udding on a tray, and I'll
carry it upstairs."

"You'll have some meat?"

"Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that's all."

"And the sago?"

"Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime: I'll
make it myself."

The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me:
so I departed.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration during
dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical
character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her
position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into
custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master's
service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her
criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing
her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold,
vindictive, and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of
the meanest of his dependants; so much in her power, that even when she
lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her with the
attempt, much less punish her for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think
that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in
her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could
not be admitted. "Yet," I reflected, "she has been young once; her youth
would be contemporary with her master's: Mrs. Fairfax told me once, she
had lived here many years. I don't think she can ever have been pretty;
but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and strength of
character to compensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr.
Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccentric
at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so
sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she
now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own
indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?" But,
having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat
figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my
mind's eye, that I thought, "No; impossible! my supposition cannot be
correct. Yet," suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own
hearts, "you are not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves
you: at any