

stained plaster of Lowood, that my spirits rose at the view. Externals

have a great effect on the young: I thought that a fairer era of

life was beginning for me- one that was to have its flowers and

pleasures, as well as its thorns and toils. My faculties, roused by

the change of scene, the new field offered to hope, seemed all

astir. I cannot precisely define what they expected, but it was

something pleasant: not perhaps that day or that month, but at an

indefinite future period.

   I rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain- for I

had no article of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity-

I was still by nature solicitous to be neat. It was not my habit to be

disregardful of appearance or careless of the impression I made: on

the contrary, I ever wished to look as well as I could, and to

please as much as my want of beauty would permit. I sometimes

regretted that I was not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy

cheeks, a straight nose, and small cherry mouth; I desired to be tall,

stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune that I

was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and so marked.

And why had I these aspirations and these regrets? It would be

difficult to say: I could not then distinctly say it to myself; yet

I had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too. However, when I had

brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my black frock- which,

Quakerlike as it was, at least had the merit of fitting to a nicety-

and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought I should do

respectably enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that my new

pupil would not at least recoil from me with antipathy. Having

opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all things straight and

neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.

   Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery

steps of oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there a minute; I

looked at some pictures on the walls (one, I remember, represented a

grim man in a cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl

necklace), at a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock

whose case was of oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and

rubbing. Everything appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then

I was so little accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door, which was

half of glass, stood open; I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine

autumn morning; the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and

still green fields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed

the front of the mansion. It was three storeys high, of proportions

not vast, though considerable: a gentleman's manor-house, not a

nobleman's seat: battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look.

Its grey front stood out well from the background of a rookery,

whose cawing tenants were now on the wing: they flew over the lawn and

grounds to alight in a great meadow, from which these were separated

by a sunk fence, and where an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong,

knotty, and broad as oaks, at once explained the etymology of the

mansion's designation. Farther off were hills: not so lofty as those

round Lowood, nor so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from

the living world; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming

to embrace Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to find

existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote. A little hamlet,

whose roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the side of one of

these hills; the church of the district stood nearer Thornfield: its

old tower-top looked over a knoll between the house and gates.

   I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet

listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the

wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place it

was for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that

lady appeared at the door.

   'What! out already?' said she. 'I see you are an early riser.' I

went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the

hand.

   'How do you like Thornfield?' she asked. I told her I liked it very

much.

   'Yes,' she said, 'it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be

getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his

head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it

rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require the presence

of the proprietor.'

   'Mr. Rochester!' I exclaimed. 'Who is he?'

   'The owner of Thornfield,' she responded quietly. 'Did you not know

he was called Rochester?'

   Of course I did not- I had never heard of him before; but the old

lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood

fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

   'I thought,' I continued, 'Thornfield belonged to you.'

   'To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the

housekeeper- the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to the

Rochesters by the mother's side, or at least my husband was; he was

a clergyman, incumbent of Hay- that little village yonder on the hill-

and that church near the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester's

mother was a Fairfax, second cousin to my husband: but I never presume

on the connection- in fact, it is nothing to me; I consider myself

quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper: my employer is always

civil, and I expect nothing more.'

   'And the little girl- my pupil!'

   'She is Mr. Rochester's ward; he commissioned me to find a

believe. Here she comes, with her "bonne," as she calls her nurse.'

The enigma then was explained: this affable and kind little widow

was no great dame; but a dependant like myself. I did not like her the

worse for that; on the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever.

The equality between her and me was real; not the mere result of

condescension on her part: so much the better- my position was all the

freer.

   As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by

her attendant, came running up the lawn. I looked at my pupil, who did

not at first appear to notice me: she was quite a child, perhaps seven

or eight years old, slightly built, with a pale, small-featured

face, and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.

   'Good morning, Miss Adela,' said Mrs. Fairfax. 'Come and speak to

the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some

day.' She approached.

   'C'est la ma gouvernante!' said she, pointing to me, and addressing

her nurse; who answered-

   'Mais oui, certainement.'

   'Are they foreigners?' I inquired, amazed at hearing the French

language.

   'The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent;

and, I believe, never left it till within six months ago. When she

first came here she could speak no English; now she can make shift

to talk it a little: I don't understand her, she mixes it so with

French; but you will make out her meaning very well, I daresay.'

   Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a

French lady; and as I had always made a point of conversing with

Madame Pierrot as often as I could, and had besides, during the last

seven years, learnt a portion of French by heart daily- applying

myself to take pains with my accent, and imitating as closely as

possible the pronunciation of my teacher, I had acquired a certain

degree of readiness and correctness in the language, and was not

likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She came and

shook hands with me when she heard that I was her governess; and as

I led her in to breakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her

own tongue: she replied briefly at first, but after we were seated

at the table, and she had examined me some ten minutes with her

large hazel eyes, she suddenly commenced chattering fluently.

   'Ah!' cried she, in French, 'you speak my language as well as Mr.

Rochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can

Sophie. She will be glad: nobody here understands her: Madame

Fairfax is all English. Sophie is my nurse; she came with me over

the sea in a great ship with a chimney that smoked- how it did smoke!-

and I was sick, and so was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr.

Rochester lay down on a sofa in a pretty room called the salon, and

Sophie and I had little beds in another place. I nearly fell out of

mine; it was like a shelf. And Mademoiselle- what is your name?'

   'Eyre- Jane Eyre.'

   'Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the morning,

before it was quite daylight, at a great city- a huge city, with

very dark houses and all smoky; not at all like the pretty clean

town I came from; and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over a

plank to the land, and Sophie came after, and we all got into a coach,

which took us to a beautiful large house, larger than this and

finer, called an hotel. We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie

used to walk every day in a great green place full of trees, called

the Park; and there were many children there besides me, and a pond

with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with crumbs.'

   'Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?' asked Mrs.

Fairfax.

   I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the fluent

tongue of Madame Pierrot.

   'I wish,' continued the good lady, 'you would ask her a question or

two about her parents: I wonder if she remembers them?'

   'Adele,' I inquired, 'with whom did you live when you were in

that pretty clean town you spoke of?'

   'I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy Virgin.

Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A great

many gentlemen and ladies came to see mama, and I used to dance before

them, or to sit on their knees and sing to them: I liked it. Shall I

let you hear me sing now?'

   She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give a

specimen of her accomplishments. Descending from her chair, she came

and placed herself on my knee; then, folding her little hands demurely

before her, shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the

ceiling, she commenced singing a song from some opera. It was the

strain of a forsaken lady, who, after bewailing the perfidy of her

lover, calls pride to her aid; desires her attendant to deck her in

her brightest jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false

one that night at a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her

demeanour, how little his desertion has affected her.

   The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I

suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love

and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very bad taste

that point was: at least I thought so.

   Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the naivete of

her age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, 'Now,

Mademoiselle, I will repeat you some poetry.'

   Assuming an attitude, she began 'La Ligue des Rats: fable de La

Fontaine.' She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to

punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an

appropriateness of gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and

which proved she had been carefully trained.

   'Was it your mama who taught you that piece?' I asked.

   'Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: "Qu'avez vous

donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!" She made me lift my hand- so-

to remind me to raise my voice at the question. Now shall I dance

for you?'

   'No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy Virgin,

as you say, with whom did you live then?'

   'With Madame Frederic and her husband: she took care of me, but she

is nothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine

a house as mama. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I

would like to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I

knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Madame Frederic, and he was always

kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you see he has not

kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone

back again himself, and I never see him.'

   After breakfast, Adele and I withdrew to the library, which room,

it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the

schoolroom. Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but

there was one bookcase left open containing everything that could be

needed in the way of elementary works, and several volumes of light

literature, poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, etc. I suppose

he had considered that these were all the governess would require

for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply for

the present; compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been

able to glean at Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of

entertainment and information. In this room, too, there was a

cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for

painting and a pair of globes.

   I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to

apply: she had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt

it would be injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I

had talked to her a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and

when the morning had advanced to noon, I allowed her to return to

her nurse. I then proposed to occupy myself till dinner-time in

drawing some little sketches for her use.

   As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs.

Fairfax called to me: 'Your morning school-hours are over now, I

suppose,' said she. She was in a room the folding doors of which stood

open: I went in when she addressed me. It was a large, stately

apartment, with purple chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet,

walnut-panelled walls, one vast window rich in stained glass, and a

lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases of

fine purple spar, which stood on a sideboard.

   'What a beautiful room!' I exclaimed, as I looked round; for I

had never before seen any half so imposing.

   'Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to

let in a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in

apartments that are seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels

like a vault.'

   She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung

like it with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by

two broad steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glimpse

of a fairy place, so bright to my novice-eyes appeared the view

beyond. Yet it was merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within it

a boudoir, both spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid

brilliant garlands of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of

white grapes and vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast

crimson couches and ottomans; while the ornaments on the pale Parian

mantelpiece were of sparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between

the windows large mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and

fire.

   'In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!' said I. 'No

dust, no canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly, one would

think they were inhabited daily.'

   'Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester's visits here are rare,

they are always sudden and unexpected; and as I observed that it put

him out to find everything swathed up, and to have a bustle of

arrangement on his arrival, I thought it best to keep the rooms in

readiness.'

   'Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?'

   'Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman's tastes and habits,

and he expects to have things managed in conformity to them.'

   'Do you like him? Is he generally liked?'

   'Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost all

the land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to

the Rochesters time out of mind.'

   'Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you like

him? Is he liked for himself?'

   'I have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I believe he is

considered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants: but he has

never lived much amongst them.'

   'But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his character?'

   'Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is rather

peculiar, perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great

deal of the world, I should think. I daresay he is clever, but I never

had much conversation with him.'

   'In what way is he peculiar?'

   'I don't know- it is not easy to describe- nothing striking, but

you feel it when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether

he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you

don't thoroughly understand him, in short- at least, I don't: but it

is of no consequence, he is a very good master.'

   This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer

and mine. There are people who seem to have no notion of sketching a

character, or observing and describing salient points, either in

persons or things: the good lady evidently belonged to this class;

my queries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr.

Rochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor- nothing more:

she inquired and searched no further, and evidently wondered at my

wish to gain a more definite notion of his identity.

   When we left the dining-room she proposed to show me over the

rest of the house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs,

admiring as I went; for all was well arranged and handsome. The

large front chambers I thought especially grand: and some of the

third-storey rooms, though dark and low, were interesting from their

air of antiquity. The furniture once appropriated to the lower

apartments had from time to time been removed here, as fashions

changed: and the imperfect light entering by their narrow casement

showed bed-steads of a hundred years old; chests in oak or walnut,

looking, with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs'

heads, like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs,

high-backed and narrow; stools still more antiquated, on whose

cushioned tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced

embroideries, wrought by fingers that for two generations had been

coffin-dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield

Hall the aspect of a home of the past: a shrine of memory. I liked the

hush, the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats in the day; but I by

no means coveted a night's repose on one of those wide and heavy beds:

shut in, some of them, with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought

old English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies of

strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings,-

all which would have looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam of

moonlight.

   'Do the servants sleep in these rooms?' I asked.

   'No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no

one ever sleeps here: one would almost say that, if there were a ghost

at Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt.'

   'So I think: you have no ghost, then?'

   'None that I ever heard of,' returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.

   'Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?'

   'I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been

rather a violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though,

that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now.'

   'Yes- "after life's fitful fever they sleep well,"' I muttered.

'Where are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?' for she was moving away.

   'On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?' I

followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence

by a ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now

on a level with the crow colony, and could see into their nests.

Leaning over the battlements and looking far down, I surveyed the

grounds laid out like a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely

girdling the grey base of the mansion; the field, wide as a park,

dotted with its ancient timber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a

path visibly overgrown, greener with moss than the trees were with

foliage; the church at the gates, the road, the tranquil hills, all

reposing in the autumn day's sun; the horizon bounded by a

propitious sky, azure, marbled with pearly white. No feature in the

scene was extraordinary, but all was pleasing. When I turned from it

and repassed the trap-door, I could scarcely see my way down the

ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault compared with that arch of

blue air to which I had been looking up, and to that sunlit scene of

grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the hall was the centre,

and over which I had been gazing with delight.

   Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I,

by dint of groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded

to descend the narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage

to which this led, separating the front and back rooms of the third

storey: narrow, low, and dim, with only one little window at the far

end, and looking, with its two rows of small black doors all shut,

like a corridor in some Bluebeard's castle.

   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.