Читать книгу Сборник лучших произведений английской классической литературы. Уровень 3 - Эмили Бронте, Эмили Бронте - Страница 18

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day, which followed this sleepless night. I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. But the morning passed just as usual. Nothing interrupted the studies. Later I heard Mrs. Fairfax and the servants talking about the fire as if it had been nothing but an accident, which Mr. Rochester himself had dealt with.

“What a blessing he was not burnt in his bed!” they exclaimed. “It is always dangerous to keep a candle lit at night.” “It's a mercy he thought of using the water jug.”

When I walked past Mr. Rochester's room, I saw that everything had been cleaned up. The curtains were gone from the bed, and Leah was busy scrubbing the smoke-stained window panes.

I was about to go in and speak to her, when I saw someone else sitting in the room. It was Grace Poole. She was sewing new bed curtains, and looked as plain and poker-faced as ever. How could she still be here, after what she had done last night? I was sure she would have been dismissed immediately. I stepped into the room.

“Good morning, Grace,” I said. “Has anything happened here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago…”

“Only master had been reading in his bed last night. He fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire, but he woke up just in time to put out the fire.”

There was not a hint of guilt in her face.

“It's a wonder no one heard anything,” I said. “Didn't he wake anyone?”

“The servants sleep so far off,” said Grace, concentrating on her sewing. “Only you and Mrs. Fairfax sleep near this room, and she is an old lady and sleeps soundly. Why, did you hear something, Miss?” With this she looked up at me, and at last I thought I could see awareness behind her eyes.

“I did,” I said, “but I thought it was just Pilot. But then… Pilot does not laugh, does he? I heard a laugh.”

Grace took another piece of thread and threaded her needle purposefully. “I hardly think the master would laugh, Miss, when he was in such danger,” she remarked. “Perhaps you were dreaming.”

“I was not dreaming.”

“Have you told master that you heard a laugh?”

“I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning.”

“You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?” she further asked.

She seemed to interrogate me in return trying to find out how much I knew.

“On the contrary,” said I, “I bolted my door.”

“Don't you bolt it every night?”

“No.”

“It will be wise so to do.”

She looked down and our conversation was over.

For the rest of the day I puzzled over this mystery. What strange hold did Grace Poole have over Mr. Rochester? She had tried to murder him-he had told me as much last night-yet he had chosen to cover up her crime, and seemed to have no intention of getting rid of her.

I longed to see him, so I could ask him what was going on. We knew each other well enough by now, and I was sure I could raise the matter without offending him. But there was no sign of him. When I asked Mrs. Fairfax where he was, she was surprised I did not know that he was not in Thornfield.

“Mr. Rochester has gone to visit friends on the other side of Millcote,” she said. “They are having quite a party.”

“Is he expected back tonight?”

“No, nor tomorrow either-I should think he will stay a week or more. He's very popular among his friends, you know-especially the ladies.”

I felt a chill around my heart, but I pulled myself together while Mrs. Fairfax continued on: “One might not think him the best-looking of gentlemen, I suppose, but perhaps it is his wealth and his accomplishments that make the ladies like him.”

“Are there ladies at this party?” I asked.

“Oh, of course-Mrs. Eshton, and her three daughters, and Maria and Blanche Ingram-Blanche is the most beautiful of them all. I saw her when she came to a Christmas ball here, some years ago-the room fairly lit up when she walked in.”

“What is she like?”

“Tall and shapely, with lovely olive skin, and dark eyes, so sparkling they are, like jewels, and the thickest, glossiest black hair you ever saw, all in curls. On that night, she was wearing a white gown-how perfect she looked! She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet, I remember.”

“Mr. Rochester can sing?” I asked, trying to sound as calm as I could.

“Yes, he has a fine voice, like Miss Blanche.”

“How nice,” I smiled.

Alone in my room that night, I hated myself for ever thinking Mr. Rochester could like me. A few kind words, a look in his eye in a dark room filled with smoke-and I had dared to imagine he had feelings for me. Well, he did not. Why should he, when there were women like Blanche Ingram in his world-beautiful, accomplished, and of his own class? He would never choose me over someone like her. I had to stop dreaming.

I forced myself to look in the mirror at my plain little face, my thin lips, sallow skin and flat brown hair. I resolved to paint two pictures-one of myself, just as I was, and one of Blanche Ingram, beautiful and glowing, just as Mrs. Fairfax had described her. I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in crayons; and in less than a fortnight I completed a miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. Then, whenever I thought about Mr. Rochester, I looked at the pictures, and the contrast was as great as self-control could only desire.