Сборник лучших произведений английской классической литературы. Уровень 3

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.