"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.