One morning I fell to sketching a face:what sort of a face it was to be,I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil,gave it a broad point, and worked away.Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. “Good!but not quite the thing,” I thought,as I surveyed the effect:“they want more force and spirit;” and I wrought the shades blacker,that the lights might flash more brilliantly—a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend’s face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me?I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness:I was absorbed and content.
“Is that a portrait of some one you know?” asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed.I responded that it was merely a fancy head,and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course,I lied: it was, in fact,a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester.But what was that to her, or to any one but myself?Georgiana also advanced to look.The other drawings pleased her much,but she called that “an ugly man.” They both seemed surprised at my skill.I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn,sat for a pencil outline.Then Georgiana produced her album.I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing:this put her at once into good humour.She proposed a walk in the grounds.Before we had been out two hours,we were deep in a confidential conversation:she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago—of the admiration she had there excited—the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme—herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother’s illness, or her brother’s death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother’s sick-room, and no more.
Eliza still spoke little:she had evidently no time to talk.I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be;yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather,to discover any result of her diligence.She had an alarm to call her up early.I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast,but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions,and each hour had its allotted task.Three times a day she studied a little book,which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book.I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume,and she said, “the Rubric.” Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread,the border of a square crimson cloth,almost large enough for a carpet.In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article,she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.
She told me one evening,when more disposed to be communicative than usual,that John’s conduct,and the threatened ruin of the family,had been a source of profound affliction to her:but she had now, she said, settled her mind,and formed her resolution.Her own fortune she had taken care to secure;and when her mother died—and it was wholly improbable,she tranquilly remarked,that she should either recover or linger long—she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.
“Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common:they never had had.She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration.Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers.”
Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me,spent most of her time in lying on the sofa,fretting about the dulness of the house,and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town. “It would be so much better,” she said, “if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.” I did not ask what she meant by “all being over,” but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister’s indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus—