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think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr.
Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was,
the idea could not be admitted. 'Yet,' I reflected, 'she has been
young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master's: Mrs.
Fairfax told me once, she had lived here many years. I don't think she
can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may possess
originality and strength of character to compensate for the want of
personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and
eccentric: Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a
freak very possible to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has
delivered him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions a
secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which he
cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?' But, having reached this
point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat figure, and uncomely,
dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind's eye, that I
thought, 'No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,'
suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, 'you
are not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at
any rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last night- remember
his words; remember his look; remember his voice!'
I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the
moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Adele was
drawing; I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a
sort of start.
'Qu'avez-vous, mademoiselle?' said she. 'Vos doigts tremblent comme
la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme des cerises!'
'I am hot, Adele, with stooping!' She went on sketching; I went
on thinking.
I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been
conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared
myself with her, and found we were different. Bessie Leaven had said I
was quite a lady; and she spoke truth- I was a lady. And now I
looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me; I had more colour
and more flesh, more life, more vivacity, because I had brighter hopes
and keener enjoyments.
'Evening approaches,' said I, as I looked towards the window. 'I
have never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step in the house to-day;
but surely I shall see him before night: I feared the meeting in the
morning; now I desire it, because expectation has been so long baffled
that it is grown impatient.'
When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go and play in
the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for
the bell to ring below; I listened for Leah coming up with a
message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester's own tread, and
I turned to the door, expecting it to open and admit him. The door
remained shut; darkness only came in through the window. Still it