A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester: ten days, and still he did not

come.

Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to go straight from

the Leas to London, and thence to the Continent, and not show his face again at

Thornfield for a year to come; he had not

unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as abrupt and unexpected.

When I heard this, I was beginning to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart.

I was actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense of

disappointment; but rallying my wits, and recollecting my principles, I at once

called my sensations to order; and it was

wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder--how I cleared up the mistake of

supposing Mr. Rochester's movements a matter in which I had any cause to take a

vital interest.

Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of inferiority: on the contrary, I

just said--

"You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receive the

salary he gives you for teaching his protegee, and to be grateful for such

respectful and kind treatment as, if you do

your duty, you have a right to expect at his hands.

Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledges between you and him; so don't

make him the object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so forth.

He is not of your order: keep to your caste, and be too self-respecting to lavish

the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a gift is not wanted

and would be despised."

I went on with my day's business tranquilly; but ever and anon vague

suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit Thornfield;

and I kept involuntarily framing

advertisements and pondering conjectures about new situations: these thoughts I did

not think to check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.

Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post brought Mrs.

Fairfax a letter. "It is from the master," said she, as she

looked at the direction.

"Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not."

And while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on taking my coffee

(we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed to that circumstance a fiery

glow which suddenly rose to my face.

Why my hand shook, and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into my

saucer, I did not choose to consider.

"Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being busy enough

now: for a little while at least," said Mrs. Fairfax, still holding the note before

her spectacles.

Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of Adele's

pinafore, which happened to be loose: having helped her also to another bun and

refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly--

"Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?"

"Indeed he is--in three days, he says: that will be next Thursday; and not alone

either.

I don't know how many of the fine people at the Leas are coming with him: he sends

directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and the library and drawing-rooms

are to be cleaned out; I am to get more

kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote, and from wherever else I can; and

the ladies will bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a

full house of it."

And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to commence operations.

The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough.

I had thought all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged; but it

appears I was mistaken.

Three women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such brushing, such washing of

paint and beating of carpets, such taking down and putting up of pictures, such

polishing of mirrors and lustres, such

lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I

never beheld, either before or since.

Adele ran quite wild in the midst of it: the preparations for company and the

prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies.

She would have Sophie to look over all her "toilettes," as she called frocks; to

furbish up any that were "passees," and to air and arrange the new.

For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the front chambers, jump on and

off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and piled-up bolsters and

pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys.

From school duties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into her service,

and I was all day in the storeroom, helping (or hindering) her and the cook; learning

to make custards and cheese-cakes and

French pastry, to truss game and garnish desert-dishes.

The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for dinner at

six.

During the intervening period I had no time to nurse chimeras; and I believe I was as

active and gay as anybody--Adele excepted.

Still, now and then, I received a damping check to my cheerfulness; and was, in spite

of myself, thrown back on the region of doubts and portents, and dark conjectures.

This was when I chanced to see the third- storey staircase door (which of late had

always been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the form of Grace Poole, in

prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief;

when I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper;

when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,--just say a word,

perhaps, to the charwoman about the proper

way to polish a grate, or clean a marble mantelpiece, or take stains from papered

walls, and then pass on.

She would thus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate

pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for her private

solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt.

Only one hour in the twenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants below; all

the rest of her time was spent in some low- ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey:

there she sat and sewed--and probably

laughed drearily to herself,--as companionless as a prisoner in his dungeon.

The strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house, except me, noticed her

habits, or seemed to marvel at them: no one discussed her position or employment; no

one pitied her solitude or isolation.

I once, indeed, overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the

charwomen, of which Grace formed the subject.

Leah had been saying something I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked--

"She gets good wages, I guess?"

"Yes," said Leah; "I wish I had as good; not that mine are to complain of,--there's

no stinginess at Thornfield; but they're not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole

receives.

And she is laying by: she goes every quarter to the bank at Millcote.

I should not wonder but she has saved enough to keep her independent if she liked

to leave; but I suppose she's got used to the place; and then she's not forty yet,

and strong and able for anything.

It is too soon for her to give up business."

"She is a good hand, I daresay," said the charwoman.

"Ah!--she understands what she has to do,-- nobody better," rejoined Leah

significantly; "and it is not every one could fill her shoes--not for all the money

she gets."

"That it is not!" was the reply. "I wonder whether the master--"

The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned and perceived me, and she instantly

gave her companion a nudge.

"Doesn't she know?" I heard the woman whisper.

Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped.

All I had gathered from it amounted to this,--that there was a mystery at

Thornfield; and that from participation in that mystery I was purposely excluded.

Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening; carpets were laid

down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilet tables

arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled

in vases: both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make

them.

The hall, too, was scoured; and the great carved clock, as well as the steps and

banisters of the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the dining-

room, the sideboard flashed resplendent

with plate; in the drawing-room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed on all

sides.

Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown, her gloves, and her

gold watch; for it was her part to receive the company,--to conduct the ladies to

their rooms, &c.

Adele, too, would be dressed: though I thought she had little chance of being

introduced to the party that day at least.

However, to please her, I allowed Sophie to apparel her in one of her short, full

muslin frocks.

For myself, I had no need to make any change; I should not be called upon to quit

my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was now become to me,--"a very pleasant

refuge in time of trouble."

It had been a mild, serene spring day--one of those days which, towards the end of

March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth as heralds of

summer.

It was drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm, and I sat at work in

the schoolroom with the window open. "It gets late," said Mrs. Fairfax, entering

in rustling state.

"I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned; for it is

past six now.

I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on the road: one can

see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote."

She went to the window.

"Here he is!" said she. "Well, John" (leaning out), "any news?"

"They're coming, ma'am," was the answer. "They'll be here in ten minutes."

Adele flew to the window.

I followed, taking care to stand on one side, so that, screened by the curtain, I

could see without being seen.

The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels were heard; four

equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two open carriages.

Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cavaliers were

young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on his black horse,

Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his

side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party.

Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil streamed long on the

breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming