He made me love him without looking at me.

Jane is falling harder for Mr. Rochester than ever, despite the many, many red flags.

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 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.”

To be fair, she clearly knows that this is a thorny situation, but the heart wants what it wants sometimes.

After a few more weeks, though, Mrs. Fairfax receives word that the whole party is heading to Thornfield, and as such, they’re all quite busy making the place ready, and even Jane starts getting excited.

[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 story 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; […]. 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 third story: 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 the 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 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.

Furthermore, Grace is clearly more than just a seamstress – she has some occupation that not just anyone could do. But of course, all this is forgotten when the party finally arrives.

Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another; each came gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous through the dusk. For a moment they stood grouped together at the other extremity of the gallery, conversing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity; they descended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill. Their collective appearance had left on me an impression of high-born elegance, such as I had never before received.
I found Adèle peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held ajar. “What beautiful ladies!” cried she in English. “Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send for us by-and-by, after dinner?”
“No, indeed, I don’t; Mr. Rochester has something else to think about. Never mind the ladies to-night; perhaps you will see them to-morrow; here is your dinner.”

Jane is immediately struck by the class difference, and she doesn’t run into the other ladies the first night. The next day, however, she talks to Mrs. Fairfax about Miss Ingram.

“You said it was not likely they should think of being married,” said I, “but you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of the other ladies.”
“Yes; I daresay: no doubt he admires her.”
“And she him,” I added; “look how she leans her head towards him as if she were conversing confidentially; I wish I could see her face; I have never had a glimpse of it yet.”
“You will see her this evening,” answered Mrs. Fairfax.

Mrs. Fairfax informs Jane that Mr. Rochester wants her and Adèle to meet the party in the evening; however, Mrs. Fairfax suggests that she just situate herself in the drawing-room before the party finishes dinner, thus saving her the awkwardness of a formal entrance.

Adèle, who appeared to be still under the influence of a most solemnising impression, sat down without a word, on the footstool I pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat, and, taking a book form a table near, endeavoured to read. Adele brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my knee.
“What is it, Adèle?”
“Est-ce que je ne puis pas prende une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques, mademoiselle? [
“Can’t I take just one of these magnificent flowers, mademoiselle?] Seulement pour completer ma toilette. [Just to complete my outfit]“
“You think too much of your “toilette,” Adèle, but you may have a flower.”

Naturally, Adèle is much more excited to meet the guests than Jane, but Jane is at least interested to know more about her high-class rival.

But the three most distinguished – partly, perhaps, because the tallest figures of the band – were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters, Blanche and Mary. They were all three of the loftiest stature of women. The dowager might well be between forty and fifty; her shape was still fine; her hair (by candlelight at least) still black; her teeth, too were still apparently perfect. Most people would have termed her a splendid woman of her age: and so she was, no doubt, physically speaking; but then there was an expression of almost insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance. She had Roman features and a double chin, disappearing into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to me not only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride; and the chin was sustained by the same principle, in a position of almost preternatural erectness. She had, likewise, a fierce and hard eye: it reminded me of Mrs. Reed’s; she mouthed her words in speaking; her voice was deep, its inflections very pompous, very dogmatical – very intolerable, in short. A crimson velvet robe, and a shawl turban of some gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I suppose she thought) with a truly imperial dignity.
Blanche and Mary were of equal stature – straight and tall as poplars. Mary was too slim for her height; but Blanche was moulded like a Dian. I regarded her, of course, with special interest. First, I wished to see whether her appearance accorded with Mrs. Fairfax’s description; secondly, whether it at all resembled the fancy miniature I had painted of her; and thirdly – it will out! – whether it were such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester’s taste.
As far as person went, she answered point to point, both to my picture and Mrs. Fairfax’s description. The noble bust, the sloping shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were all there – but her face? Her face was like her mother’s; a youthful unfurrowed likeness: the same low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a pride: she laughed continually; her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of her arched and haughty lip.
Genius is said to be self-conscious: I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious – remarkably self-conscious, indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seems Mrs. Dent had not studied that science: though, as she said, she liked flowers, “especially wild ones”; Miss Ingram had, and she ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed) trailing Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance; her trail might be clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played; her execution was brilliant; she sang; her voice was fine; she talked French apart to her mamma; and she talked it well, with fluency and with good accent.

The only thing that seemingly surprises her about Blanche is that she has decidedly darker skin, “like a Spaniard”, which also, incidentally, proves that “olive skin” isn’t meant to describe skin color, as many other people are described as having olive skin in this book (like Mr. Rochester), but with no comment about skin tone. Perhaps it’s meant to indicate smooth skin.

You are not to suppose, reader, that Adèle has all this time been sitting, motionless, on the stool at my feet: no; when the ladies entered, she rose, advanced to meet them, made a stately reverence, and said, with gravity, – “Bon jour, mesdames. [Good evening, ladies.]“
And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking air, and exclaimed, “Oh, what a little puppet!”
Lady Lynn had remarked, “It is Mr. Rochester’s ward, I suppose – the little French girl he was speaking of.”
Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a kiss. Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously –
“What love of a child!”
And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensconced between them, chattering alternately in French and broken English: absorbing not only the young ladies’ attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and getting spoilt to her heart’s content.

So Adèle seems to be getting all she wants out of the affair, but Jane naturally has mixed feelings (again).

And where is Mr. Rochester?
He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes of the purse I am forming – I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie on my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it: just after I rendered him, what he deemed an essential service – and he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to change his and my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were! So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the ladies.
[…]
Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’s colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth, – all energy, decision, will, – were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me: they were full of interest, an influence that quite mastered me, – that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him: the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my own soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously revived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.

So now, after he left suddenly and was away for weeks, he’s STILL ignoring her, even after he specifically requested her presence!

“He is not to them what he is to me,” I thought: “he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is, – I feel akin to him, – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have, gathers impulsively around him. I know I must conceal my sentiments; I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must then repeat continually that we are for ever sundered, and yet, while I breathe and think I must love him.”

They’re only separated by social conventions, but that’s a seemingly insurmountable rift in this era. And he only makes it worse.

“Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?”
“Nor am I.”
“Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that?” (pointing to Adèle) “Where did you pick her up?”
“I did not pick her up, she was left on my hands.”
“You should have sent her to school.”
“I could not afford it; schools are so dear.”
“Why, I suppose you have a governess for her; I saw a person with her just now – is she gone? Oh, no, there she is still behind the window-curtain. You pay her, of course; I should think it quite as expensive – more so, for you have both of them to keep in addition.”
I feared – or should I say, hoped? – the allusion to me would make Mr. Rochester glance my way, and I involuntarily shrank further into the shade: but he never turned his eyes.

and then he proceeds to encourage a discussion demeaning governesses

“I have not considered the subject,” said he indifferently, looking straight before him.
“No – you men never do consider economy and common sense. You should hear mamma on the chapter of governesses. Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at least in our day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all incubi – were they not, mamma?”
“Did you speak, my own?”
The young lady thus claimed as the dowager’s special property reiterated her question with an explanation.
“My dearest, don’t mention governesses; the word makes me nervous. I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice; I thank Heaven I have now done with them!”
Mrs. Dent here bent over to the pious lady, and whispered something in her ear; I suppose, from the answer elicited, it was a reminder that one of the anathematised race was present.
“Tant pis! [Never mind!]” said her ladyship, “I hope it may do her good.” Then, in a lower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, “I noticed her; I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see all the faults of her class.”

Thus Blanche proceeds to tell stories about her poor governesses (which she and her siblings naturally tormented as much as they could), including a story about a governess and a tutor supposedly falling in love, resulting in them telling their mother and getting BOTH fired. But when the Eshton girls chime in about a governess they rather liked (even if she may have been too indulgent), she changes the subject.

“I suppose now,” said Miss Ingram, curling her lips sarcastically, “we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses here extant; in order to avert such a visitation, I again move to the introduction of a new topic. Mr. Rochester, do you second my motion?”
“Madam, I support you on this point as on every other.”
“Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signor Eduardo, are you in voice to-night?”
“Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be.”
“Then, signor, I lay on you my sovereign behest to furbish up your lungs and other vocal organs, as they will be wanted on my royal service.”
“Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?”
“A fig for Rizzio!” cried she, tossing her head with all its curls, as she moved to the piano. “It is my opinion the fiddler David must have been an insipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell better. To my mind a man is nothing without the spice of the devil in him; and history may say what it will of James Hepburn, but I have a notion he was just the sort of wild, fierce, bandit hero whom I could have consented to gift with my hand.”
“Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?” cried Mr. Rochester.
“I should say the preference lies with you,” responded Colonel Dent.

James Hepburn (Earl of Bothwell) was infamous for his affair with Mary Queen of Scots, which allegedly ended in him murdering her husband. But this sets her off on a tangent about how she totally doesn’t need a handsome husband, and general flirtation between her and Mr. Rochester. And of course, he sings for her, too.

“Now is my time to slip away,” thought I; but the tones that severed the air arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice; he did – a mellow powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his own force; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired – till the tide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow; then I quitted my sheltered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall; in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for the purpose on the mat at the foot of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him; it was Mr. Rochester.
“How do you do?” he asked.
“I am very well, sir.”
“Why did you not come to speak to me in the room?”
I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it; but I would not take that freedom. I answered: – “I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir.”
“What have you been doing in my absence?”
“Nothing particular; teaching Adèle, as usual.”
“And getting a good deal paler than you were – as I saw at first sight. What is the matter?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”
“Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?”
“Not the least.”
“Return to the drawing-room; you are deserting too early.”
“I am tired, sir.”
He looked at me for a minute.
“And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”
“Nothing – nothing, sir. I am not depressed.”
“But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes – indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was not in dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well, to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it is my wish; don’t neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adèle. Good-night, my-” He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.

He’s one to talk! After abandoning her, he immediately takes up with Blanche, a very eligible and accomplished lady, visibly flirts with her, and even platforms a conversation deriding Jane’s chosen profession, which only serves to remind her of the vast disparity of class! And he has the gall to nettle HER for not interrupting a conversation to talk to HIM? He has no one to blame but himself!

Until next time…