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 be between forty and fifty： her shape was still fine； her hair (by candle-light 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 a 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 for 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 seemed 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 a good accent.
Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche；softer features too， and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)—but Mary was deficient in life： her face lacked expression， her eye lustre； she had nothing to say， and having once taken her seat， remained fixed like a statue in its niche. The sisters were both attired in spotless white.
And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be likely to make？ I could not tell—I did not know his taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic， she was the very type of majesty： then she was accomplished， sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her， I thought； and that he did admire her， I already seemed to have obtained proof： to remove the last shade of doubt， it remained but to see them together.
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.”
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 a 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.
At last coffee is brought in， and the gentlemen are summoned. I sit in the shade—if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment； the window-curtain half hides me. Again the arch yawns； they come. The collective appearance of the gentlemen， like that of the ladies， is very imposing： they are all costumed in black； most of them are tall， some young. Henry and Frédérick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed； and Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man. Mr. Eshton， the magistrate of the district， is gentleman-like： his hair is quite white， his eyebrows and whiskers still dark， which gives him something of the appearance of a “père noble de théatre.” Lord Ingram， like his sisters， is very tall； like them， also， he is handsome； but he shares Mary’s apathetic and listless look： he seems to have more length of limb than vivacity of blood or vigour of brain.
And where is Mr. Rochester？
