"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.




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