JANE EYRE

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

BY

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

_ILLUSTRATED BY F. H. TOWNSEND_

PREFACE

A preface to the first edition of "Jane Eyre" being unnecessary, I gave

none: this second edition demands a few words both of acknowledgment

and

miscellaneous remark.

My thanks are due in three quarters.

To the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to a plain tale

with

few pretensions.

To the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has opened to an

obscure aspirant.

To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy, their practical

sense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and unrecommended

Author.

The Press and the Public are but vague personifications for me, and I

must thank them in vague terms; but my Publishers are definite: so are

certain generous critics who have encouraged me as only large-hearted

and

high-minded men know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to them,

_i.e._, to my Publishers and the select Reviewers, I say cordially,

Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart.

Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided and approved

me,

I turn to another class; a small one, so far as I know, but not,

therefore, to be overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping few who

doubt the tendency of such books as "Jane Eyre:" in whose eyes whatever

is unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in each protest against

bigotry--that parent of crime--an insult to piety, that regent of God

on

earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious distinctions;

I

would remind them of certain simple truths.

Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion.

To

attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the

face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of

Thorns.

These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct

as

is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be

confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human

doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be

substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is--I

repeat

it--a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark

broadly

and clearly the line of separation between them.

The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been

accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show

pass for sterling worth--to let white-washed walls vouch for clean

shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose--to rase

the

gilding, and show base metal under it--to penetrate the sepulchre, and

reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is indebted to him.

Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied good concerning

him, but evil; probably he liked the sycophant son of Chenaannah

better;

yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped his ears

to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel.

There is a man in our own days whose words are not framed to tickle

delicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of

society, much as the son of Imlah came before the throned Kings of

Judah

and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like

and as vital--a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the satirist of

"Vanity Fair" admired in high places? I cannot tell; but I think if

some

of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire of his sarcasm, and over

whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation, were to take his

warnings in time--they or their seed might yet escape a fatal

Rimoth-Gilead.

Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him, Reader, because

I

think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his

contemporaries have yet recognised; because I regard him as the first

social regenerator of the day--as the very master of that working corps

who would restore to rectitude the warped system of things; because I

think no commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison that

suits him, the terms which rightly characterise his talent. They say

he

is like Fielding: they talk of his wit, humour, comic powers. He

resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on

carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour

attractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that

the mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of the summercloud

does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I

have

alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to him--if he will accept the tribute

of a total stranger--I have dedicated this second edition of "JANE

EYRE."

CURRER BELL.

_December_ 21_st_, 1847.

NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION

I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition of "Jane Eyre"

affords me, of again addressing a word to the Public, to explain that

my

claim to the title of novelist rests on this one work alone. If,

therefore, the authorship of other works of fiction has been attributed

to me, an honour is awarded where it is not merited; and consequently,

denied where it is justly due.

This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which may already have

been made, and to prevent future errors.

CURRER BELL.

_April_ 13_th_, 1848.

CHAPTER I

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been

wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning;

but

since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the

cold

winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so

penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the

question.

I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly

afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight,

with

nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of

Bessie,

the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority

to

Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.

The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama

in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and

with

her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying)

looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group;

saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a

distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by

her

own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a

more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and

sprightly

manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she

really

must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy,

little children."

"What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked.

"Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is

something

truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be

seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent."

A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It

contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care

that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the windowseat:

gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and,

having

drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double

retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left

were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from

the

drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my

book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered

a

pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat

shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and

lamentable blast.

I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the

letterpress

thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were

certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite

as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of

"the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the

coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the

Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape--

"Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,

Boils round the naked, melancholy isles

Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge

Pours in among the stormy Hebrides."

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of

Lapland,

Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast

sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--

that

reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation

of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights,

surround

the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of

these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all

the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains,

but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages

connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave

significance

to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the

broken

boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon

glancing

through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.

I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard,

with

its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon,

girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the

hour of eventide.

The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine

phantoms.

The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over

quickly: it was an object of terror.

So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a

distant

crowd surrounding a gallows.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped

understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting:

as

interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings,

when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her

ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it,

and

while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap

borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure

taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period

I

discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland.

With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I

feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The

breakfastroom

door opened.

"Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he

found the room apparently empty.

"Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to

his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--

bad

animal!"

"It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he

might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it

out

himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza

just

put her head in at the door, and said at once--

"She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack."

And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged

forth by the said Jack.

"What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence.

"Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to

come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a

gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than

I,

for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and

unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs

and

large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made

him

bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He

ought

now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month

or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master,

affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and

sweetmeats

sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so

harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's

sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after

home.

John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an

antipathy

to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week,

nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared

him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near.

There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired,

because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his

inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by

taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the

subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did

both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however,

behind

her back.

Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some

three

minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without

damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the

blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would

presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for,

all

at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I

tottered,

and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his

chair.

"That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he,

"and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look

you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!"

Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it;

my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the

insult.

"What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked.

"I was reading."

"Show the book."

I returned to the window and fetched it thence.

"You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama

says;

you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not

to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals

we

do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to

rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to

me,

or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of

the mirror and the windows."

I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him

lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively

started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume

was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and

cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its

climax; other feelings succeeded.

"Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like

a

slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!"

I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of

Nero, Caligula, &c. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I

never

thought thus to have declared aloud.

"What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her,

Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--"

He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had

closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a

murderer.

I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and

was

sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time

predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't

very

well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and

bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for

Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed

by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words--

"Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!"

"Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!"

Then Mrs. Reed subjoined--

"Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands

were

immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

CHAPTER II

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which

greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were

disposed

to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or

rather

_out_ of myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a

moment's

mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like

any

other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all

lengths.

"Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she's like a mad cat."

"For shame! for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct,

Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your

young master."

"Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?"

"No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep.

There, sit down, and think over your wickedness."

They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed,

and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a

spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly.

"If you don't sit still, you must be tied down," said Bessie. "Miss

Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly."

Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature.

This

preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a

little of the excitement out of me.

"Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir."

In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands.

"Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was

really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot

stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as

incredulous of my sanity.

"She never did so before," at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail.

"But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told Missis often my

opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me. She's an underhand

little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover."

Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said--"You ought

to

be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps

you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the

poorhouse."

I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very

first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This

reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very

painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined

in--

"And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses

Reed

and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with

them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it

is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to

them."

"What we tell you is for your good," added Bessie, in no harsh voice,

"you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would

have

a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send

you

away, I am sure."

"Besides," said Miss Abbot, "God will punish her: He might strike her

dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come,

Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for anything. Say

your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don't

repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and

fetch you away."

They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them.

The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say

never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead

Hall

rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it

contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the

mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with

curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre;

the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half

shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red;

the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the

walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe,

the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out

of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the

piledup

mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles

counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair

near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and

looking, as I thought, like a pale throne.

This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent,

because

remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be

so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to

wipe

from the mirrors and the furniture a week's quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed

herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a

certain

secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her

jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased husband; and in those

last

words lies the secret of the red-room--the spell which kept it so

lonely

in spite of its grandeur.

Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed

his

last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the

undertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration

had

guarded it from frequent intrusion.

My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted,

was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before

me;

to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued,

broken

reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the

muffled

windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty

of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the

door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no

jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the

lookingglass;

my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it

revealed.

All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality:

and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and

arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all

else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one

of

the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's evening stories

represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing

before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my stool.

Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour

for

complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted

slave

was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush

of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present.

All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifference,

all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in

my

disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always

suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why

could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one's

favour?

Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who

had

a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage,

was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden

curls,

seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase

indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished;

though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little peachicks,

set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit,

and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he

called

his mother "old girl," too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin,

similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently

tore

and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still "her own darling." I

dared

commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed

naughty

and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon

to

night.

My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no

one had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had

turned

against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with

general opprobrium.

"Unjust!--unjust!" said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus

into

precocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up,

instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable

oppression--as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never

eating or drinking more, and letting myself die.

What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all

my

brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what

darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could

not answer the ceaseless inward question--_why_ I thus suffered; now,

at

the distance of--I will not say how many years, I see it clearly.

I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had

nothing

in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If

they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were

not

bound to regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise with

one

amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in

capacity, in propensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their

interest, or adding to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the

germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment.

I

know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting,

handsome,

romping child--though equally dependent and friendless--Mrs. Reed would

have endured my presence more complacently; her children would have

entertained for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the

servants

would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery.

Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o'clock, and

the

beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain

still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind

howling

in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and

then

my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn

depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was

wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just

conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was a crime:

and

was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead

Church

an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie

buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with

gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my

own

uncle--my mother's brother--that he had taken me when a parentless

infant

to his house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of

Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own

children.

Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she

had,

I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her; but how could she

really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her,

after her husband's death, by any tie? It must have been most irksome

to

find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a

parent to a strange child she could not love, and to see an uncongenial

alien permanently intruded on her own family group.

A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not--never doubted--that

if

Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I

sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls--occasionally also

turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaning mirror--I began to

recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the

violation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the

perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit,

harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child, might quit its

abode--whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the

departed--and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and

hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a

preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed

face, bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in

theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I

endeavoured to stifle it--I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair

from

my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room;

at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a

ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No;

moonlight

was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling

and quivered over my head. I can now conjecture readily that this

streak

of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some

one across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for horror,

shaken

as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a

herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick,

my

head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of

wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance

broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate

effort.

Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and

Abbot entered.

"Miss Eyre, are you ill?" said Bessie.

"What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!" exclaimed Abbot.

"Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" was my cry.

"What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again demanded

Bessie.

"Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I had now got

hold of Bessie's hand, and she did not snatch it from me.

"She has screamed out on purpose," declared Abbot, in some disgust.

"And

what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused

it,

but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks."

"What is all this?" demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed

came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling

stormily.

"Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be

left

in the red-room till I came to her myself."

"Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma'am," pleaded Bessie.

"Let her go," was the only answer. "Loose Bessie's hand, child: you

cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor

artifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that

tricks

will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only

on

condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you

then."

"O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it--let me be

punished

some other way! I shall be killed if--"

"Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:" and so, no doubt, she

felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely looked

on

me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous

duplicity.

Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now

frantic

anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in,

without

farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was

gone,

I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene.

CHAPTER III

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had

a

frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed

with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow

sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation,

uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my

faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me;

lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more

tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my

head

against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite

well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery

fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the

bedfoot

with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my

pillow, leaning over me.

I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and

security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an

individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed.

Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me

than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the

face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary,

sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for

herself and the children she employed a physician.

"Well, who am I?" he asked.

I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took

it,

smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by." Then he laid me

down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was

not disturbed during the night. Having given some further directions,

and intimates that he should call again the next day, he departed; to

my

grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair

near

my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened

and

my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.

"Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather

softly.

Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be

rough. "I will try."

"Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?"

"No, thank you, Bessie."

"Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but you

may call me if you want anything in the night."

Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.

"Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?"

"You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be

better

soon, no doubt."

Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heard

her

say--

"Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my life be

alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it's such a strange

thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis

was

rather too hard."

Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering

together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of

their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer

the main subject discussed.

"Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished"--"A great

black dog behind him"--"Three loud raps on the chamber door"--"A light

in

the churchyard just over his grave," &c. &c.

At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the

watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained by

dread: such dread as children only can feel.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the

redroom;

it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation

to

this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental

suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did:

while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my

bad propensities.

Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by

the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my

worse

ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which

kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop

from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I ought to have

been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gone out in

the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too, was sewing in another room,

and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and

arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of

unwonted

kindness. This state of things should have been to me a paradise of

peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and

thankless

fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that

no

calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.

Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a

tart

on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise,

nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir

in

me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often

petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more

closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a

privilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was

cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain

favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished

for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird,

the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and

tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word _book_ acted

as

a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from

the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight. I

considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of

interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves,

having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under

mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at

length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of

England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker,

and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being,

in

my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that I

might

one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little

fields,

houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and

birds

of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs,

the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet,

when

this cherished volume was now placed in my hand--when I turned over its

leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till

now,

never failed to find--all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt

goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most

desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed the

book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside

the

untasted tart.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed

her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds

of

silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana's doll.

Meantime she sang: her song was--

"In the days when we went gipsying,

A long time ago."

I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for

Bessie had a sweet voice,--at least, I thought so. But now, though her

voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness.

Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low,

very

lingeringly; "A long time ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a

funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really

doleful

one.

"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;

Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;

Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary

Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,

Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?

Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only

Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,

Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,

God, in His mercy, protection is showing,

Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,

Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,

Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,

Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me,

Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;

Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;

God is a friend to the poor orphan child."

"Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie as she finished. She might

as

well have said to the fire, "don't burn!" but how could she divine the

morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning

Mr.

Lloyd came again.

"What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well, nurse,

how is she?"

Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

"Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name

is Jane, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, Jane Eyre."

"Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what

about?

Have you any pain?"

"No, sir."

"Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis

in

the carriage," interposed Bessie.

"Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness."

I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge,

I

answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate

going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable."

"Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie.

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before

him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and

grey;

not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had

a

hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at

leisure, he said--

"What made you ill yesterday?"

"She had a fall," said Bessie, again putting in her word.

"Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk at her

age? She must be eight or nine years old."

"I was knocked down," was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by

another pang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me ill," I

added;

while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang

for

the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you, nurse,"

said

he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come

back."

Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because

punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.

"The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloyd when

Bessie was gone.

"I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark."

I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.

"Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"

"Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out

there.

Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can

help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle,--so

cruel

that I think I shall never forget it."

"Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now

in

daylight?"

"No: but night will come again before long: and besides,--I am

unhappy,--very unhappy, for other things."

"What other things? Can you tell me some of them?"

How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it

was

to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their

feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they

know

not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful,

however,

of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by

imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre,

though, as far as it went, true response.

"For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters."

"You have a kind aunt and cousins."

Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced--

"But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the redroom."

Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.

"Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" asked he.

"Are

you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?"

"It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here

than a servant."

"Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid

place?"

"If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can

never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman."

"Perhaps you may--who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs.

Reed?"

"I think not, sir."

"None belonging to your father?"

"I don't know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might

have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about

them."

"If you had such, would you like to go to them?"

I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to

children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable

poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes,

scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty

for me was synonymous with degradation.

"No; I should not like to belong to poor people," was my reply.

"Not even if they were kind to you?"

I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being

kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to

be

uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes

nursing

their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the

village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty

at

the price of caste.

"But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?"

"I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly

set: I should not like to go a begging."

"Would you like to go to school?"

Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes

spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore

backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise:

John

Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed's tastes

were

no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts of school-discipline

(gathered

from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to

Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain

accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought,

equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes

and

flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they

could

play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate;

till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, school

would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire

separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.

"I should indeed like to go to school," was the audible conclusion of

my

musings.

"Well, well! who knows what may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up.

"The child ought to have change of air and scene," he added, speaking

to

himself; "nerves not in a good state."

Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling

up

the gravel-walk.

"Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "I should like to

speak

to her before I go."

Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way

out.

In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume,

from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my

being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily

enough

adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when

both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as

they thought, asleep, "Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get

rid

of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she

were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand." Abbot, I

think,

gave me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.

On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot's

communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman;

that

my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who

considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so

irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that

after my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught

the

typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing

town

where his curacy was situated, and where that disease was then

prevalent:

that my mother took the infection from him, and both died within a

month

of each other.

Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor Miss Jane

is to be pitied, too, Abbot."

"Yes," responded Abbot; "if she were a nice, pretty child, one might

compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a

little toad as that."

"Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed Bessie: "at any rate, a beauty

like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition."

"Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried the fervent Abbot. "Little

darling!--with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet

colour

as she has; just as if she were painted!--Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh

rabbit for supper."

"So could I--with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down." They went.

CHAPTER IV

From my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported

conference

between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a

motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,--I desired and

waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I

had

regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to the

subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me at times with a

severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since my illness, she had drawn a

more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own

children;

appointing me a small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning me to

take

my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins

were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a hint, however, did she drop

about sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certainty that

she would not long endure me under the same roof with her; for her

glance, now more than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable

and rooted aversion.

Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me

as

little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw

me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against

him, roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt

which

had stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to desist, and

ran

from me tittering execrations, and vowing I had burst his nose. I had

indeed levelled at that prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles

could inflict; and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him,

I

had the greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to purpose; but

he

was already with his mama. I heard him in a blubbering tone commence

the

tale of how "that nasty Jane Eyre" had flown at him like a mad cat: he

was stopped rather harshly--

"Don't talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she

is

not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or your sisters

should associate with her."

Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and without at

all

deliberating on my words--

"They are not fit to associate with me."

Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange and

audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me like a

whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of my

crib,

dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter one

syllable during the remainder of the day.

"What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?" was my scarcely

voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my

tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance:

something spoke out of me over which I had no control.

"What?" said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey

eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took her hand from my

arm,

and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or

fiend. I was now in for it.

"My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so

can

papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you

wish me dead."

Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she

boxed

both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied the

hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in which she proved beyond a

doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under

a

roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings surging

in my breast.

November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the

New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer;

presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given.

From

every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety

consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza and Georgiana,

and

seeing them descend to the drawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin

frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair elaborately ringletted; and

afterwards, in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp played

below, to the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the

jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken

hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed. When

tired of this occupation, I would retire from the stairhead to the

solitary and silent nursery: there, though somewhat sad, I was not

miserable. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to go into

company,

for in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been

kind

and companionable, I should have deemed it a treat to spend the

evenings

quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of

Mrs. Reed, in a room full of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon

as she had dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the

lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper's room, generally bearing

the candle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till the

fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing

worse

than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a

dull

red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might,

and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I

always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the

dearth

of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in

loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature

scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I

doated on this little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of

sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown;

and

when it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, believing

it

to be happy likewise.

Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company,

and

listened for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs: sometimes she

would come up in the interval to seek her thimble or her scissors, or

perhaps to bring me something by way of supper--a bun or a

cheese-cake--then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I

had

finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me,

and said, "Good night, Miss Jane." When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to

me

the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished most

intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never

push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too often

wont to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good natural

capacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a remarkable knack

of

narrative; so, at least, I judge from the impression made on me by her

nursery tales. She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and

person are correct. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black

hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion; but

she

had a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas of principle

or

justice: still, such as she was, I preferred her to any one else at

Gateshead Hall.

It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o'clock in the morning:

Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins had not yet been summoned

to their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to

go

and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not less

so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding up the money she

thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic, and a marked propensity for

saving; shown not only in the vending of eggs and chickens, but also in

driving hard bargains with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and

slips of plants; that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy

of

his young lady all the products of her parterre she wished to sell: and

Eliza would have sold the hair off her head if she could have made a

handsome profit thereby. As to her money, she first secreted it in odd

corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these

hoards

having been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day

losing

her valued treasure, consented to intrust it to her mother, at a

usurious

rate of interest--fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exacted

every quarter, keeping her accounts in a little book with anxious

accuracy.

Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass, and

interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of

which she had found a store in a drawer in the attic. I was making my

bed, having received strict orders from Bessie to get it arranged

before

she returned (for Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of undernurserymaid,

to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.). Having spread

the

quilt and folded my night-dress, I went to the window-seat to put in

order some picture-books and doll's house furniture scattered there; an

abrupt command from Georgiana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny

chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property)

stopped

my proceedings; and then, for lack of other occupation, I fell to

breathing on the frost-flowers with which the window was fretted, and

thus clearing a space in the glass through which I might look out on

the

grounds, where all was still and petrified under the influence of a

hard

frost.

From this window were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage-road,

and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling

the panes as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a

carriage roll through. I watched it ascending the drive with

indifference; carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought

visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house,

the

door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this being

nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in

the

spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the

twigs

of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the casement.

The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and

having crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out

the crumbs on the window-sill, when Bessie came running upstairs into

the

nursery.

"Miss Jane, take off your pinafore; what are you doing there? Have you

washed your hands and face this morning?" I gave another tug before I

answered, for I wanted the bird to be secure of its bread: the sash

yielded; I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the

cherry-tree bough, then, closing the window, I replied--

"No, Bessie; I have only just finished dusting."

"Troublesome, careless child! and what are you doing now? You look

quite

red, as if you had been about some mischief: what were you opening the

window for?"

I was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed in too great a

hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to the washstand,

inflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands

with

soap, water, and a coarse towel; disciplined my head with a bristly

brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to the top of

the

stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the breakfast-room.

I would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs. Reed

was

there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door

upon

me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been

called to Mrs. Reed's presence; restricted so long to the nursery, the

breakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms were become for me awful regions,

on

which it dismayed me to intrude.

I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door,

and

I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon

had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I

feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the

parlour;

ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation; the vehement ringing of the

breakfast-room bell decided me; I _must_ enter.

"Who could want me?" I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the

stiff door-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts.

"What

should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?--a man or a woman?"

The

handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and curtseying

low,

I looked up at--a black pillar!--such, at least, appeared to me, at

first

sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the

rug:

the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft

by way of capital.

Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to

me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger

with the words: "This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to

you."

_He_, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood,

and

having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which

twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass

voice,

"Her size is small: what is her age?"

"Ten years."

"So much?" was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for

some minutes. Presently he addressed me--"Your name, little girl?"

"Jane Eyre, sir."

In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman;

but then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all

the

lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.

"Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?"

Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a

contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an

expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Perhaps the less said on

that

subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst."

"Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;" and bending

from the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-chair

opposite

Mrs. Reed's. "Come here," he said.

I stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight before him.

What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a

great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!

"No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especially a

naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?"

"They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer.

"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"

"A pit full of fire."

"And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for

ever?"

"No, sir."

"What must you do to avoid it?"

I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable:

"I must keep in good health, and not die."

"How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily.

I

buried a little child of five years old only a day or two since,--a

good

little child, whose soul is now in heaven. It is to be feared the same

could not be said of you were you to be called hence."

Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down

on

the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing myself far

enough away.

"I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of ever having

been the occasion of discomfort to your excellent benefactress."

"Benefactress! benefactress!" said I inwardly: "they all call Mrs. Reed

my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeable thing."

"Do you say your prayers night and morning?" continued my interrogator.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you read your Bible?"

"Sometimes."

"With pleasure? Are you fond of it?"

"I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel,

and

a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job

and Jonah."

"And the Psalms? I hope you like them?"

"No, sir."

"No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows

six

Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a

gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: 'Oh!

the

verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;' says he, 'I wish to be a little

angel here below;' he then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant

piety."

"Psalms are not interesting," I remarked.

"That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to

change

it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone

and

give you a heart of flesh."

I was about to propound a question, touching the manner in which that

operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs. Reed

interposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the

conversation herself.

"Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to

you three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the character

and disposition I could wish: should you admit her into Lowood school,

I

should be glad if the superintendent and teachers were requested to

keep

a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault,

a

tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing, Jane, that you may

not attempt to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst."

Well might I dread, well might I dislike Mrs. Reed; for it was her

nature

to wound me cruelly; never was I happy in her presence; however

carefully

I obeyed, however strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were

still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered

before a stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart; I dimly

perceived

that she was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence

which she destined me to enter; I felt, though I could not have

expressed

the feeling, that she was sowing aversion and unkindness along my

future

path; I saw myself transformed under Mr. Brocklehurst's eye into an

artful, noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the injury?

"Nothing, indeed," thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, and

hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.

"Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child," said Mr. Brocklehurst; "it

is akin to falsehood, and all liars will have their portion in the lake

burning with fire and brimstone; she shall, however, be watched, Mrs.

Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers."

"I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects,"

continued my benefactress; "to be made useful, to be kept humble: as

for

the vacations, she will, with your permission, spend them always at

Lowood."

"Your decisions are perfectly judicious, madam," returned Mr.

Brocklehurst. "Humility is a Christian grace, and one peculiarly

appropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore, direct that especial

care shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them. I have studied

how best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment of pride; and, only

the

other day, I had a pleasing proof of my success. My second daughter,

Augusta, went with her mama to visit the school, and on her return she

exclaimed: 'Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plain all the girls at Lowood

look, with their hair combed behind their ears, and their long

pinafores,

and those little holland pockets outside their frocks--they are almost

like poor people's children! and,' said she, 'they looked at my dress

and

mama's, as if they had never seen a silk gown before.'"

"This is the state of things I quite approve," returned Mrs. Reed; "had

I

sought all England over, I could scarcely have found a system more

exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency, my dear Mr.

Brocklehurst; I advocate consistency in all things."

"Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it has been

observed in every arrangement connected with the establishment of

Lowood:

plain fare, simple attire, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and

active habits; such is the order of the day in the house and its

inhabitants."

"Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as

a

pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to her position

and prospects?"

"Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants,

and I trust she will show herself grateful for the inestimable

privilege

of her election."

"I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I

assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was

becoming too irksome."

"No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. I shall

return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two: my good

friend, the Archdeacon, will not permit me to leave him sooner. I

shall

send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there

will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst,

and to Augusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst."

"I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the 'Child's

Guide,' read it with prayer, especially that part containing 'An

account

of the awfully sudden death of Martha G---, a naughty child addicted to

falsehood and deceit.'"

With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn

in a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she

was

sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed might be at that time some six

or

seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered

and

strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese: she had a

somewhat

large face, the under jaw being much developed and very solid; her brow

was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently

regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her

skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was

sound as a bell--illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever

manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control;

her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to

scorn;

she dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off

handsome attire.

Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her

figure; I perused her features. In my hand I held the tract containing

the sudden death of the Liar, to which narrative my attention had been

pointed as to an appropriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs.

Reed had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the whole tenor of

their

conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my mind; I had felt

every

word as acutely as I had heard it plainly, and a passion of resentment

fomented now within me.

Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine, her fingers

at the same time suspended their nimble movements.

"Go out of the room; return to the nursery," was her mandate. My look

or

something else must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with

extreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I

came back again; I walked to the window, across the room, then close up

to her.

_Speak_ I must: I had been trodden on severely, and _must_ turn: but

how?

What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered

my

energies and launched them in this blunt sentence--

"I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare

I

do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except

John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may give to your girl,

Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I."

Mrs. Reed's hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice

continued to dwell freezingly on mine.

"What more have you to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in which a

person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is

ordinarily

used to a child.

That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking

from

head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I continued--

"I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt

again

as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up;

and

if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say

the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with

miserable cruelty."

"How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?"

"How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the _truth_. You

think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or

kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember

how you thrust me back--roughly and violently thrust me back--into the

red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in

agony;

though I cried out, while suffocating with distress, 'Have mercy! Have

mercy, Aunt Reed!' And that punishment you made me suffer because your

wicked boy struck me--knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody

who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think you a good woman,

but you are bad, hard-hearted. _You_ are deceitful!"

{How dare I, Mrs. Ried? How dare I? Because it is the truth: p30.jpg}

Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult, with

the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as

if

an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhopedfor

liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked

frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her

hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her face as if she

would cry.

"Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do

you

tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?"

"No, Mrs. Reed."

"Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to

be

your friend."

"Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitful

disposition; and I'll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and

what

you have done."

"Jane, you don't understand these things: children must be corrected

for

their faults."

"Deceit is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice.

"But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow: and now return to

the

nursery--there's a dear--and lie down a little."

"I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs.

Reed, for I hate to live here."

"I will indeed send her to school soon," murmured Mrs. Reed _sotto

voce_;

and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment.

I was left there alone--winner of the field. It was the hardest battle

I

had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood awhile on the

rug, where Mr. Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's

solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce

pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the accelerated throb of my

pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had done; cannot

give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had given mine,

without

experiencing afterwards the pang of remorse and the chill of reaction.

A

ridge of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a

meet emblem of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed: the same

ridge, black and blasted after the flames are dead, would have

represented as meetly my subsequent condition, when half-an-hour's

silence and reflection had shown me the madness of my conduct, and the

dreariness of my hated and hating position.

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic

wine

it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic

and

corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned. Willingly

would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed's pardon; but I knew, partly

from experience and partly from instinct, that was the way to make her

repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every turbulent

impulse

of my nature.

I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fierce speaking;

fain find nourishment for some less fiendish feeling than that of

sombre

indignation. I took a book--some Arabian tales; I sat down and

endeavoured to read. I could make no sense of the subject; my own

thoughts swam always between me and the page I had usually found

fascinating. I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the

shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken by sun or

breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms with the skirt

of my frock, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation which was

quite sequestrated; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the

falling fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept

by past winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a

gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where

the short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a

most

opaque sky, "onding on snaw," canopied all; thence flakes felt it

intervals, which settled on the hard path and on the hoary lea without

melting. I stood, a wretched child enough, whispering to myself over

and

over again, "What shall I do?--what shall I do?"

All at once I heard a clear voice call, "Miss Jane! where are you?

Come

to lunch!"

It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light step

came tripping down the path.

"You naughty little thing!" she said. "Why don't you come when you are

called?"

Bessie's presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been

brooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat

cross.

The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was

not

disposed to care much for the nursemaid's transitory anger; and I _was_

disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart. I just put my two

arms round her and said, "Come, Bessie! don't scold."

The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to

indulge in: somehow it pleased her.

"You are a strange child, Miss Jane," she said, as she looked down at

me;

"a little roving, solitary thing: and you are going to school, I

suppose?"

I nodded.

"And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?"

"What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me."

"Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should

be bolder."

"What! to get more knocks?"

"Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that's certain. My mother

said,

when she came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one

of her own to be in your place.--Now, come in, and I've some good news

for you."

"I don't think you have, Bessie."

"Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well,

but

Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this

afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll ask cook to bake you a

little cake, and then you shall help me to look over your drawers; for

I

am soon to pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave Gateshead in a

day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take with you."

"Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go."

"Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don't be afraid

of

me. Don't start when I chance to speak rather sharply; it's so

provoking."

"I don't think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie, because I

have got used to you, and I shall soon have another set of people to

dread."

"If you dread them they'll dislike you."

"As you do, Bessie?"

"I don't dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all

the

others."

"You don't show it."

"You little sharp thing! you've got quite a new way of talking. What

makes you so venturesome and hardy?"

"Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides"--I was going to say

something about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed, but on second

thoughts I considered it better to remain silent on that head.

"And so you're glad to leave me?"

"Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I'm rather sorry."

"Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I dare say

now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn't give it me: you'd say

you'd _rather_ not."

"I'll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down." Bessie stooped; we

mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted.

That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie

told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her

sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

CHAPTER V

Five o'clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January,

when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and

nearly dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had

washed my face, and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just

setting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I

was to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which passed the lodge gates

at six a.m. Bessie was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire

in

the nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few

children

can eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I.

Bessie,

having pressed me in vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled milk

and

bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up some biscuits in a paper and

put them into my bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse and bonnet,

and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the nursery. As we

passed Mrs. Reed's bedroom, she said, "Will you go in and bid Missis

goodbye?"

"No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to

supper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins

either; and she told me to remember that she had always been my best

friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly."

"What did you say, Miss?"

"Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to

the wall."

"That was wrong, Miss Jane."

"It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she

has

been my foe."

"O Miss Jane! don't say so!"

"Good-bye to Gateshead!" cried I, as we passed through the hall and

went

out at the front door.

The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose

light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw.

Raw

and chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down

the drive. There was a light in the porter's lodge: when we reached

it,

we found the porter's wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had

been carried down the evening before, stood corded at the door. It

wanted but a few minutes of six, and shortly after that hour had

struck,

the distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach; I went to the

door

and watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.

"Is she going by herself?" asked the porter's wife.

"Yes."

"And how far is it?"

"Fifty miles."

"What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far

alone."

The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and

its

top laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged haste;

my

trunk was hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie's neck, to which I clung

with kisses.

"Be sure and take good care of her," cried she to the guard, as he

lifted

me into the inside.

"Ay, ay!" was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed

"All

right," and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead;

thus whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed, remote and

mysterious regions.

I remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed

to

me of a preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over

hundreds of miles of road. We passed through several towns, and in

one,

a very large one, the coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the

passengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where the

guard

wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in

an immense room with a fireplace at each end, a chandelier pendent from

the ceiling, and a little red gallery high up against the wall filled

with musical instruments. Here I walked about for a long time, feeling

very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one coming in and

kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having

frequently figured in Bessie's fireside chronicles. At last the guard

returned; once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector

mounted

his own seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the

"stony street" of L-.

The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I

began to feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we

ceased to pass through towns; the country changed; great grey hills

heaved up round the horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a

valley,

dark with wood, and long after night had overclouded the prospect, I

heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.

Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered

when the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open,

and a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and

dress

by the light of the lamps.

"Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?" she asked. I answered

"Yes," and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach

instantly drove away.

I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion

of the coach: Gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind,

and

darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before

me

and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide:

she

shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a house or

houses--for the building spread far--with many windows, and lights

burning in some; we went up a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and

were

admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage into a

room

with a fire, where she left me alone.

I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked

round;

there was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by

intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture:

it was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at

Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was puzzling to make out the

subject of a picture on the wall, when the door opened, and an

individual

carrying a light entered; another followed close behind.

The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and

large

forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance

was

grave, her bearing erect.

"The child is very young to be sent alone," said she, putting her

candle

down on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two,

then further added--

"She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?"

she

asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.

"A little, ma'am."

"And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to

bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to

come to school, my little girl?"

I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they

had

been dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read,

write, and sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with her

forefinger, and saying, "She hoped I should be a good child," dismissed

me along with Miss Miller.

The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with

me

appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look,

and air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of

a

careworn countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had

always

a multiplicity of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed, what I afterwards

found she really was, an under-teacher. Led by her, I passed from

compartment to compartment, from passage to passage, of a large and

irregular building; till, emerging from the total and somewhat dreary

silence pervading that portion of the house we had traversed, we came

upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a wide, long room,

with great deal tables, two at each end, on each of which burnt a pair

of

candles, and seated all round on benches, a congregation of girls of

every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the

dips, their number to me appeared countless, though not in reality

exceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks of

quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It was the hour of study;

they were engaged in conning over their to-morrow's task, and the hum I

had heard was the combined result of their whispered repetitions.

Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking

up

to the top of the long room she cried out--

"Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!"

Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered

the books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of

command--

"Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!"

The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray,

with

portions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a pitcher

of water and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were handed

round; those who liked took a draught of the water, the mug being

common

to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did

not

touch the food, excitement and fatigue rendering me incapable of

eating:

I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten cake shared into

fragments.

The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed

off, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I

scarcely noticed what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that,

like

the schoolroom, I saw it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss

Miller's bed-fellow; she helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced

at the long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two

occupants; in ten minutes the single light was extinguished, and amidst

silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.

The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream; I only once

awoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in

torrents, and to be sensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my

side. When I again unclosed my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the

girls

were up and dressing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or

two burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold,

and

I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when there was a

basin at liberty, which did not occur soon, as there was but one basin

to

six girls, on the stands down the middle of the room. Again the bell

rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the

stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers were

read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out--

"Form classes!"

A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller

repeatedly exclaimed, "Silence!" and "Order!" When it subsided, I saw

them all drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at

the

four tables; all held books in their hands, and a great book, like a

Bible, lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some

seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum of numbers; Miss

Miller walked from class to class, hushing this indefinite sound.

A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each

walked to a table and took her seat. Miss Miller assumed the fourth

vacant chair, which was that nearest the door, and around which the

smallest of the children were assembled: to this inferior class I was

called, and placed at the bottom of it.

Business now began, the day's Collect was repeated, then certain texts

of

Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of

chapters in the Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise

was terminated, day had fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now

sounded

for the fourth time: the classes were marshalled and marched into

another

room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a prospect of getting

something to eat! I was now nearly sick from inanition, having taken

so

little the day before.

The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables

smoked basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent

forth

an odour far from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of

discontent when the fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those

destined to swallow it; from the van of the procession, the tall girls

of

the first class, rose the whispered words--

"Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!"

"Silence!" ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the

upper teachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of

somewhat morose aspect, who installed herself at the top of one table,

while a more buxom lady presided at the other. I looked in vain for

her

I had first seen the night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller

occupied the foot of the table where I sat, and a strange,

foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards

found,

took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was said

and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the teachers,

and

the meal began.

Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my

portion

without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger blunted, I

perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost

as

bad as rotten potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons

were moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow

it;

but in most cases the effort was soon relinquished. Breakfast was

over,

and none had breakfasted. Thanks being returned for what we had not

got,

and a second hymn chanted, the refectory was evacuated for the

schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in passing the

tables,

I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and taste it; she looked

at the others; all their countenances expressed displeasure, and one of

them, the stout one, whispered--

"Abominable stuff! How shameful!"

A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which

the

schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it seemed

to

be permitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used their

privilege.

The whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused

roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss

Miller

was now the only teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing

about her spoke with serious and sullen gestures. I heard the name of

Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook

her

head disapprovingly; but she made no great effort to check the general

wrath; doubtless she shared in it.

A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and

standing in the middle of the room, cried--

"Silence! To your seats!"

Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved

into order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of

tongues.

The upper teachers now punctually resumed their posts: but still, all

seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the

eighty

girls sat motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all

with plain locks combed from their faces, not a curl visible; in brown

dresses, made high and surrounded by a narrow tucker about the throat,

with little pockets of holland (shaped something like a Highlander's

purse) tied in front of their frocks, and destined to serve the purpose

of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen stockings and country-made

shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty of those clad in this

costume were full-grown girls, or rather young women; it suited them

ill,

and gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest.

I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the

teachers--none of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a

little coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh

and

grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple, weather-beaten,

and over-worked--when, as my eye wandered from face to face, the whole

school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring.

What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I

had gathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes

were

now turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and

encountered the personage who had received me last night. She stood at

the bottom of the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at

each

end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss

Miller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having received

her

answer, went back to her place, and said aloud--

"Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!"

While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly

up the room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for

I

retain yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her

steps.

Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown

eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling of

long

lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on each of her

temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in round curls,

according to the fashion of those times, when neither smooth bands nor

long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of the day,

was

of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish trimming of black

velvet;

a gold watch (watches were not so common then as now) shone at her

girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture, refined features;

a

complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will

have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of the

exterior of Miss Temple--Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name

written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to carry to church.

The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her

seat before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the

first class round her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the

lower classes were called by the teachers: repetitions in history,

grammar, &c., went on for an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded,

and

music lessons were given by Miss Temple to some of the elder girls.

The

duration of each lesson was measured by the clock, which at last struck

twelve. The superintendent rose--

"I have a word to address to the pupils," said she.

The tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth, but it

sank at her voice. She went on--

"You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be

hungry:--I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be

served

to all."

The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.

"It is to be done on my responsibility," she added, in an explanatory

tone to them, and immediately afterwards left the room.

The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the

high delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now

given "To the garden!" Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings

of coloured calico, and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly

equipped, and, following the stream, I made my way into the open air.

The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to

exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one

side,

and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little

beds: these beds were assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate,

and each bed had an owner. When full of flowers they would doubtless

look pretty; but now, at the latter end of January, all was wintry

blight

and brown decay. I shuddered as I stood and looked round me: it was an

inclement day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened

by

a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still soaking wet with the

floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls ran about and

engaged

in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones herded together for

shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as the dense

mist

penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound of a

hollow cough.

As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of

me;

I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was

accustomed;

it did not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the verandah,

drew my grey mantle close about me, and, trying to forget the cold

which

nipped me without, and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me within,

delivered myself up to the employment of watching and thinking. My

reflections were too undefined and fragmentary to merit record: I

hardly

yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my past life seemed floated away to

an immeasurable distance; the present was vague and strange, and of the

future I could form no conjecture. I looked round the convent-like

garden, and then up at the house--a large building, half of which

seemed

grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part, containing the

schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows,

which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the door bore

this inscription:--

"Lowood Institution.--This portion was rebuilt A.D. ---, by Naomi

Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county." "Let your light

so

shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your

Father which is in heaven."--St. Matt. v. 16.

I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation

belonged to them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I

was

still pondering the signification of "Institution," and endeavouring to

make out a connection between the first words and the verse of

Scripture,

when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head. I saw

a

girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over a book, on the

perusal of which she seemed intent: from where I stood I could see the

title--it was "Rasselas;" a name that struck me as strange, and

consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look up,

and

I said to her directly--

"Is your book interesting?" I had already formed the intention of

asking

her to lend it to me some day.

"I like it," she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during

which

she examined me.

"What is it about?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the

hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was

contrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a

chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a

frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the

serious

or substantial.

"You may look at it," replied the girl, offering me the book.

I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less

taking than the title: "Rasselas" looked dull to my trifling taste; I

saw

nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed

spread over the closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she

received it quietly, and without saying anything she was about to

relapse

into her former studious mood: again I ventured to disturb her--

"Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means?

What

is Lowood Institution?"

"This house where you are come to live."

"And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from

other schools?"

"It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are

charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your

father or your mother dead?"

"Both died before I can remember."

"Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and

this

is called an institution for educating orphans."

"Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?"

"We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each."

"Then why do they call us charity-children?"

"Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the

deficiency is supplied by subscription."

"Who subscribes?"

"Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood

and in London."

"Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?"

"The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records,

and whose son overlooks and directs everything here."

"Why?"

"Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment."

"Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch,

and

who said we were to have some bread and cheese?"

"To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr.

Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and

all our clothes."

"Does he live here?"

"No--two miles off, at a large hall."

"Is he a good man?"

"He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good."

"Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?"

"Yes."

"And what are the other teachers called?"

"The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work,

and cuts out--for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses,

and

everything; the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she

teaches

history and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and the

one

who wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with

a

yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot: she comes from Lisle, in France, and

teaches French."

"Do you like the teachers?"

"Well enough."

"Do you like the little black one, and the Madame ---?--I cannot

pronounce her name as you do."

"Miss Scatcherd is hasty--you must take care not to offend her; Madame

Pierrot is not a bad sort of person."

"But Miss Temple is the best--isn't she?"

"Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest,

because

she knows far more than they do."

"Have you been long here?"

"Two years."

"Are you an orphan?"

"My mother is dead."

"Are you happy here?"

"You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough

for

the present: now I want to read."

But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the

house. The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more

appetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the

dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong

steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of

indifferent

potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked together.

Of

this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful was apportioned to each

pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myself whether every

day's fare would be like this.

After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons

recommenced, and were continued till five o'clock.

The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with

whom

I had conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd

from a history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large

schoolroom. The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignominious,

especially for so great a girl--she looked thirteen or upwards. I

expected she would show signs of great distress and shame; but to my

surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though grave, she

stood,

the central mark of all eyes. "How can she bear it so quietly--so

firmly?" I asked of myself. "Were I in her place, it seems to me I

should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she

were thinking of something beyond her punishment--beyond her situation:

of something not round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams-

-is

she in a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure

they do not see it--her sight seems turned in, gone down into her

heart:

she is looking at what she can remember, I believe; not at what is

really

present. I wonder what sort of a girl she is--whether good or

naughty."

Soon after five p.m. we had another meal, consisting of a small mug of

coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank

my coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more--I

was

still hungry. Half-an-hour's recreation succeeded, then study; then

the

glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was

my

first day at Lowood.

CHAPTER VI

The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by rushlight;

but this morning we were obliged to dispense with the ceremony of

washing; the water in the pitchers was frozen. A change had taken

place

in the weather the preceding evening, and a keen north-east wind,

whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long,

had

made us shiver in our beds, and turned the contents of the ewers to

ice.

Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-reading was over,

I

felt ready to perish with cold. Breakfast-time came at last, and this

morning the porridge was not burnt; the quality was eatable, the

quantity

small. How small my portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled.

In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class,

and

regular tasks and occupations were assigned me: hitherto, I had only

been

a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood; I was now to become an actor

therein. At first, being little accustomed to learn by heart, the

lessons appeared to me both long and difficult; the frequent change

from

task to task, too, bewildered me; and I was glad when, about three

o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of

muslin

two yards long, together with needle, thimble, &c., and sent me to sit

in

a quiet corner of the schoolroom, with directions to hem the same. At

that hour most of the others were sewing likewise; but one class still

stood round Miss Scatcherd's chair reading, and as all was quiet, the

subject of their lessons could be heard, together with the manner in

which each girl acquitted herself, and the animadversions or

commendations of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English

history: among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah:

at

the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the

class, but for some error of pronunciation, or some inattention to

stops,

she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure

position,

Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant notice: she

was continually addressing to her such phrases as the following:--

"Burns" (such it seems was her name: the girls here were all called by

their surnames, as boys are elsewhere), "Burns, you are standing on the

side of your shoe; turn your toes out immediately." "Burns, you poke

your chin most unpleasantly; draw it in." "Burns, I insist on your

holding your head up; I will not have you before me in that attitude,"

&c. &c.

A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the

girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles

I., and there were sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and

shipmoney,

which most of them appeared unable to answer; still, every

little

difficulty was solved instantly when it reached Burns: her memory

seemed

to have retained the substance of the whole lesson, and she was ready

with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd

would

praise her attention; but, instead of that, she suddenly cried out--

"You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your nails this

morning!"

Burns made no answer: I wondered at her silence. "Why," thought I,

"does

she not explain that she could neither clean her nails nor wash her

face,

as the water was frozen?"

My attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring me to hold a

skein

of thread: while she was winding it, she talked to me from time to

time,

asking whether I had ever been at school before, whether I could mark,

stitch, knit, &c.; till she dismissed me, I could not pursue my

observations on Miss Scatcherd's movements. When I returned to my

seat,

that lady was just delivering an order of which I did not catch the

import; but Burns immediately left the class, and going into the small

inner room where the books were kept, returned in half a minute,

carrying

in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous

tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtesy; then

she

quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher

instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with the

bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns' eye; and, while I paused

from

my sewing, because my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a

sentiment

of unavailing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive face

altered its ordinary expression.

"Hardened girl!" exclaimed Miss Scatcherd; "nothing can correct you of

your slatternly habits: carry the rod away."

Burns obeyed: I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the

book-closet; she was just putting back her handkerchief into her

pocket,

and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek.

The play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the

day at Lowood: the bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at

five

o'clock had revived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger: the long

restraint of the day was slackened; the schoolroom felt warmer than in

the morning--its fires being allowed to burn a little more brightly, to

supply, in some measure, the place of candles, not yet introduced: the

ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, the confusion of many voices gave

one a welcome sense of liberty.

On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog her

pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and

laughing

groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely: when I passed the

windows, I now and then lifted a blind, and looked out; it snowed fast,

a

drift was already forming against the lower panes; putting my ear close

to the window, I could distinguish from the gleeful tumult within, the

disconsolate moan of the wind outside.

Probably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this would

have been the hour when I should most keenly have regretted the

separation; that wind would then have saddened my heart; this obscure

chaos would have disturbed my peace! as it was, I derived from both a

strange excitement, and reckless and feverish, I wished the wind to

howl

more wildly, the gloom to deepen to darkness, and the confusion to rise

to clamour.

Jumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made my way to one of

the fire-places; there, kneeling by the high wire fender, I found

Burns,

absorbed, silent, abstracted from all round her by the companionship of

a

book, which she read by the dim glare of the embers.

"Is it still 'Rasselas'?" I asked, coming behind her.

"Yes," she said, "and I have just finished it."

And in five minutes more she shut it up. I was glad of this. "Now,"

thought I, "I can perhaps get her to talk." I sat down by her on the

floor.

"What is your name besides Burns?"

"Helen."

"Do you come a long way from here?"

"I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland."

"Will you ever go back?"

"I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future."

"You must wish to leave Lowood?"

"No! why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education; and it

would be of no use going away until I have attained that object."

"But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, is so cruel to you?"

"Cruel? Not at all! She is severe: she dislikes my faults."

"And if I were in your place I should dislike her; I should resist her.

If she struck me with that rod, I should get it from her hand; I should

break it under her nose."

"Probably you would do nothing of the sort: but if you did, Mr.

Brocklehurst would expel you from the school; that would be a great

grief

to your relations. It is far better to endure patiently a smart which

nobody feels but yourself, than to commit a hasty action whose evil

consequences will extend to all connected with you; and besides, the

Bible bids us return good for evil."

"But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and to be sent to stand

in

the middle of a room full of people; and you are such a great girl: I

am

far younger than you, and I could not bear it."

"Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is

weak and silly to say you _cannot bear_ what it is your fate to be

required to bear."

I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of

endurance; and still less could I understand or sympathise with the

forbearance she expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen

Burns considered things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected

she

might be right and I wrong; but I would not ponder the matter deeply;

like Felix, I put it off to a more convenient season.

"You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem very

good."

"Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am, as Miss

Scatcherd

said, slatternly; I seldom put, and never keep, things, in order; I am

careless; I forget rules; I read when I should learn my lessons; I have

no method; and sometimes I say, like you, I cannot _bear_ to be

subjected

to systematic arrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss

Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular."

"And cross and cruel," I added; but Helen Burns would not admit my

addition: she kept silence.

"Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?"

At the utterance of Miss Temple's name, a soft smile flitted over her

grave face.

"Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe to any one,

even the worst in the school: she sees my errors, and tells me of them

gently; and, if I do anything worthy of praise, she gives me my meed

liberally. One strong proof of my wretchedly defective nature is, that

even her expostulations, so mild, so rational, have not influence to

cure

me of my faults; and even her praise, though I value it most highly,

cannot stimulate me to continued care and foresight."

"That is curious," said I, "it is so easy to be careful."

"For _you_ I have no doubt it is. I observed you in your class this

morning, and saw you were closely attentive: your thoughts never seemed

to wander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned you.

Now,

mine continually rove away; when I should be listening to Miss

Scatcherd,

and collecting all she says with assiduity, often I lose the very sound

of her voice; I fall into a sort of dream. Sometimes I think I am in

Northumberland, and that the noises I hear round me are the bubbling of

a

little brook which runs through Deepden, near our house;--then, when it

comes to my turn to reply, I have to be awakened; and having heard

nothing of what was read for listening to the visionary brook, I have

no

answer ready."

"Yet how well you replied this afternoon."

"It was mere chance; the subject on which we had been reading had

interested me. This afternoon, instead of dreaming of Deepden, I was

wondering how a man who wished to do right could act so unjustly and

unwisely as Charles the First sometimes did; and I thought what a pity

it

was that, with his integrity and conscientiousness, he could see no

farther than the prerogatives of the crown. If he had but been able to

look to a distance, and see how what they call the spirit of the age

was

tending! Still, I like Charles--I respect him--I pity him, poor

murdered

king! Yes, his enemies were the worst: they shed blood they had no

right

to shed. How dared they kill him!"

Helen was talking to herself now: she had forgotten I could not very

well

understand her--that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of the subject she

discussed. I recalled her to my level.

"And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts wander then?"

"No, certainly, not often; because Miss Temple has generally something

to

say which is newer than my own reflections; her language is singularly

agreeable to me, and the information she communicates is often just

what

I wished to gain."

"Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good?"

"Yes, in a passive way: I make no effort; I follow as inclination

guides

me. There is no merit in such goodness."

"A great deal: you are good to those who are good to you. It is all I

ever desire to be. If people were always kind and obedient to those

who

are cruel and unjust, the wicked people would have it all their own

way:

they would never feel afraid, and so they would never alter, but would

grow worse and worse. When we are struck at without a reason, we

should

strike back again very hard; I am sure we should--so hard as to teach

the

person who struck us never to do it again."

"You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow older: as yet you are

but a little untaught girl."

"But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, whatever I do to

please them, persist in disliking me; I must resist those who punish me

unjustly. It is as natural as that I should love those who show me

affection, or submit to punishment when I feel it is deserved."

"Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but Christians and

civilised nations disown it."

"How? I don't understand."

"It is not violence that best overcomes hate--nor vengeance that most

certainly heals injury."

"What then?"

"Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says, and how He acts;

make His word your rule, and His conduct your example."

"What does He say?"

"Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them that

hate

you and despitefully use you."

"Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do; I should bless her

son

John, which is impossible."

In her turn, Helen Burns asked me to explain, and I proceeded forthwith

to pour out, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and resentments.

Bitter and truculent when excited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve

or

softening.

Helen heard me patiently to the end: I expected she would then make a

remark, but she said nothing.

"Well," I asked impatiently, "is not Mrs. Reed a hard-hearted, bad

woman?"

"She has been unkind to you, no doubt; because you see, she dislikes

your

cast of character, as Miss Scatcherd does mine; but how minutely you

remember all she has done and said to you! What a singularly deep

impression her injustice seems to have made on your heart! No illusage

so brands its record on my feelings. Would you not be happier if you

tried to forget her severity, together with the passionate emotions it

excited? Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity

or registering wrongs. We are, and must be, one and all, burdened with

faults in this world: but the time will soon come when, I trust, we

shall

put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies; when debasement and

sin will fall from us with this cumbrous frame of flesh, and only the

spark of the spirit will remain,--the impalpable principle of light and

thought, pure as when it left the Creator to inspire the creature:

whence

it came it will return; perhaps again to be communicated to some being

higher than man--perhaps to pass through gradations of glory, from the

pale human soul to brighten to the seraph! Surely it will never, on

the

contrary, be suffered to degenerate from man to fiend? No; I cannot

believe that: I hold another creed: which no one ever taught me, and

which I seldom mention; but in which I delight, and to which I cling:

for

it extends hope to all: it makes Eternity a rest--a mighty home, not a

terror and an abyss. Besides, with this creed, I can so clearly

distinguish between the criminal and his crime; I can so sincerely

forgive the first while I abhor the last: with this creed revenge never

worries my heart, degradation never too deeply disgusts me, injustice

never crushes me too low: I live in calm, looking to the end."

Helen's head, always drooping, sank a little lower as she finished this

sentence. I saw by her look she wished no longer to talk to me, but

rather to converse with her own thoughts. She was not allowed much

time

for meditation: a monitor, a great rough girl, presently came up,

exclaiming in a strong Cumberland accent--

"Helen Burns, if you don't go and put your drawer in order, and fold up

your work this minute, I'll tell Miss Scatcherd to come and look at

it!"

Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up, obeyed the monitor

without reply as without delay.

CHAPTER VII

My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden age

either;

it comprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating

myself

to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of failure in these points

harassed me worse than the physical hardships of my lot; though these

were no trifles.

During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after

their melting, the almost impassable roads, prevented our stirring

beyond

the garden walls, except to go to church; but within these limits we

had

to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing was

insufficient

to protect us from the severe cold: we had no boots, the snow got into

our shoes and melted there: our ungloved hands became numbed and

covered

with chilblains, as were our feet: I remember well the distracting

irritation I endured from this cause every evening, when my feet

inflamed; and the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw, and stiff toes

into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food was

distressing: with the keen appetites of growing children, we had

scarcely

sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this deficiency of

nourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on the younger

pupils: whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they

would

coax or menace the little ones out of their portion. Many a time I

have

shared between two claimants the precious morsel of brown bread

distributed at tea-time; and after relinquishing to a third half the

contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the remainder with an

accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the exigency of

hunger.

Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two

miles

to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated. We set out cold,

we arrived at church colder: during the morning service we became

almost

paralysed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of

cold

meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in our

ordinary

meals, was served round between the services.

At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and

hilly

road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy

summits

to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces.

I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our

drooping

line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered, gathered close

about her, and encouraging us, by precept and example, to keep up our

spirits, and march forward, as she said, "like stalwart soldiers." The

other teachers, poor things, were generally themselves too much

dejected

to attempt the task of cheering others.

How we longed for the light and heat of a blazing fire when we got

back!

But, to the little ones at least, this was denied: each hearth in the

schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a double row of great girls,

and

behind them the younger children crouched in groups, wrapping their

starved arms in their pinafores.

A little solace came at tea-time, in the shape of a double ration of

bread--a whole, instead of a half, slice--with the delicious addition

of

a thin scrape of butter: it was the hebdomadal treat to which we all

looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally contrived to

reserve

a moiety of this bounteous repast for myself; but the remainder I was

invariably obliged to part with.

The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church

Catechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew;

and

in listening to a long sermon, read by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible

yawns attested her weariness. A frequent interlude of these

performances

was the enactment of the part of Eutychus by some half-dozen of little

girls, who, overpowered with sleep, would fall down, if not out of the

third loft, yet off the fourth form, and be taken up half dead. The

remedy was, to thrust them forward into the centre of the schoolroom,

and

oblige them to stand there till the sermon was finished. Sometimes

their

feet failed them, and they sank together in a heap; they were then

propped up with the monitors' high stools.

I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst; and indeed

that

gentleman was from home during the greater part of the first month

after

my arrival; perhaps prolonging his stay with his friend the archdeacon:

his absence was a relief to me. I need not say that I had my own

reasons

for dreading his coming: but come he did at last.

One afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood), as I was sitting

with a slate in my hand, puzzling over a sum in long division, my eyes,

raised in abstraction to the window, caught sight of a figure just

passing: I recognised almost instinctively that gaunt outline; and

when,

two minutes after, all the school, teachers included, rose _en masse_,

it

was not necessary for me to look up in order to ascertain whose

entrance

they thus greeted. A long stride measured the schoolroom, and

presently

beside Miss Temple, who herself had risen, stood the same black column

which had frowned on me so ominously from the hearthrug of Gateshead.

I

now glanced sideways at this piece of architecture. Yes, I was right:

it

was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a surtout, and looking longer,

narrower, and more rigid than ever.

I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition; too well I

remembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my

disposition,

&c.; the promise pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst to apprise Miss Temple and

the teachers of my vicious nature. All along I had been dreading the

fulfilment of this promise,--I had been looking out daily for the

"Coming

Man," whose information respecting my past life and conversation was to

brand me as a bad child for ever: now there he was.

He stood at Miss Temple's side; he was speaking low in her ear: I did

not

doubt he was making disclosures of my villainy; and I watched her eye

with painful anxiety, expecting every moment to see its dark orb turn

on

me a glance of repugnance and contempt. I listened too; and as I

happened to be seated quite at the top of the room, I caught most of

what

he said: its import relieved me from immediate apprehension.

"I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will do; it

struck

me that it would be just of the quality for the calico chemises, and I

sorted the needles to match. You may tell Miss Smith that I forgot to

make a memorandum of the darning needles, but she shall have some

papers

sent in next week; and she is not, on any account, to give out more

than

one at a time to each pupil: if they have more, they are apt to be

careless and lose them. And, O ma'am! I wish the woollen stockings

were

better looked to!--when I was here last, I went into the kitchen-garden

and examined the clothes drying on the line; there was a quantity of

black hose in a very bad state of repair: from the size of the holes in

them I was sure they had not been well mended from time to time."

He paused.

"Your directions shall be attended to, sir," said Miss Temple.

"And, ma'am," he continued, "the laundress tells me some of the girls

have two clean tuckers in the week: it is too much; the rules limit

them

to one."

"I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and Catherine

Johnstone were invited to take tea with some friends at Lowton last

Thursday, and I gave them leave to put on clean tuckers for the

occasion."

Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.

"Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the circumstance

occur

too often. And there is another thing which surprised me; I find, in

settling accounts with the housekeeper, that a lunch, consisting of

bread

and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during the past

fortnight. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find no

such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this innovation? and by

what authority?"

"I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir," replied Miss Temple:

"the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could not possibly

eat

it; and I dared not allow them to remain fasting till dinner-time."

"Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan in bringing up

these girls is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury and

indulgence,

but to render them hardy, patient, self-denying. Should any little

accidental disappointment of the appetite occur, such as the spoiling

of

a meal, the under or the over dressing of a dish, the incident ought

not

to be neutralised by replacing with something more delicate the comfort

lost, thus pampering the body and obviating the aim of this

institution;

it ought to be improved to the spiritual edification of the pupils, by

encouraging them to evince fortitude under temporary privation. A

brief

address on those occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judicious

instructor would take the opportunity of referring to the sufferings of

the primitive Christians; to the torments of martyrs; to the

exhortations

of our blessed Lord Himself, calling upon His disciples to take up

their

cross and follow Him; to His warnings that man shall not live by bread

alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God; to

His

divine consolations, "If ye suffer hunger or thirst for My sake, happy

are ye." Oh, madam, when you put bread and cheese, instead of burnt

porridge, into these children's mouths, you may indeed feed their vile

bodies, but you little think how you starve their immortal souls!"

Mr. Brocklehurst again paused--perhaps overcome by his feelings. Miss

Temple had looked down when he first began to speak to her; but she now

gazed straight before her, and her face, naturally pale as marble,

appeared to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that material;

especially her mouth, closed as if it would have required a sculptor's

chisel to open it, and her brow settled gradually into petrified

severity.

Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands

behind

his back, majestically surveyed the whole school. Suddenly his eye

gave

a blink, as if it had met something that either dazzled or shocked its

pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents than he had hitherto

used--

"Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what--_what_ is that girl with curled hair?

Red hair, ma'am, curled--curled all over?" And extending his cane he

pointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so.

"It is Julia Severn," replied Miss Temple, very quietly.

"Julia Severn, ma'am! And why has she, or any other, curled hair?

Why,

in defiance of every precept and principle of this house, does she

conform to the world so openly--here in an evangelical, charitable

establishment--as to wear her hair one mass of curls?"

"Julia's hair curls naturally," returned Miss Temple, still more

quietly.

"Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I wish these

girls

to be the children of Grace: and why that abundance? I have again and

again intimated that I desire the hair to be arranged closely,

modestly,

plainly. Miss Temple, that girl's hair must be cut off entirely; I

will

send a barber to-morrow: and I see others who have far too much of the

excrescence--that tall girl, tell her to turn round. Tell all the

first

form to rise up and direct their faces to the wall."

Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to smooth away

the involuntary smile that curled them; she gave the order, however,

and

when the first class could take in what was required of them, they

obeyed. Leaning a little back on my bench, I could see the looks and

grimaces with which they commented on this manoeuvre: it was a pity Mr.

Brocklehurst could not see them too; he would perhaps have felt that,

whatever he might do with the outside of the cup and platter, the

inside

was further beyond his interference than he imagined.

He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes,

then

pronounced sentence. These words fell like the knell of doom--

"All those top-knots must be cut off."

Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate.

"Madam," he pursued, "I have a Master to serve whose kingdom is not of

this world: my mission is to mortify in these girls the lusts of the

flesh; to teach them to clothe themselves with shame-facedness and

sobriety, not with braided hair and costly apparel; and each of the

young

persons before us has a string of hair twisted in plaits which vanity

itself might have woven; these, I repeat, must be cut off; think of the

time wasted, of--"

Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies,

now

entered the room. They ought to have come a little sooner to have

heard

his lecture on dress, for they were splendidly attired in velvet, silk,

and furs. The two younger of the trio (fine girls of sixteen and

seventeen) had grey beaver hats, then in fashion, shaded with ostrich

plumes, and from under the brim of this graceful head-dress fell a

profusion of light tresses, elaborately curled; the elder lady was

enveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she wore a

false front of French curls.

These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as Mrs. and

the

Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted to seats of honour at the top of the

room. It seems they had come in the carriage with their reverend

relative, and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room

upstairs, while he transacted business with the housekeeper, questioned

the laundress, and lectured the superintendent. They now proceeded to

address divers remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was charged with

the care of the linen and the inspection of the dormitories: but I had

no

time to listen to what they said; other matters called off and

enchanted

my attention.

Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss

Temple, I had not, at the same time, neglected precautions to secure my

personal safety; which I thought would be effected, if I could only

elude

observation. To this end, I had sat well back on the form, and while

seeming to be busy with my sum, had held my slate in such a manner as

to

conceal my face: I might have escaped notice, had not my treacherous

slate somehow happened to slip from my hand, and falling with an

obtrusive crash, directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all

over

now, and, as I stooped to pick up the two fragments of slate, I rallied

my forces for the worst. It came.

"A careless girl!" said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after--"It is

the new pupil, I perceive." And before I could draw breath, "I must

not

forget I have a word to say respecting her." Then aloud: how loud it

seemed to me! "Let the child who broke her slate come forward!"

Of my own accord I could not have stirred; I was paralysed: but the two

great girls who sit on each side of me, set me on my legs and pushed me

towards the dread judge, and then Miss Temple gently assisted me to his

very feet, and I caught her whispered counsel--

"Don't be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall not be

punished."

The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger.

"Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite," thought I;

and

an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehurst, and Co. bounded in my

pulses at the conviction. I was no Helen Burns.

"Fetch that stool," said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one

from which a monitor had just risen: it was brought.

"Place the child upon it."

And I was placed there, by whom I don't know: I was in no condition to

note particulars; I was only aware that they had hoisted me up to the

height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose, that he was within a yard of me, and

that a spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of

silvery plumage extended and waved below me.

Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed.

"Ladies," said he, turning to his family, "Miss Temple, teachers, and

children, you all see this girl?"

Of course they did; for I felt their eyes directed like burning-glasses

against my scorched skin.

"You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary form

of

childhood; God has graciously given her the shape that He has given to

all of us; no signal deformity points her out as a marked character.

Who

would think that the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in

her? Yet such, I grieve to say, is the case."

A pause--in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and to feel

that the Rubicon was passed; and that the trial, no longer to be

shirked,

must be firmly sustained.

"My dear children," pursued the black marble clergyman, with pathos,

"this is a sad, a melancholy occasion; for it becomes my duty to warn

you, that this girl, who might be one of God's own lambs, is a little

castaway: not a member of the true flock, but evidently an interloper

and

an alien. You must be on your guard against her; you must shun her

example; if necessary, avoid her company, exclude her from your sports,

and shut her out from your converse. Teachers, you must watch her:

keep

your eyes on her movements, weigh well her words, scrutinise her

actions,

punish her body to save her soul: if, indeed, such salvation be

possible,

for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this child, the

native

of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen who says its

prayers to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut--this girl is--a liar!"

Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in

perfect

possession of my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts produce

their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics, while the

elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones

whispered, "How shocking!" Mr. Brocklehurst resumed.

"This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable

lady

who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own daughter,

and

whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid by an

ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent patroness

was

obliged to separate her from her own young ones, fearful lest her

vicious

example should contaminate their purity: she has sent her here to be

healed, even as the Jews of old sent their diseased to the troubled

pool

of Bethesda; and, teachers, superintendent, I beg of you not to allow

the

waters to stagnate round her."

With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button

of

his surtout, muttered something to his family, who rose, bowed to Miss

Temple, and then all the great people sailed in state from the room.

Turning at the door, my judge said--

"Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let no one speak

to

her during the remainder of the day."

There was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could not bear the

shame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room, was now

exposed to general view on a pedestal of infamy. What my sensations

were

no language can describe; but just as they all rose, stifling my breath

and constricting my throat, a girl came up and passed me: in passing,

she

lifted her eyes. What a strange light inspired them! What an

extraordinary sensation that ray sent through me! How the new feeling

bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, had passed a slave or

victim,

and imparted strength in the transit. I mastered the rising hysteria,

lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen Burns

asked

some slight question about her work of Miss Smith, was chidden for the

triviality of the inquiry, returned to her place, and smiled at me as

she

again went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and I know that it

was

the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it lit up her marked

lineaments, her thin face, her sunken grey eye, like a reflection from

the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore on her arm

"the untidy badge;" scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by

Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow because she

had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such is the imperfect

nature

of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and

eyes

like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects, and are blind

to

the full brightness of the orb.

CHAPTER VIII

Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed, and

all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it

was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The

spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction

took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I

sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was

not here; nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and

my

tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so much

at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection.

Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had reached

the

head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had

smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me

learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months

longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an

equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay

again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise more?

"Never," I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out

this

wish in broken accents, some one approached: I started up--again Helen

Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long,

vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread.

"Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me, feeling

as

if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition.

Helen

regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my

agitation,

though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the

ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head

upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was

the

first who spoke--

"Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a

liar?"

"Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you

called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions."

"But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise me."

"Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises

or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much."

"How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?"

"Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man:

he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked.

Had

he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies,

declared or covert, all around you; as it is, the greater number would

offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly

on

you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their

hearts; and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere

long

appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression.

Besides, Jane"--she paused.

"Well, Helen?" said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers

gently to warm them, and went on--

"If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own

conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be

without friends."

"No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if

others don't love me I would rather die than live--I cannot bear to be

solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from

you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly

submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or

to

stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest--"

"Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are

too

impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame,

and

put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your

feeble

self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides

the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits:

that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch

us,

for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and

shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels

see

our tortures, recognise our innocence (if innocent we be: as I know you

are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously

repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a sincere nature in

your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only the

separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why,

then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so

soon

over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness--to glory?"

I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted

there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of

woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having

done speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I

momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.

Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she

drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus,

when another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by

a

rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in

through

a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figure,

which

we at once recognised as Miss Temple.

"I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," said she; "I want you in my

room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too."

We went; following the superintendent's guidance, we had to thread some

intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her

apartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple

told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the

hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side.

"Is it all over?" she asked, looking down at my face. "Have you cried

your grief away?"

"I am afraid I never shall do that."

"Why?"

"Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma'am, and everybody

else,

will now think me wicked."

"We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue

to

act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us."

"Shall I, Miss Temple?"

"You will," said she, passing her arm round me. "And now tell me who

is

the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?"

"Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her

care."

"Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?"

"No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have

often

heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she

would

always keep me."

"Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a

criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence.

You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as

you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing

and

exaggerate nothing."

I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate--

most

correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange

coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad

childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it

generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's

warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the

narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained

and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I went on that Miss

Temple fully believed me.

In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to

see

me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of

the

red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree,

to

break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of

agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild

supplication

for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted

chamber.

I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she

then said--

"I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply

agrees

with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every

imputation;

to me, Jane, you are clear now."

She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well

contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the

contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her

white

forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she

proceeded to address Helen Burns.

"How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?"

"Not quite so much, I think, ma'am."

"And the pain in your chest?"

"It is a little better."

Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she

returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She

was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully--

"But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such." She

rang her bell.

"Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have not yet had

tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies."

And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china

cups

and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire!

How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast!

of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry)

discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.

"Barbara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and butter?

There is not enough for three."

Barbara went out: she returned soon--

"Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity."

Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.

Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.

"Oh, very well!" returned Miss Temple; "we must make it do, Barbara, I

suppose." And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, "Fortunately, I

have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once."

Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before

each

of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got

up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper,

disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.

"I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said she,

"but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," and she

proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least

delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which

our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the

delicate fare she liberally supplied.

Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we

sat

one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her

and

Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear.

Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in

her

mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded deviation

into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which chastened the

pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her, by a

controlling

sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I was

struck with wonder.

The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of

her

beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in

her

own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke, they

kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till

this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in

the

liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more

singular than that of Miss Temple's--a beauty neither of fine colour

nor

long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of

radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from

what

source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough,

vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid

eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that,

to

me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a

very

brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence.

They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times

past;

of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at:

they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge

they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French names and

French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when Miss Temple

asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin her

father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read

and

construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration

expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished ere the

bell

announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us

both, saying, as she drew us to her heart--

"God bless you, my children!"

Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more

reluctantly;

it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second

time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.

On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was

examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns's, and when we

entered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that tomorrow

she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned to her

shoulder.

"My things were indeed in shameful disorder," murmured Helen to me, in

a

low voice: "I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot."

Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece

of pasteboard the word "Slattern," and bound it like a phylactery round

Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She

wore

it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved

punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school,

I

ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of

which

she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot

and

large, had continually been scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her

sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the heart.

About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple,

who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that

what

he said went to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled

the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into the charges

alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able to

pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The teachers

then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran

through the ranks of my companions.

Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh,

resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and

my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally

tenacious, improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few

weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was

allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses

of the verb _Etre_, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls, by-thebye,

outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the

same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in

imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread

and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I

feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the

dark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees,

picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet

paintings

of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe

cherries, of wren's nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about

with

young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my

ever being able to translate currently a certain little French story

which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was that problem solved

to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.

Well has Solomon said--"Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than

a

stalled ox and hatred therewith."

I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for

Gateshead and its daily luxuries.

CHAPTER IX

But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened.

Spring

drew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased;

its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched

feet,

flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to

heal

and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the nights and

mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood

in

our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden:

sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a

greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily,

suggested

the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning

brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves;

snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On

Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and found still

sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.

I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the

horizon

only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our

garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a

great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright beck, full

of

dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this scene looked

when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter, stiffened in

frost, shrouded with snow!--when mists as chill as death wandered to

the

impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down "ing"

and

holm till they blended with the frozen fog of the beck! That beck

itself

was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunder the wood, and

sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or

whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, _that_ showed only

ranks

of skeletons.

April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky,

placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its

duration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shook loose

its

tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and oak

skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up

profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its

hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its

wild primrose plants: I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed

spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed

often

and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty

and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to

advert.

Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak of it

as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream?

Assuredly, pleasant enough: but whether healthy or not is another

question.

That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred

pestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into

the

Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and

dormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the seminary into an

hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils

to

receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one

time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued

well

were allowed almost unlimited license; because the medical attendant

insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health:

and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain

them.

Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients: she lived

in

the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at

night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making

other

necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were

fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to

remove

them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, went home only

to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly,

the

nature of the malady forbidding delay.

While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its

frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls;

while

its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the

pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that

bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland

out

of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung

up

tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the

borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double

daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of

spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all useless for

most

of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of

herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of

the

scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies, from

morning till night; we did what we liked, went where we liked: we lived

better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood

now:

household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross housekeeper was

gone, driven away by the fear of infection; her successor, who had been

matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode,

provided with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to

feed;

the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled;

when

there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened,

she

would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and

cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each

chose

the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously.

My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry

from

the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through

the

water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough

to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me, at that time my

chosen

comrade--one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd, observant personage, whose

society I took pleasure in, partly because she was witty and original,

and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some

years

older than I, she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things

I

liked to hear: with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults

also she gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything

I

said. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis; she liked to

inform,

I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving much

entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.

And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet

days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so worthless

as

to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I

have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only

tell

me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose

to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was

qualified

to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far

higher things.

True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective

being, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of

Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of

attachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever animated

my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and

under

all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship,

which

ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen was

ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed from my sight to I

knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital

portion of the house with the fever patients; for her complaint was

consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance,

understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to

alleviate.

I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming

downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss

Temple

into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was not allowed to go and

speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and then not

distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under

the

verandah.

One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with

Mary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from the

others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to

ask

it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked after a

herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we got

back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knew to be the surgeon's,

was standing at the garden door. Mary Ann remarked that she supposed

some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time

of

the evening. She went into the house; I stayed behind a few minutes to

plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and

which I feared would wither if I left them till the morning. This

done,

I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew

fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the still

glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow; the

moon

rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting these things

and

enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it had never

done before:--

"How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying!

This world is pleasant--it would be dreary to be called from it, and to

have to go who knows where?"

And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had

been infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time

it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each

side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: it felt the

one

point where it stood--the present; all the rest was formless cloud and

vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and

plunging

amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door

open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. After she had seen

him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I

ran up to her.

"How is Helen Burns?"

"Very poorly," was the answer.

"Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?"

"Yes."

"And what does he say about her?"

"He says she'll not be here long."

This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed

the notion that she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to her

own

home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but I

knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen

Burns

was numbering her last days in this world, and that she was going to be

taken to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I

experienced

a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire--a

necessity to see her; and I asked in what room she lay.

"She is in Miss Temple's room," said the nurse.

"May I go up and speak to her?"

"Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come

in;

you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling."

The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrance which

led

to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o'clock, and Miss

Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.

It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I--not having

been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence of the

dormitory, that my companions were all wrapt in profound repose--rose

softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept

from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room. It was

quite at the other end of the house; but I knew my way; and the light

of

the unclouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage windows,

enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour of camphor and

burnt

vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room: and I passed its

door

quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I

dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I _must_ see Helen,--I must

embrace her before she died,--I must give her one last kiss, exchange

with her one last word.

Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below,

and

succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I reached

another flight of steps; these I mounted, and then just opposite to me

was Miss Temple's room. A light shone through the keyhole and from

under

the door; a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming near, I

found the door slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the

close abode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient

impulses--soul and senses quivering with keen throes--I put it back and

looked in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.

Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains,

there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the

clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had spoken

to

in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed candle burnt

dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards

that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I

advanced; then paused by the crib side: my hand was on the curtain, but

I

preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread

of seeing a corpse.

"Helen!" I whispered softly, "are you awake?"

She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale,

wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that my fear

was

instantly dissipated.

"Can it be you, Jane?" she asked, in her own gentle voice.

"Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could

not speak and look so calmly if she were."

I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her

cheek

both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as

of

old.

"Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heard it

strike some minutes since."

"I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not

sleep till I had spoken to you."

"You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably."

"Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?"

"Yes; to my long home--my last home."

"No, no, Helen!" I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my

tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the

nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then she

whispered--

"Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with my

quilt."

I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a

long silence, she resumed, still whispering--

"I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be

sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die

one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful; it is

gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me

much: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss

me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not

qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should

have

been continually at fault."

"But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?"

"I believe; I have faith: I am going to God."

"Where is God? What is God?"

"My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely

implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count

the

hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him,

reveal Him to me."

"You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and

that our souls can get to it when we die?"

"I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign

my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God

is

my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me."

"And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?"

"You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by the same

mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane."

Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. "Where is that

region? Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she

seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I

lay

with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, in the sweetest

tone--

"How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a

little;

I feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; I like to have

you

near me."

"I'll stay with you, _dear_ Helen: no one shall take me away."

"Are you warm, darling?"

"Yes."

"Good-night, Jane."

"Good-night, Helen."

She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.

When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I

was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through

the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving

my

bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was

afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I

learned

that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me

laid

in the little crib; my face against Helen Burns's shoulder, my arms

round

her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was--dead.

Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her

death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble

tablet

marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word "Resurgam."

CHAPTER X

Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant

existence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as

many

chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography. I am only

bound to invoke Memory where I know her responses will possess some

degree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost

in

silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of

connection.

When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at

Lowood,

it gradually disappeared from thence; but not till its virulence and

the

number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school.

Inquiry

was made into the origin of the scourge, and by degrees various facts

came out which excited public indignation in a high degree. The

unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality of the

children's

food; the brackish, fetid water used in its preparation; the pupils'

wretched clothing and accommodations--all these things were discovered,

and the discovery produced a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but

beneficial to the institution.

Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed

largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better

situation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing

introduced; the funds of the school were intrusted to the management of

a

committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family

connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post of

treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen

of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds: his office of

inspector,

too, was shared by those who knew how to combine reason with

strictness,

comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. The school, thus

improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I

remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight

years:

six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both capacities I bear my

testimony to its value and importance.

During these eight years my life was uniform: but not unhappy, because

it

was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent education placed

within my reach; a fondness for some of my studies, and a desire to

excel

in all, together with a great delight in pleasing my teachers,

especially

such as I loved, urged me on: I availed myself fully of the advantages

offered me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class;

then

I was invested with the office of teacher; which I discharged with zeal

for two years: but at the end of that time I altered.

Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent

of the seminary: to her instruction I owed the best part of my

acquirements; her friendship and society had been my continual solace;

she had stood me in the stead of mother, governess, and, latterly,

companion. At this period she married, removed with her husband (a

clergyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such a wife) to a distant

county, and consequently was lost to me.

From the day she left I was no longer the same: with her was gone every

settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree

a

home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much of

her habits: more harmonious thoughts: what seemed better regulated

feelings had become the inmates of my mind. I had given in allegiance

to

duty and order; I was quiet; I believed I was content: to the eyes of

others, usually even to my own, I appeared a disciplined and subdued

character.

But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and

Miss Temple: I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise,

shortly after the marriage ceremony; I watched the chaise mount the

hill

and disappear beyond its brow; and then retired to my own room, and

there

spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday granted in

honour

of the occasion.

I walked about the chamber most of the time. I imagined myself only to

be regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it; but when my

reflections were concluded, and I looked up and found that the

afternoon

was gone, and evening far advanced, another discovery dawned on me,

namely, that in the interval I had undergone a transforming process;

that

my mind had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Temple--or rather that

she had taken with her the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in

her

vicinity--and that now I was left in my natural element, and beginning

to

feel the stirring of old emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were

withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone: it was not the power to

be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was no

more. My world had for some years been in Lowood: my experience had

been

of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the real world was

wide,

and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and

excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its

expanse,

to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils.

I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There were the two

wings

of the building; there was the garden; there were the skirts of Lowood;

there was the hilly horizon. My eye passed all other objects to rest

on

those most remote, the blue peaks; it was those I longed to surmount;

all

within their boundary of rock and heath seemed prison-ground, exile

limits. I traced the white road winding round the base of one

mountain,

and vanishing in a gorge between two; how I longed to follow it

farther!

I recalled the time when I had travelled that very road in a coach; I

remembered descending that hill at twilight; an age seemed to have

elapsed since the day which brought me first to Lowood, and I had never

quitted it since. My vacations had all been spent at school: Mrs. Reed

had never sent for me to Gateshead; neither she nor any of her family

had

ever been to visit me. I had had no communication by letter or message

with the outer world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and

notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and

preferences, and antipathies--such was what I knew of existence. And

now

I felt that it was not enough; I tired of the routine of eight years in

one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I

uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing.

I

abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus:

that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: "Then," I cried,

half desperate, "grant me at least a new servitude!"

Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me downstairs.

I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till

bedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me

from the subject to which I longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of

small talk. How I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if,

could I but go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I

stood

at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise for my relief.

Miss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now her

habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light

than as a nuisance; to-night I hailed the first deep notes with

satisfaction; I was debarrassed of interruption; my half-effaced

thought

instantly revived.

"A new servitude! There is something in that," I soliloquised

(mentally,

be it understood; I did not talk aloud), "I know there is, because it

does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words as Liberty,

Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds truly; but no more than sounds

for me; and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time to

listen to them. But Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Any one

may serve: I have served here eight years; now all I want is to serve

elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing

feasible? Yes--yes--the end is not so difficult; if I had only a brain

active enough to ferret out the means of attaining it."

I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain: it was a chilly

night; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded _to

think_ again with all my might.

"What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under

new circumstances: I want this because it is of no use wanting anything

better. How do people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I

suppose: I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends,

who must look about for themselves and be their own helpers; and what

is

their resource?"

I could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my brain to find

a

response, and quickly. It worked and worked faster: I felt the pulses

throb in my head and temples; but for nearly an hour it worked in

chaos;

and no result came of its efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I got up

and took a turn in the room; undrew the curtain, noted a star or two,

shivered with cold, and again crept to bed.

A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion

on my pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my

mind.--"Those who want situations advertise; you must advertise in the

_---shire Herald_."

"How? I know nothing about advertising."

Replies rose smooth and prompt now:--

"You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it under a

cover directed to the editor of the _Herald_; you must put it, the

first

opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers must be

addressed

to J.E., at the post-office there; you can go and inquire in about a

week

after you send your letter, if any are come, and act accordingly."

This scheme I went over twice, thrice; it was then digested in my mind;

I

had it in a clear practical form: I felt satisfied, and fell asleep.

With earliest day, I was up: I had my advertisement written, enclosed,

and directed before the bell rang to rouse the school; it ran thus:--

"A young lady accustomed to tuition" (had I not been a teacher two

years?) "is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family

where the children are under fourteen (I thought that as I was barely

eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my

own age). She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good

English

education, together with French, Drawing, and Music" (in those days,

reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments, would have been

held tolerably comprehensive). "Address, J.E., Post-office, Lowton, --

-

shire."

This document remained locked in my drawer all day: after tea, I asked

leave of the new superintendent to go to Lowton, in order to perform

some

small commissions for myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers;

permission was readily granted; I went. It was a walk of two miles,

and

the evening was wet, but the days were still long; I visited a shop or

two, slipped the letter into the post-office, and came back through

heavy

rain, with streaming garments, but with a relieved heart.

The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however,

like

all sublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a pleasant

autumn day, I found myself afoot on the road to Lowton. A picturesque

track it was, by the way; lying along the side of the beck and through

the sweetest curves of the dale: but that day I thought more of the

letters, that might or might not be awaiting me at the little burgh

whither I was bound, than of the charms of lea and water.

My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of

shoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I

stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker's

to

the post-office: it was kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles

on

her nose, and black mittens on her hands.

"Are there any letters for J.E.?" I asked.

She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and

fumbled among its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes began

to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for

nearly

five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act

by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance--it was for J.E.

"Is there only one?" I demanded.

"There are no more," said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my

face homeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by

eight, and it was already half-past seven.

Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls

during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see

them to bed: afterwards I supped with the other teachers. Even when we

finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my

companion: we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I

dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out; fortunately,

however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect:

she

was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still

remained an inch of candle: I now took out my letter; the seal was an

initial F.; I broke it; the contents were brief.

"If J.E., who advertised in the _---shire Herald_ of last Thursday,

possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to

give

satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can

be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten

years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J.E. is

requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the

direction:--

"Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, ---shire."

I examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather

uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was

satisfactory: a private fear had haunted me, that in thus acting for

myself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into some

scrape; and, above all things, I wished the result of my endeavours to

be

respectable, proper, _en regle_. I now felt that an elderly lady was

no

bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her

in a black gown and widow's cap; frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil: a

model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless,

was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; though I

failed in my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises.

Millcote, ---shire; I brushed up my recollections of the map of

England,

yes, I saw it; both the shire and the town. ---shire was seventy miles

nearer London than the remote county where I now resided: that was a

recommendation to me. I longed to go where there was life and

movement:

Millcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A-; a busy

place enough, doubtless: so much the better; it would be a complete

change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of

long chimneys and clouds of smoke--"but," I argued, "Thornfield will,

probably, be a good way from the town."

Here the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out.

Next day new steps were to be taken; my plans could no longer be

confined

to my own breast; I must impart them in order to achieve their success.

Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent during the

noontide recreation, I told her I had a prospect of getting a new

situation where the salary would be double what I now received (for at

Lowood I only got 15 pounds per annum); and requested she would break

the

matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee, and

ascertain whether they would permit me to mention them as references.

She

obligingly consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day

she

laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must

be

written to, as she was my natural guardian. A note was accordingly

addressed to that lady, who returned for answer, that "I might do as I

pleased: she had long relinquished all interference in my affairs."

This

note went the round of the committee, and at last, after what appeared

to

me most tedious delay, formal leave was given me to better my condition

if I could; and an assurance added, that as I had always conducted

myself

well, both as teacher and pupil, at Lowood, a testimonial of character

and capacity, signed by the inspectors of that institution, should

forthwith be furnished me.

This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month, forwarded a

copy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady's reply, stating that she

was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my

assuming the post of governess in her house.

I now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed rapidly. I

had

not a very large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants; and the

last day sufficed to pack my trunk,--the same I had brought with me

eight

years ago from Gateshead.

The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half-an-hour the carrier

was

to call for it to take it to Lowton, whither I myself was to repair at

an

early hour the next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my black

stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff; sought in

all my drawers to see that no article was left behind; and now having

nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I could not; though

I

had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an instant; I was too

much excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a new one

opening

to-morrow: impossible to slumber in the interval; I must watch

feverishly

while the change was being accomplished.

"Miss," said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering

like a troubled spirit, "a person below wishes to see you."

"The carrier, no doubt," I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry.

I

was passing the back-parlour or teachers' sitting-room, the door of

which

was half open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out--

"It's her, I am sure!--I could have told her anywhere!" cried the

individual who stopped my progress and took my hand.

I looked: I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly,

yet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and

lively

complexion.

"Well, who is it?" she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half

recognised; "you've not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?"

In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously: "Bessie!

Bessie! Bessie!" that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half

cried, and we both went into the parlour. By the fire stood a little

fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and trousers.

"That is my little boy," said Bessie directly.

"Then you are married, Bessie?"

"Yes; nearly five years since to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I've

a

little girl besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane."

"And you don't live at Gateshead?"

"I live at the lodge: the old porter has left."

"Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them,

Bessie: but sit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will

you?" but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother.

"You're not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout,"

continued

Mrs. Leaven. "I dare say they've not kept you too well at school: Miss

Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are; and Miss Georgiana

would make two of you in breadth."

"Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?"

"Very. She went up to London last winter with her mama, and there

everybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her: but his

relations were against the match; and--what do you think?--he and Miss

Georgiana made it up to run away; but they were found out and stopped.

It

was Miss Reed that found them out: I believe she was envious; and now

she

and her sister lead a cat and dog life together; they are always

quarrelling--"

"Well, and what of John Reed?"

"Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to

college,

and he got--plucked, I think they call it: and then his uncles wanted

him

to be a barrister, and study the law: but he is such a dissipated young

man, they will never make much of him, I think."

"What does he look like?"

"He is very tall: some people call him a fine-looking young man; but he

has such thick lips."

"And Mrs. Reed?"

"Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she's not

quite easy in her mind: Mr. John's conduct does not please her--he

spends

a deal of money."

"Did she send you here, Bessie?"

"No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that

there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another

part

of the country, I thought I'd just set off, and get a look at you

before

you were quite out of my reach."

"I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie." I said this

laughing:

I perceived that Bessie's glance, though it expressed regard, did in no

shape denote admiration.

"No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you look like a

lady, and it is as much as ever I expected of you: you were no beauty

as

a child."

I smiled at Bessie's frank answer: I felt that it was correct, but I

confess I was not quite indifferent to its import: at eighteen most

people wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an

exterior

likely to second that desire brings anything but gratification.

"I dare say you are clever, though," continued Bessie, by way of

solace.

"What can you do? Can you play on the piano?"

"A little."

There was one in the room; Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me

to sit down and give her a tune: I played a waltz or two, and she was

charmed.

"The Miss Reeds could not play as well!" said she exultingly. "I

always

said you would surpass them in learning: and can you draw?"

"That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece." It was a

landscape

in water colours, of which I had made a present to the superintendent,

in

acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the committee on my

behalf,

and which she had framed and glazed.

"Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any

Miss

Reed's drawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies

themselves,

who could not come near it: and have you learnt French?"

"Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it."

"And you can work on muslin and canvas?"

"I can."

"Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be: you will

get

on whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I

wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father's

kinsfolk, the Eyres?"

"Never in my life."

"Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable:

and they may be poor; but I believe they are as much gentry as the

Reeds

are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead

and wanted to see you; Missis said you were at school fifty miles off;

he

seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay: he was going on a

voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a

day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your

father's brother."

"What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?"

"An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine--the butler did

tell me--"

"Madeira?" I suggested.

"Yes, that is it--that is the very word."

"So he went?"

"Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high

with him; she called him afterwards a 'sneaking tradesman.' My Robert

believes he was a wine-merchant."

"Very likely," I returned; "or perhaps clerk or agent to a

wine-merchant."

Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, and then she was

obliged to leave me: I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning

at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the

door of the Brocklehurst Arms there: each went her separate way; she

set

off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which was to

take

her back to Gateshead, I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to

new

duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote.

CHAPTER XI

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and

when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a

room in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured papering on

the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such

ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait of

George

the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales, and a representation of

the death of Wolfe. All this is visible to you by the light of an oil

lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by that of an excellent fire, near

which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my muff and umbrella lie on the

table, and I am warming away the numbness and chill contracted by

sixteen

hours' exposure to the rawness of an October day: I left Lowton at four

o'clock a.m., and the Millcote town clock is now just striking eight.

Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil

in

my mind. I thought when the coach stopped here there would be some one

to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the wooden steps

the

"boots" placed for my convenience, expecting to hear my name

pronounced,

and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey me to

Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible; and when I asked a waiter

if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answered in the

negative: so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a

private

room: and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears are

troubling my thoughts.

It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself

quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain

whether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by

many impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of

adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then

the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant when

half-an-hour elapsed and still I was alone. I bethought myself to ring

the bell.

"Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?" I asked of

the waiter who answered the summons.

"Thornfield? I don't know, ma'am; I'll inquire at the bar." He

vanished, but reappeared instantly--

"Is your name Eyre, Miss?"

"Yes."

"Person here waiting for you."

I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened into the

inn-passage: a man was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lit

street I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance.

"This will be your luggage, I suppose?" said the man rather abruptly

when

he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage.

"Yes." He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of car, and

then I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to

Thornfield.

"A matter of six miles."

"How long shall we be before we get there?"

"Happen an hour and a half."

He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set

off. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me ample time to reflect; I

was content to be at length so near the end of my journey; and as I

leaned back in the comfortable though not elegant conveyance, I

meditated

much at my ease.

"I suppose," thought I, "judging from the plainness of the servant and

carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person: so much the

better;

I never lived amongst fine people but once, and I was very miserable

with

them. I wonder if she lives alone except this little girl; if so, and

if

she is in any degree amiable, I shall surely be able to get on with

her;

I will do my best; it is a pity that doing one's best does not always

answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that resolution, kept it, and

succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, I remember my best was

always

spurned with scorn. I pray God Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second

Mrs. Reed; but if she does, I am not bound to stay with her! let the

worst come to the worst, I can advertise again. How far are we on our

road now, I wonder?"

I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us; judging

by

the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable magnitude,

much larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could see, on a sort

of common; but there were houses scattered all over the district; I

felt

we were in a different region to Lowood, more populous, less

picturesque;

more stirring, less romantic.

The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse walk

all the way, and the hour and a half extended, I verily believe, to two

hours; at last he turned in his seat and said--

"You're noan so far fro' Thornfield now."

Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad tower

against the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a narrow

galaxy of lights too, on a hillside, marking a village or hamlet.

About

ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair of gates: we

passed through, and they clashed to behind us. We now slowly ascended

a

drive, and came upon the long front of a house: candlelight gleamed

from

one curtained bow-window; all the rest were dark. The car stopped at

the

front door; it was opened by a maid-servant; I alighted and went in.

"Will you walk this way, ma'am?" said the girl; and I followed her

across

a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered me into a room

whose

double illumination of fire and candle at first dazzled me, contrasting

as it did with the darkness to which my eyes had been for two hours

inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and agreeable picture

presented

itself to my view.

A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair highbacked

and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable little

elderly lady, in widow's cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron;

exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately and

milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely

at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-ideal of

domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a new governess

could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur to overwhelm, no

stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the old lady got up

and

promptly and kindly came forward to meet me.

"How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; John

drives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire."

"Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?" said I.

"Yes, you are right: do sit down."

She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my shawl

and

untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she would not give herself so much

trouble.

"Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed with

cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two: here

are

the keys of the storeroom."

And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys, and

delivered them to the servant.

"Now, then, draw nearer to the fire," she continued. "You've brought

your luggage with you, haven't you, my dear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll see it carried into your room," she said, and bustled out.

"She treats me like a visitor," thought I. "I little expected such a

reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is not like

what I have heard of the treatment of governesses; but I must not exult

too soon."

She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a

book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now

brought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather

confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before

received, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior; but as she

did not herself seem to consider she was doing anything out of her

place,

I thought it better to take her civilities quietly.

"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?" I asked,

when I had partaken of what she offered me.

"What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf," returned the good

lady,

approaching her ear to my mouth.

I repeated the question more distinctly.

"Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your

future pupil."

"Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?"

"No,--I have no family."

I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in what way Miss

Varens was connected with her; but I recollected it was not polite to

ask

too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in time.

"I am so glad," she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took

the cat on her knee; "I am so glad you are come; it will be quite

pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it is pleasant

at

any time; for Thornfield is a fine old hall, rather neglected of late

years perhaps, but still it is a respectable place; yet you know in

winter-time one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say

alone--Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and John and his wife are very

decent people; but then you see they are only servants, and one can't

converse with them on terms of equality: one must keep them at due

distance, for fear of losing one's authority. I'm sure last winter (it

was a very severe one, if you recollect, and when it did not snow, it

rained and blew), not a creature but the butcher and postman came to

the

house, from November till February; and I really got quite melancholy

with sitting night after night alone; I had Leah in to read to me

sometimes; but I don't think the poor girl liked the task much: she

felt

it confining. In spring and summer one got on better: sunshine and

long

days make such a difference; and then, just at the commencement of this

autumn, little Adela Varens came and her nurse: a child makes a house

alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay."

My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk; and I

drew

my chair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere wish that she

might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.

"But I'll not keep you sitting up late to-night," said she; "it is on

the

stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all day: you must

feel

tired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I'll show you your

bedroom. I've had the room next to mine prepared for you; it is only a

small apartment, but I thought you would like it better than one of the

large front chambers: to be sure they have finer furniture, but they

are

so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in them myself."

I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt fatigued

with my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She took her

candle, and I followed her from the room. First she went to see if the

hall-door was fastened; having taken the key from the lock, she led the

way upstairs. The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase

window

was high and latticed; both it and the long gallery into which the

bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a church rather than

a

house. A very chill and vault-like air pervaded the stairs and

gallery,

suggesting cheerless ideas of space and solitude; and I was glad, when

finally ushered into my chamber, to find it of small dimensions, and

furnished in ordinary, modern style.

When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night, and I had fastened

my

door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced the eerie

impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase,

and

that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room, I

remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, I

was

now at last in safe haven. The impulse of gratitude swelled my heart,

and I knelt down at the bedside, and offered up thanks where thanks

were

due; not forgetting, ere I rose, to implore aid on my further path, and

the power of meriting the kindness which seemed so frankly offered me

before it was earned. My couch had no thorns in it that night; my

solitary room no fears. At once weary and content, I slept soon and

soundly: when I awoke it was broad day.

The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the sun shone in

between the gay blue chintz window curtains, showing papered walls and

a

carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of

Lowood,

that my spirits rose at the view. Externals have a great effect on the

young: I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me, one

that

was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns and toils.

My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the new field offered to

hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely define what they expected,

but it was something pleasant: not perhaps that day or that month, but

at

an indefinite future period.

I rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain--for I had no

article of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity--I was

still

by nature solicitous to be neat. It was not my habit to be

disregardful

of appearance or careless of the impression I made: on the contrary, I

ever wished to look as well as I could, and to please as much as my

want

of beauty would permit. I sometimes regretted that I was not

handsomer;

I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and small

cherry

mouth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed in figure; I

felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and had features so

irregular and so marked. And why had I these aspirations and these

regrets? It would be difficult to say: I could not then distinctly say

it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too.

However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my black

frock--which, Quakerlike as it was, at least had the merit of fitting

to

a nicety--and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought I should do

respectably enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that my new pupil

would not at least recoil from me with antipathy. Having opened my

chamber window, and seen that I left all things straight and neat on

the

toilet table, I ventured forth.

Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery steps

of

oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there a minute; I looked at some

pictures on the walls (one, I remember, represented a grim man in a

cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace), at a

bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was

of

oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and rubbing. Everything

appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then I was so little

accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door, which was half of glass, stood

open; I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning; the

early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields;

advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of the

mansion. It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, though

considerable: a gentleman's manor-house, not a nobleman's seat:

battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front

stood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants

were now on the wing: they flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in

a

great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and

where

an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks,

at

once explained the etymology of the mansion's designation. Farther off

were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor so craggy, nor so

like barriers of separation from the living world; but yet quiet and

lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace Thornfield with a seclusion

I

had not expected to find existent so near the stirring locality of

Millcote. A little hamlet, whose roofs were blent with trees,

straggled

up the side of one of these hills; the church of the district stood

nearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the

house and gates.

I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet

listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the

wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place it was

for

one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady

appeared at the door.

"What! out already?" said she. "I see you are an early riser." I went

up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand.

"How do you like Thornfield?" she asked. I told her I liked it very

much.

"Yes," she said, "it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting

out

of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and

reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener: great

houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor."

"Mr. Rochester!" I exclaimed. "Who is he?"

"The owner of Thornfield," she responded quietly. "Did you not know he

was called Rochester?"

Of course I did not--I had never heard of him before; but the old lady

seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with

which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

"I thought," I continued, "Thornfield belonged to you."

"To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the

housekeeper--the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to the

Rochesters by the mother's side, or at least my husband was; he was a

clergyman, incumbent of Hay--that little village yonder on the hill--

and

that church near the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester's mother

was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my husband: but I never presume on

the connection--in fact, it is nothing to me; I consider myself quite

in

the light of an ordinary housekeeper: my employer is always civil, and

I

expect nothing more."

"And the little girl--my pupil!"

"She is Mr. Rochester's ward; he commissioned me to find a governess

for

her. He intended to have her brought up in ---shire, I believe. Here

she comes, with her 'bonne,' as she calls her nurse." The enigma then

was explained: this affable and kind little widow was no great dame;

but

a dependant like myself. I did not like her the worse for that; on the

contrary, I felt better pleased than ever. The equality between her

and

me was real; not the mere result of condescension on her part: so much

the better--my position was all the freer.

As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by her

attendant, came running up the lawn. I looked at my pupil, who did not

at first appear to notice me: she was quite a child, perhaps seven or

eight years old, slightly built, with a pale, small-featured face, and

a

redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.

"Good morning, Miss Adela," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Come and speak to the

lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day."

She

approached.

"C'est la ma gouverante!" said she, pointing to me, and addressing her

nurse; who answered--

"Mais oui, certainement."

"Are they foreigners?" I inquired, amazed at hearing the French

language.

"The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent; and, I

believe, never left it till within six months ago. When she first came

here she could speak no English; now she can make shift to talk it a

little: I don't understand her, she mixes it so with French; but you

will

make out her meaning very well, I dare say."

Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French

lady; and as I had always made a point of conversing with Madame

Pierrot

as often as I could, and had besides, during the last seven years,

learnt

a portion of French by heart daily--applying myself to take pains with

my

accent, and imitating as closely as possible the pronunciation of my

teacher, I had acquired a certain degree of readiness and correctness

in

the language, and was not likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle

Adela. She came and shook hand with me when she heard that I was her

governess; and as I led her in to breakfast, I addressed some phrases

to

her in her own tongue: she replied briefly at first, but after we were

seated at the table, and she had examined me some ten minutes with her

large hazel eyes, she suddenly commenced chattering fluently.

"Ah!" cried she, in French, "you speak my language as well as Mr.

Rochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie.

She

will be glad: nobody here understands her: Madame Fairfax is all

English.

Sophie is my nurse; she came with me over the sea in a great ship with

a

chimney that smoked--how it did smoke!--and I was sick, and so was

Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester lay down on a sofa in

a

pretty room called the salon, and Sophie and I had little beds in

another

place. I nearly fell out of mine; it was like a shelf. And

Mademoiselle--what is your name?"

"Eyre--Jane Eyre."

"Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the morning,

before it was quite daylight, at a great city--a huge city, with very

dark houses and all smoky; not at all like the pretty clean town I came

from; and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank to the

land,

and Sophie came after, and we all got into a coach, which took us to a

beautiful large house, larger than this and finer, called an hotel. We

stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to walk every day in a

great green place full of trees, called the Park; and there were many

children there besides me, and a pond with beautiful birds in it, that

I

fed with crumbs."

"Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?" asked Mrs. Fairfax.

I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the fluent

tongue of Madame Pierrot.

"I wish," continued the good lady, "you would ask her a question or two

about her parents: I wonder if she remembers them?"

"Adele," I inquired, "with whom did you live when you were in that

pretty

clean town you spoke of?"

"I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy Virgin. Mama

used to teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A great many

gentlemen and ladies came to see mama, and I used to dance before them,

or to sit on their knees and sing to them: I liked it. Shall I let you

hear me sing now?"

She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give a specimen

of

her accomplishments. Descending from her chair, she came and placed

herself on my knee; then, folding her little hands demurely before her,

shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she

commenced

singing a song from some opera. It was the strain of a forsaken lady,

who, after bewailing the perfidy of her lover, calls pride to her aid;

desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest jewels and richest

robes, and resolves to meet the false one that night at a ball, and

prove

to him, by the gaiety of her demeanour, how little his desertion has

affected her.

The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I suppose

the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and

jealousy

warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very bad taste that point

was:

at least I thought so.

Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the _naivete_ of

her

age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, "Now,

Mademoiselle, I will repeat you some poetry."

Assuming an attitude, she began, "La Ligue des Rats: fable de La

Fontaine." She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to

punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness

of gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and which proved she had

been

carefully trained.

"Was it your mama who taught you that piece?" I asked.

"Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: 'Qu' avez vous donc? lui

dit un de ces rats; parlez!' She made me lift my hand--so--to remind

me

to raise my voice at the question. Now shall I dance for you?"

"No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy Virgin, as you

say, with whom did you live then?"

"With Madame Frederic and her husband: she took care of me, but she is

nothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a

house as mama. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I

would

like to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr.

Rochester before I knew Madame Frederic, and he was always kind to me

and

gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you see he has not kept his word,

for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back again

himself,

and I never see him."

After breakfast, Adele and I withdrew to the library, which room, it

appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the schoolroom.

Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one

bookcase left open containing everything that could be needed in the

way

of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature, poetry,

biography, travels, a few romances, &c. I suppose he had considered

that

these were all the governess would require for her private perusal;

and,

indeed, they contented me amply for the present; compared with the

scanty

pickings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they seemed

to

offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and information. In this

room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone;

also an easel for painting and a pair of globes.

I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply: she

had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would

be

injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to

her a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the morning

had

advanced to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then

proposed

to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little sketches for

her

use.

As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax

called to me: "Your morning school-hours are over now, I suppose," said

she. She was in a room the folding-doors of which stood open: I went

in

when she addressed me. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple

chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast

window rich in slanted glass, and a lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Mrs.

Fairfax was dusting some vases of fine purple spar, which stood on a

sideboard.

"What a beautiful room!" I exclaimed, as I looked round; for I had

never

before seen any half so imposing.

"Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to let

in

a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in apartments

that

are seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault."

She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like

it

with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two broad

steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy

place, so bright to my novice-eyes appeared the view beyond. Yet it

was

merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within it a boudoir, both spread

with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant garlands of flowers;

both ceiled with snowy mouldings of white grapes and vine-leaves,

beneath

which glowed in rich contrast crimson couches and ottomans; while the

ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of sparkling Bohemian

glass, ruby red; and between the windows large mirrors repeated the

general blending of snow and fire.

"In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!" said I. "No dust,

no

canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly, one would think

they

were inhabited daily."

"Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester's visits here are rare, they are

always sudden and unexpected; and as I observed that it put him out to

find everything swathed up, and to have a bustle of arrangement on his

arrival, I thought it best to keep the rooms in readiness."

"Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?"

"Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman's tastes and habits, and

he

expects to have things managed in conformity to them."

"Do you like him? Is he generally liked?"

"Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost all the

land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to the

Rochesters time out of mind."

"Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you like him? Is

he

liked for himself?"

"I have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I believe he is

considered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants: but he has never

lived much amongst them."

"But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his character?"

"Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is rather peculiar,

perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great deal of the

world, I should think. I dare say he is clever, but I never had much

conversation with him."

"In what way is he peculiar?"

"I don't know--it is not easy to describe--nothing striking, but you

feel

it when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether he is in

jest

or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don't thoroughly

understand him, in short--at least, I don't: but it is of no

consequence,

he is a very good master."

This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer and

mine. There are people who seem to have no notion of sketching a

character, or observing and describing salient points, either in

persons

or things: the good lady evidently belonged to this class; my queries

puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester in

her eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor--nothing more: she inquired

and searched no further, and evidently wondered at my wish to gain a

more

definite notion of his identity.

When we left the dining-room, she proposed to show me over the rest of

the house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs, admiring as I

went; for all was well arranged and handsome. The large front chambers

I

thought especially grand: and some of the third-storey rooms, though

dark

and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity. The furniture

once appropriated to the lower apartments had from time to time been

removed here, as fashions changed: and the imperfect light entering by

their narrow casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years old; chests

in

oak or walnut, looking, with their strange carvings of palm branches

and

cherubs' heads, like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs,

high-backed and narrow; stools still more antiquated, on whose

cushioned

tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries, wrought by

fingers that for two generations had been coffin-dust. All these

relics

gave to the third storey of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a home of the

past: a shrine of memory. I liked the hush, the gloom, the quaintness

of

these retreats in the day; but I by no means coveted a night's repose

on

one of those wide and heavy beds: shut in, some of them, with doors of

oak; shaded, others, with wrought old English hangings crusted with

thick

work, portraying effigies of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and

strangest human beings,--all which would have looked strange, indeed,

by

the pallid gleam of moonlight.

"Do the servants sleep in these rooms?" I asked.

"No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no one ever

sleeps here: one would almost say that, if there were a ghost at

Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt."

"So I think: you have no ghost, then?"

"None that I ever heard of," returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.

"Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?"

"I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a

violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the

reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now."

"Yes--'after life's fitful fever they sleep well,'" I muttered. "Where

are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?" for she was moving away.

"On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?" I

followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by

a

ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on a

level with the crow colony, and could see into their nests. Leaning

over

the battlements and looking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid out

like a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey base

of

the mansion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with its ancient timber;

the wood, dun and sere, divided by a path visibly overgrown, greener

with

moss than the trees were with foliage; the church at the gates, the

road,

the tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day's sun; the horizon

bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with pearly white. No

feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all was pleasing. When I

turned from it and repassed the trap-door, I could scarcely see my way

down the ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault compared with that

arch of blue air to which I had been looking up, and to that sunlit

scene

of grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the hall was the centre,

and

over which I had been gazing with delight.

Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by

drift

of groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded to descend

the

narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which this

led, separating the front and back rooms of the third storey: narrow,

low, and dim, with only one little window at the far end, and looking,

with its two rows of small black doors all shut, like a corridor in

some

Bluebeard's castle.

While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear in so still

a

region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curious laugh; distinct,

formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant;

it

began again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was very low.

It

passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every

lonely chamber; though it originated but in one, and I could have

pointed

out the door whence the accents issued.

"Mrs. Fairfax!" I called out: for I now heard her descending the great

stairs. "Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?"

"Some of the servants, very likely," she answered: "perhaps Grace

Poole."

"Did you hear it?" I again inquired.

"Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms.

Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together."

The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an

odd murmur.

"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as

tragic,

as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it was high

noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the curious

cachinnation; but that neither scene nor season favoured fear, I should

have been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me I was a

fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.

The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,--a woman of between

thirty and forty; a set, square-made figure, red-haired, and with a

hard,

plain face: any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could scarcely

be conceived.

"Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!"

Grace

curtseyed silently and went in.

"She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid's

work,"

continued the widow; "not altogether unobjectionable in some points,

but

she does well enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on with your new

pupil this morning?"

The conversation, thus turned on Adele, continued till we reached the

light and cheerful region below. Adele came running to meet us in the

hall, exclaiming--

"Mesdames, vous etes servies!" adding, "J'ai bien faim, moi!"

We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax's room.

CHAPTER XII

The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to

Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer

acquaintance

with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she

appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent education

and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been

spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she

was

committed entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any

quarter ever thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her

little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had no great

talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar development of

feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinary level of

childhood; but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk her

below it. She made reasonable progress, entertained for me a

vivacious,

though perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay

prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a degree

of

attachment sufficient to make us both content in each other's society.

This, _par parenthese_, will be thought cool language by persons who

entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and

the

duty of those charged with their education to conceive for them an

idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism,

to

echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a

conscientious solicitude for Adele's welfare and progress, and a quiet

liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a

thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society

proportionate to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the moderation

of her mind and character.

Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then,

when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the

gates and looked through them along the road; or when, while Adele

played

with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, I

climbed

the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and having

reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and

along dim sky-line--that then I longed for a power of vision which

might

overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions

full of life I had heard of but never seen--that then I desired more of

practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my

kind,

of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my

reach.

I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in Adele; but

I

believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness,

and

what I believed in I wished to behold.

Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I

could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to

pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of

the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and

solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell on whatever

bright

visions rose before it--and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to

let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which, while it

swelled

it in trouble, expanded it with life; and, best of all, to open my

inward

ear to a tale that was never ended--a tale my imagination created, and

narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire,

feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence.

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with

tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they

cannot

find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and

millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many

rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life

which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but

women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties,

and

a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer

from

too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men

would

suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellowcreatures

to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and

knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It

is

thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more

or

learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole's laugh: the same

peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled

me: I heard, too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh.

There

were days when she was quite silent; but there were others when I could

not account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would

come

out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go

down

to the kitchen and shortly return, generally (oh, romantic reader,

forgive me for telling the plain truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her

appearance always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by her oral

oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to which interest

could attach. I made some attempts to draw her into conversation, but

she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually cut

short

every effort of that sort.

The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the

housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no

respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I

asked her questions about her native country; but she was not of a

descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and

confused

answers as were calculated rather to check than encourage inquiry.

October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January,

Mrs.

Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adele, because she had a cold; and, as

Adele seconded the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious

occasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it,

deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a

fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting still in the

library through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fairfax had just written a

letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my bonnet and cloak

and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a

pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adele comfortably seated

in

her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax's parlour fireside, and given her her

best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a

drawer) to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and

having replied to her "Revenez bientot, ma bonne amie, ma chere Mdlle.

Jeannette," with a kiss I set out.

The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked

fast

till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the

species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was

three o'clock; the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the

charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding

and

pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for

wild

roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now

possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best

winter

delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of

air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an

evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as

still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the

path.

Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now

browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the

hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.

This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the

middle,

I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field. Gathering my

mantle

about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold,

though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the

causeway, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after

a

rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could look down on

Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was the principal object in

the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I

lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and

clear behind them. I then turned eastward.

On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but

brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in

trees,

sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile distant,

but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life.

My ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I

could

not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many

becks

threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of

the nearest streams, the sough of the most remote.

A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so

far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter,

which

effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a

crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on

the

foreground, efface the aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon,

and

blended clouds where tint melts into tint.

The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the

lane

yet hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet, as

the

path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was

young,

and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories

of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they

recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond

what

childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for

it

to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie's tales,

wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a "Gytrash," which, in

the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and

sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming

upon

me.

It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp,

tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel

stems

glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct

object against the trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie's Gytrash-

-a

lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed me,

however,

quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes,

in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed,--a tall

steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the

spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and

goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of

beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form. No

Gytrash was this,--only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote.

He

passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and

an

exclamation of "What the deuce is to do now?" and a clattering tumble,

arrested my attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on

the

sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back,

and

seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked

till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion

to

his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran

up

to me; it was all he could do,--there was no other help at hand to

summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by this time

struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I

thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question--

"Are you injured, sir?"

I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was

pronouncing

some formula which prevented him from replying to me directly.

"Can I do anything?" I asked again.

"You must just stand on one side," he answered as he rose, first to his

knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving,

stamping,

clattering process, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed

me

effectually some yards' distance; but I would not be driven quite away

till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse was

re-established, and the dog was silenced with a "Down, Pilot!" The

traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether

they

were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the stile

whence I had just risen, and sat down.

I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for

I

now drew near him again.

"If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either from

Thornfield Hall or from Hay."

"Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,--only a sprain;" and

again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an

involuntary "Ugh!"

Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I

could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur

collared and steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced

the general points of middle height and considerable breadth of chest.

He

had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and

gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past

youth,

but had not reached middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I

felt

no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome,

heroiclooking

young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus

questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I

had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one.

I

had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry,

fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine

shape,

I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have

sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would

fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.

If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I

addressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with

thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew

inquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at my

ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced--

"I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this

solitary

lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse."

He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my

direction before.

"I should think you ought to be at home yourself," said he, "if you

have

a home in this neighbourhood: where do you come from?"

"From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it

is

moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish

it:

indeed, I am going there to post a letter."

"You live just below--do you mean at that house with the battlements?"

pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam,

bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods that, by contrast with

the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.

"Yes, sir."

"Whose house is it?"

"Mr. Rochester's."

"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"

"No, I have never seen him."

"He is not resident, then?"

"No."

"Can you tell me where he is?"

"I cannot."

"You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are--" He stopped,

ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black

merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough

for

a lady's-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.

"I am the governess."

"Ah, the governess!" he repeated; "deuce take me, if I had not

forgotten!

The governess!" and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two

minutes

he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he tried to move.

"I cannot commission you to fetch help," he said; "but you may help me

a

little yourself, if you will be so kind."

"Yes, sir."

"You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?"

"No."

"Try to get hold of my horse's bridle and lead him to me: you are not

afraid?"

I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to

do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and

went

up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a

spirited thing, and would not let me come near its head; I made effort

on

effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of its

trampling

fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last

he laughed.

{I was mortally afraid of its trampling forefeet: p107.jpg}

"I see," he said, "the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so

all

you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you

to

come here."

I came. "Excuse me," he continued: "necessity compels me to make you

useful." He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with

some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he

mastered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he

made the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.

"Now," said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, "just hand me

my whip; it lies there under the hedge."

I sought it and found it.

"Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast

as

you can."

A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then

bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished,

"Like heath that, in the wilderness,

The wild wind whirls away."

I took up my muff and walked on. The incident had occurred and was

gone

for me: it _was_ an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a

sense; yet it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life.

My

help had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to have

done something; trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was yet an

active thing, and I was weary of an existence all passive. The new

face,

too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it

was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was

masculine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I

had

it still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the letter into the

post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home.

When

I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round and listened,

with

an idea that a horse's hoofs might ring on the causeway again, and that

a

rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might be again

apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me, rising

up

still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the faintest

waft

of wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile

distant;

and when I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye,

traversing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it

reminded me that I was late, and I hurried on.

I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to

return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome

staircase, to seek my own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil

Mrs. Fairfax, and spend the long winter evening with her, and her only,

was to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk,--to slip

again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too

still

existence; of an existence whose very privileges of security and ease I

was becoming incapable of appreciating. What good it would have done

me

at that time to have been tossed in the storms of an uncertain

struggling

life, and to have been taught by rough and bitter experience to long

for

the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as much good as it

would

do a man tired of sitting still in a "too easy chair" to take a long

walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my circumstances,

as it would be under his.

I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and

forwards on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I

could not see into the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed

drawn

from the gloomy house--from the grey-hollow filled with rayless cells,

as

it appeared to me--to that sky expanded before me,--a blue sea absolved

from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in solemn march; her orb

seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from behind which she had

come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight

dark

in its fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for those

trembling

stars that followed her course; they made my heart tremble, my veins

glow

when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth; the clock struck

in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a

sidedoor,

and went in.

The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze

lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak

staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room, whose

twoleaved

door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing

on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies

and

polished furniture, in the most pleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a

group near the mantelpiece: I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely

become

aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, amongst which I seemed to

distinguish the tones of Adele, when the door closed.

I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax's room; there was a fire there too, but no

candle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on

the

rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and

white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so

like

it that I went forward and said--"Pilot" and the thing got up and came

to

me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great tail; but

he

looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not tell whence

he

had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too,

to

get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.

"What dog is this?"

"He came with master."

"With whom?"

"With master--Mr. Rochester--he is just arrived."

"Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?"

"Yes, and Miss Adele; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone for

a

surgeon; for master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle

is

sprained."

"Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?"

"Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice."

"Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?"

Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated

the

news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with Mr.

Rochester: then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went

upstairs to take off my things.

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon's orders, went to bed early

that

night; nor did he rise soon next morning. When he did come down, it

was

to attend to business: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived,

and waiting to speak with him.

Adele and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily

requisition as a reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an

apartment upstairs, and there I carried our books, and arranged it for

the future schoolroom. I discerned in the course of the morning that

Thornfield Hall was a changed place: no longer silent as a church, it

echoed every hour or two to a knock at the door, or a clang of the

bell;

steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different

keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing through it; it had

a

master: for my part, I liked it better.

Adele was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply: she kept

running to the door and looking over the banisters to see if she could

get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go

downstairs, in order, as I shrewdly suspected, to visit the library,

where I knew she was not wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and

made her sit still, she continued to talk incessantly of her "ami,

Monsieur Edouard Fairfax _de_ Rochester," as she dubbed him (I had not

before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what presents he had

brought her: for it appears he had intimated the night before, that

when

his luggage came from Millcote, there would be found amongst it a

little

box in whose contents she had an interest.

"Et cela doit signifier," said she, "qu'il y aura la dedans un cadeau

pour moi, et peut-etre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a parle

de vous: il m'a demande le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n'etait

pas

une petite personne, assez mince et un peu pale. J'ai dit qu'oui: car

c'est vrai, n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?"

I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax's parlour; the afternoon

was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. At dark I

allowed Adele to put away books and work, and to run downstairs; for,

from the comparative silence below, and from the cessation of appeals

to

the door-bell, I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at liberty.

Left

alone, I walked to the window; but nothing was to be seen thence:

twilight and snowflakes together thickened the air, and hid the very

shrubs on the lawn. I let down the curtain and went back to the

fireside.

In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I

remembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine, when

Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by her entrance the fiery mosaic I

had

been piercing together, and scattering too some heavy unwelcome

thoughts

that were beginning to throng on my solitude.

"Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with

him in the drawing-room this evening," said she: "he has been so much

engaged all day that he could not ask to see you before."

"When is his tea-time?" I inquired.

"Oh, at six o'clock: he keeps early hours in the country. You had

better

change your frock now; I will go with you and fasten it. Here is a

candle."

"Is it necessary to change my frock?"

"Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester

is here."

This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired

to

my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax's aid, replaced my black stuff dress by

one of black silk; the best and the only additional one I had, except

one

of light grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought

too

fine to be worn, except on first-rate occasions.

"You want a brooch," said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl

ornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put it on,

and then we went downstairs. Unused as I was to strangers, it was

rather

a trial to appear thus formally summoned in Mr. Rochester's presence.

I

let Mrs. Fairfax precede me into the dining-room, and kept in her shade

as we crossed that apartment; and, passing the arch, whose curtain was

now dropped, entered the elegant recess beyond.

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece;

basking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot--Adele knelt

near him. Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot

supported by the cushion; he was looking at Adele and the dog: the fire

shone full on his face. I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty

eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of

his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose, more remarkable for

character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought, choler;

his grim mouth, chin, and jaw--yes, all three were very grim, and no

mistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in

squareness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the

athletic sense of the term--broad chested and thin flanked, though

neither tall nor graceful.

Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and

myself; but it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us, for he

never

lifted his head as we approached.

"Here is Miss Eyre, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He

bowed,

still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child.

"Let Miss Eyre be seated," said he: and there was something in the

forced

stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to

express, "What the deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not?

At this moment I am not disposed to accost her."

I sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished politeness

would probably have confused me: I could not have returned or repaid it

by answering grace and elegance on my part; but harsh caprice laid me

under no obligation; on the contrary, a decent quiescence, under the

freak of manner, gave me the advantage. Besides, the eccentricity of

the

proceeding was piquant: I felt interested to see how he would go on.

He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved.

Mrs.

Fairfax seemed to think it necessary that some one should be amiable,

and

she began to talk. Kindly, as usual--and, as usual, rather trite--she

condoled with him on the pressure of business he had had all day; on

the

annoyance it must have been to him with that painful sprain: then she

commended his patience and perseverance in going through with it.

"Madam, I should like some tea," was the sole rejoinder she got. She

hastened to ring the bell; and when the tray came, she proceeded to

arrange the cups, spoons, &c., with assiduous celerity. I and Adele

went

to the table; but the master did not leave his couch.

"Will you hand Mr. Rochester's cup?" said Mrs. Fairfax to me; "Adele

might perhaps spill it."

I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adele, thinking

the

moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out--

"N'est-ce pas, monsieur, qu'il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre

dans

votre petit coffre?"

"Who talks of cadeaux?" said he gruffly. "Did you expect a present,

Miss

Eyre? Are you fond of presents?" and he searched my face with eyes

that

I saw were dark, irate, and piercing.

"I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are

generally

thought pleasant things."

"Generally thought? But what do _you_ think?"

"I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an

answer

worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not?

and one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as to its

nature."

"Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adele: she demands a

'cadeau,' clamorously, the moment she sees me: you beat about the

bush."

"Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adele has: she can

prefer the claim of old acquaintance, and the right too of custom; for

she says you have always been in the habit of giving her playthings;

but

if I had to make out a case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger,

and have done nothing to entitle me to an acknowledgment."

"Oh, don't fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Adele, and find

you have taken great pains with her: she is not bright, she has no

talents; yet in a short time she has made much improvement."

"Sir, you have now given me my 'cadeau;' I am obliged to you: it is the

meed teachers most covet--praise of their pupils' progress."

"Humph!" said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.

"Come to the fire," said the master, when the tray was taken away, and

Mrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting; while Adele

was

leading me by the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful books

and

ornaments on the consoles and chiffonnieres. We obeyed, as in duty

bound; Adele wanted to take a seat on my knee, but she was ordered to

amuse herself with Pilot.

"You have been resident in my house three months?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you came from--?"

"From Lowood school, in ---shire."

"Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you there?"

"Eight years."

"Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time

in

such a place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have

rather the look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that

sort of face. When you came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought

unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you

had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?"

"I have none."

"Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them?"

"No."

"I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat

on

that stile?"

"For whom, sir?"

"For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them. Did

I

break through one of your rings, that you spread that damned ice on the

causeway?"

I shook my head. "The men in green all forsook England a hundred years

ago," said I, speaking as seriously as he had done. "And not even in

Hay

Lane, or the fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I don't

think either summer or harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on

their

revels more."

Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows,

seemed

wondering what sort of talk this was.

"Well," resumed Mr. Rochester, "if you disown parents, you must have

some

sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?"

"No; none that I ever saw."

"And your home?"

"I have none."

"Where do your brothers and sisters live?"

"I have no brothers or sisters."

"Who recommended you to come here?"

"I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement."

"Yes," said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon, "and

I

am daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre

has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher

to

Adele."

"Don't trouble yourself to give her a character," returned Mr.

Rochester:

"eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. She began by

felling my horse."

"Sir?" said Mrs. Fairfax.

"I have to thank her for this sprain."

The widow looked bewildered.

"Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?"

"No, sir."

"Have you seen much society?"

"None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now the inmates of

Thornfield."

"Have you read much?"

"Only such books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous or

very learned."

"You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in

religious forms;--Brocklehurst, who I understand directs Lowood, is a

parson, is he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent full of

religieuses

would worship their director."

"Oh, no."

"You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest! That

sounds blasphemous."

"I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling. He

is

a harsh man; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our hair; and for

economy's sake bought us bad needles and thread, with which we could

hardly sew."

"That was very false economy," remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again

caught the drift of the dialogue.

"And was that the head and front of his offending?" demanded Mr.

Rochester.

"He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision

department, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with

long

lectures once a week, and with evening readings from books of his own

inditing, about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us afraid to go

to bed."

"What age were you when you went to Lowood?"

"About ten."

"And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then, eighteen?"

I assented.

"Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should hardly have

been able to guess your age. It is a point difficult to fix where the

features and countenance are so much at variance as in your case. And

now what did you learn at Lowood? Can you play?"

"A little."

"Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the library--I

mean,

if you please.--(Excuse my tone of command; I am used to say, 'Do

this,'

and it is done: I cannot alter my customary habits for one new

inmate.)--Go, then, into the library; take a candle with you; leave the

door open; sit down to the piano, and play a tune."

I departed, obeying his directions.

"Enough!" he called out in a few minutes. "You play _a little_, I see;

like any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than some,

but

not well."

I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued--"Adele

showed

me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don't know

whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a master aided you?"

"No, indeed!" I interjected.

"Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can

vouch

for its contents being original; but don't pass your word unless you

are

certain: I can recognise patchwork."

"Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir."

I brought the portfolio from the library.

"Approach the table," said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adele

and

Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.

"No crowding," said Mr. Rochester: "take the drawings from my hand as I

finish with them; but don't push your faces up to mine."

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid

aside; the others, when he had examined them, he swept from him.

"Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax," said he, "and look at

them with Adele;--you" (glancing at me) "resume your seat, and answer

my

questions. I perceive those pictures were done by one hand: was that

hand yours?"

"Yes."

"And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time, and

some thought."

"I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no

other occupation."

"Where did you get your copies?"

"Out of my head."

"That head I see now on your shoulders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has it other furniture of the same kind within?"

"I should think it may have: I should hope--better."

He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.

While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are: and

first, I must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects

had,

indeed, risen vividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual

eye,

before I attempted to embody them, they were striking; but my hand

would

not second my fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a pale

portrait of the thing I had conceived.

These pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds low

and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse;

so, too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there

was no land. One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged

mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with

foam; its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had touched

with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and as glittering

distinctness as my pencil could impart. Sinking below the bird and

mast,

a drowned corpse glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the

only

limb clearly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a

hill,

with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and

above

spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky

was a woman's shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as

I

could combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a star; the

lineaments

below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark

and wild; the hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by

storm

or by electric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like

moonlight; the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from

which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.

The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter

sky:

a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried,

along

the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a

head,--a colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting

against

it. Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew

up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow quite bloodless,

white

as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the

glassiness of despair, alone were visible. Above the temples, amidst

wreathed turban folds of black drapery, vague in its character and

consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with

sparkles

of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was "the likeness of a

kingly

crown;" what it diademed was "the shape which shape had none."

"Were you happy when you painted these pictures?" asked Mr. Rochester

presently.

"I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short,

was

to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known."

"That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have

been

few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist's dreamland while

you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long

each day?"

"I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at

them

from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the

midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply."

"And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?"

"Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my

handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite

powerless to realise."

"Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more,

probably. You had not enough of the artist's skill and science to give

it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As

to

the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must

have seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet

not

at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what

meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint

wind?

There is a high gale in that sky, and on this hill-top. Where did you

see Latmos? For that is Latmos. There! put the drawings away!"

I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his

watch, he said abruptly--

"It is nine o'clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adele sit up

so long? Take her to bed."

Adele went to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the caress,

but scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor

so

much.

"I wish you all good-night, now," said he, making a movement of the

hand

towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company, and wished

to dismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my

portfolio:

we curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew.

"You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax," I

observed, when I rejoined her in her room, after putting Adele to bed.

"Well, is he?"

"I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt."

"True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed

to

his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities of

temper, allowance should be made."

"Why?"

"Partly because it is his nature--and we can none of us help our

nature;

and partly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him,

and

make his spirits unequal."

"What about?"

"Family troubles, for one thing."

"But he has no family."

"Not now, but he has had--or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder

brother a few years since."

"His _elder_ brother?"

"Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession

of

the property; only about nine years."

"Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as

to be still inconsolable for his loss?"

"Why, no--perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings

between them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr. Edward;

and perhaps he prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman

was

fond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did

not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious

that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of

the name; and, soon after he was of age, some steps were taken that

were

not quite fair, and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester

and

Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a

painful position, for the sake of making his fortune: what the precise

nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could

not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he

broke with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled

kind of life. I don't think he has ever been resident at Thornfield

for

a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without a will

left

him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old

place."

"Why should he shun it?"

"Perhaps he thinks it gloomy."

The answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but

Mrs.

Fairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit

information

of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester's trials. She averred they

were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from

conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop the

subject, which I did accordingly.

CHAPTER XIV

For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the

mornings he seemed much engaged with business, and, in the afternoon,

gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes

stayed

to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse

exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return these visits, as

he

generally did not come back till late at night.

During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence,

and

all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional rencontre in

the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he would sometimes

pass

me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant

nod

or a cool glance, and sometimes bow and smile with gentlemanlike

affability. His changes of mood did not offend me, because I saw that

I

had nothing to do with their alternation; the ebb and flow depended on

causes quite disconnected with me.

One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio; in

order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went away

early,

to attend a public meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me;

but

the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany

them.

Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message came that I and

Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed Adele's hair and made her neat,

and having ascertained that I was myself in my usual Quaker trim, where

there was nothing to retouch--all being too close and plain, braided

locks included, to admit of disarrangement--we descended, Adele

wondering

whether the _petit coffre_ was at length come; for, owing to some

mistake, its arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified:

there

it stood, a little carton, on the table when we entered the diningroom.

She appeared to know it by instinct.

"Ma boite! ma boite!" exclaimed she, running towards it.

"Yes, there is your 'boite' at last: take it into a corner, you genuine

daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling it," said the

deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the

depths of an immense easy-chair at the fireside. "And mind," he

continued, "don't bother me with any details of the anatomical process,

or any notice of the condition of the entrails: let your operation be

conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?"

Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning--she had already retired to a

sofa with her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which secured the

lid. Having removed this impediment, and lifted certain silvery

envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed--

"Oh ciel! Que c'est beau!" and then remained absorbed in ecstatic

contemplation.

"Is Miss Eyre there?" now demanded the master, half rising from his

seat

to look round to the door, near which I still stood.

"Ah! well, come forward; be seated here." He drew a chair near his

own.

"I am not fond of the prattle of children," he continued; "for, old

bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their

lisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening

_tete-a-tete_ with a brat. Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss

Eyre;

sit down exactly where I placed it--if you please, that is. Confound

these civilities! I continually forget them. Nor do I particularly

affect simple-minded old ladies. By-the-bye, I must have mine in mind;

it won't do to neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and blood

is

said to be thicker than water."

He rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon

arrived,

knitting-basket in hand.

"Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I have

forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents, and she is bursting

with repletion: have the goodness to serve her as auditress and

interlocutrice; it will be one of the most benevolent acts you ever

performed."

Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she summoned her to her

sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory,

the

waxen contents of her "boite;" pouring out, meantime, explanations and

raptures in such broken English as she was mistress of.

"Now I have performed the part of a good host," pursued Mr. Rochester,

"put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at

liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair still

a

little farther forward: you are yet too far back; I cannot see you

without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair, which I have

no

mind to do."

I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat

in

the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it

seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.

We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which had been

lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light; the

large

fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains hung rich and ample

before the lofty window and loftier arch; everything was still, save

the

subdued chat of Adele (she dared not speak loud), and, filling up each

pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes.

Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different

to

what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern--much less gloomy.

There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine

or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was, in short,

in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also more selfindulgent

than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning; still he

looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the

swelling

back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granitehewn

features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark

eyes,

and very fine eyes, too--not without a certain change in their depths

sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of

that

feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the

same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze

fastened on his physiognomy.

"You examine me, Miss Eyre," said he: "do you think me handsome?"

I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by

something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow

slipped

from my tongue before I was aware--"No, sir."

"Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you," said he: "you

have the air of a little _nonnette_; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple,

as

you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes generally bent on the

carpet (except, by-the-bye, when they are directed piercingly to my

face;

as just now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or makes

a

remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap out a round

rejoinder,

which, if not blunt, is at least brusque. What do you mean by it?"

"Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied that

it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about

appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little

consequence, or something of that sort."

"You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little

consequence,

indeed! And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage, of

stroking and soothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife under

my ear! Go on: what fault do you find with me, pray? I suppose I have

all my limbs and all my features like any other man?"

"Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no

pointed

repartee: it was only a blunder."

"Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it. Criticise

me:

does my forehead not please you?"

He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his

brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs, but an

abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should have

risen.

"Now, ma'am, am I a fool?"

"Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired in

return whether you are a philanthropist?"

"There again! Another stick of the penknife, when she pretended to pat

my head: and that is because I said I did not like the society of

children and old women (low be it spoken!). No, young lady, I am not a

general philanthropist; but I bear a conscience;" and he pointed to the

prominences which are said to indicate that faculty, and which,

fortunately for him, were sufficiently conspicuous; giving, indeed, a

marked breadth to the upper part of his head: "and, besides, I once had

a

kind of rude tenderness of heart. When I was as old as you, I was a

feeling fellow enough, partial to the unfledged, unfostered, and

unlucky;

but Fortune has knocked me about since: she has even kneaded me with

her

knuckles, and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an Indiarubber

ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with one

sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes: does that leave hope

for

me?"

"Hope of what, sir?"

"Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh?"

"Decidedly he has had too much wine," I thought; and I did not know

what

answer to make to his queer question: how could I tell whether he was

capable of being re-transformed?

"You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not pretty

any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it

is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from my

physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug; so

puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and

communicative

to-night."

With this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning his

arm

on the marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape was seen plainly

as

well as his face; his unusual breadth of chest, disproportionate almost

to his length of limb. I am sure most people would have thought him an

ugly man; yet there was so much unconscious pride in his port; so much

ease in his demeanour; such a look of complete indifference to his own

external appearance; so haughty a reliance on the power of other

qualities, intrinsic or adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere

personal attractiveness, that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared

the indifference, and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in

the

confidence.

"I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night," he

repeated,

"and that is why I sent for you: the fire and the chandelier were not

sufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have been, for none of these

can talk. Adele is a degree better, but still far below the mark; Mrs.

Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will: you

puzzled

me the first evening I invited you down here. I have almost forgotten

you since: other ideas have driven yours from my head; but to-night I

am

resolved to be at ease; to dismiss what importunes, and recall what

pleases. It would please me now to draw you out--to learn more of

you--therefore speak."

Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive

smile either.

"Speak," he urged.

"What about, sir?"

"Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and the manner

of

treating it entirely to yourself."

Accordingly I sat and said nothing: "If he expects me to talk for the

mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has addressed

himself to the wrong person," I thought.

"You are dumb, Miss Eyre."

I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me, and with a

single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.

"Stubborn?" he said, "and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put my

request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg your

pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you like an

inferior: that is" (correcting himself), "I claim only such superiority

as must result from twenty years' difference in age and a century's

advance in experience. This is legitimate, _et j'y tiens_, as Adele

would say; and it is by virtue of this superiority, and this alone,

that

I desire you to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and

divert

my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on one point--cankering as

a

rusty nail."

He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not feel

insensible to his condescension, and would not seem so.

"I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir--quite willing; but I cannot

introduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest you? Ask

me

questions, and I will do my best to answer them."

"Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to

be

a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on the grounds

I

stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your father, and that I have

battled through a varied experience with many men of many nations, and

roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly with one set

of

people in one house?"

"Do as you please, sir."

"That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because a very

evasive one. Reply clearly."

"I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because you

are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I

have;

your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time

and experience."

"Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won't allow that, seeing that it would

never suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to say a bad,

use

of both advantages. Leaving superiority out of the question, then, you

must still agree to receive my orders now and then, without being

piqued

or hurt by the tone of command. Will you?"

I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester _is_ peculiar--he seems to

forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for receiving his orders.

"The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing

expression; "but speak too."

"I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves to

inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and hurt by

their orders."

"Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate, are you? Oh

yes,

I had forgotten the salary! Well then, on that mercenary ground, will

you agree to let me hector a little?"

"No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you did forget

it,

and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in his

dependency, I agree heartily."

"And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional forms

and phrases, without thinking that the omission arises from insolence?"

"I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence: one

I

rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even for a

salary."

"Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary;

therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of which

you are intensely ignorant. However, I mentally shake hands with you

for

your answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for the manner in

which

it was said, as for the substance of the speech; the manner was frank

and

sincere; one does not often see such a manner: no, on the contrary,

affectation, or coldness, or stupid, coarse-minded misapprehension of

one's meaning are the usual rewards of candour. Not three in three

thousand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me as you have

just done. But I don't mean to flatter you: if you are cast in a

different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours: Nature did

it.

And then, after all, I go too fast in my conclusions: for what I yet

know, you may be no better than the rest; you may have intolerable

defects to counterbalance your few good points."

"And so may you," I thought. My eye met his as the idea crossed my

mind:

he seemed to read the glance, answering as if its import had been

spoken

as well as imagined--

"Yes, yes, you are right," said he; "I have plenty of faults of my own:

I

know it, and I don't wish to palliate them, I assure you. God wot I

need

not be too severe about others; I have a past existence, a series of

deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within my own breast, which

might

well call my sneers and censures from my neighbours to myself. I

started, or rather (for like other defaulters, I like to lay half the

blame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances) was thrust on to a

wrong

tack at the age of one-and-twenty, and have never recovered the right

course since: but I might have been very different; I might have been

as

good as you--wiser--almost as stainless. I envy you your peace of

mind,

your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a memory

without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure--an

inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?"

"How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?"

"All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water had turned

it

to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen--quite your equal.

Nature

meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre; one of the better

kind, and you see I am not so. You would say you don't see it; at

least

I flatter myself I read as much in your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what

you

express with that organ; I am quick at interpreting its language).

Then

take my word for it,--I am not a villain: you are not to suppose that--

not

to attribute to me any such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe,

rather to circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a trite

commonplace

sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with which the

rich

and worthless try to put on life. Do you wonder that I avow this to

you?

Know, that in the course of your future life you will often find

yourself

elected the involuntary confidant of your acquaintances' secrets:

people

will instinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte

to

tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of themselves; they

will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their

indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less

comforting

and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations."

"How do you know?--how can you guess all this, sir?"

"I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were

writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I should have been

superior to circumstances; so I should--so I should; but you see I was

not. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool: I

turned

desperate; then I degenerated. Now, when any vicious simpleton excites

my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that I am

better than he: I am forced to confess that he and I are on a level. I

wish I had stood firm--God knows I do! Dread remorse when you are

tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life."

"Repentance is said to be its cure, sir."

"It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform--

I

have strength yet for that--if--but where is the use of thinking of it,

hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is

irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and

I

_will_ get it, cost what it may."

"Then you will degenerate still more, sir."

"Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure? And I

may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the

moor."

"It will sting--it will taste bitter, sir."

"How do you know?--you never tried it. How very serious--how very

solemn

you look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head"

(taking one from the mantelpiece). "You have no right to preach to me,

you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are

absolutely

unacquainted with its mysteries."

"I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brought

remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence."

"And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that

flittered

across my brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration rather

than a temptation: it was very genial, very soothing--I know that.

Here

it comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put

on

the robes of an angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest

when it asks entrance to my heart."

"Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel."

"Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to

distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from

the

eternal throne--between a guide and a seducer?"

"I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said

the

suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more

misery if you listen to it."

"Not at all--it bears the most gracious message in the world: for the

rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don't make yourself uneasy.

Here, come in, bonny wanderer!"

He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his

own;

then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he

seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.

"Now," he continued, again addressing me, "I have received the pilgrim-

-a

disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good: my

heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine."

"To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all: I cannot keep up

the

conversation, because it has got out of my depth. Only one thing, I

know: you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that

you regretted your own imperfection;--one thing I can comprehend: you

intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane. It seems

to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to

become what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you

began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would

in

a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to

which you might revert with pleasure."

"Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I am

paving hell with energy."

"Sir?"

"I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint.

Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have

been."

"And better?"

"And better--so much better as pure ore is than foul dross. You seem

to

doubt me; I don't doubt myself: I know what my aim is, what my motives

are; and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes

and Persians, that both are right."

"They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalise them."

"They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute:

unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules."

"That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once that

it

is liable to abuse."

"Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods not to

abuse it."

"You are human and fallible."

"I am: so are you--what then?"

"The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the

divine

and perfect alone can be safely intrusted."

"What power?"

"That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,--'Let it

be

right.'"

"'Let it be right'--the very words: you have pronounced them."

"_May_ it be right then," I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to

continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides,

sensible

that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration; at

least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the uncertainty, the vague

sense of insecurity, which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.

"Where are you going?"

"To put Adele to bed: it is past her bedtime."

"You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx."

"Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered, I am

certainly not afraid."

"You _are_ afraid--your self-love dreads a blunder."

"In that sense I do feel apprehensive--I have no wish to talk

nonsense."

"If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should

mistake

it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't trouble yourself

to

answer--I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe

me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally

vicious.

The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your

features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear

in the presence of a man and a brother--or father, or master, or what

you

will--to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but,

in

time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it

impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and

movements

will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see at

intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set

bars

of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but

free, it would soar cloud-high. You are still bent on going?"

"It has struck nine, sir."

"Never mind,--wait a minute: Adele is not ready to go to bed yet. My

position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room,

favours observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally

watched Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious

study,--reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day).

She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk

frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her

blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones.

'Il

faut que je l'essaie!' cried she, 'et a l'instant meme!' and she rushed

out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process:

in

a few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see,--a

miniature of Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the

rising of--But never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are

about

to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether

it

will be realised."

Ere long, Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She

entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of

rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could

be

gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of

rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings

and small white satin sandals.

"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she, bounding forwards; "et mes

souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!"

And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room till, having

reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe,

then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming--

"Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;" then rising,

she

added, "C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"

"Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and, 'comme cela,' she charmed my

English

gold out of my British breeches' pocket. I have been green, too, Miss

Eyre,--ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than

once

freshened me. My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that

French

floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of.

Not

valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a

sort

which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to

the

blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it

and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating

numerous

sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all this some

day.

Good-night."

CHAPTER XV

Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one

afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds: and

while

she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and

down a long beech avenue within sight of her.

He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, Celine

Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a "_grande

passion_." This passion Celine had professed to return with even

superior ardour. He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was: he

believed, as he said, that she preferred his "_taille d'athlete_" to

the

elegance of the Apollo Belvidere.

"And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference of the

Gallic

sylph for her British gnome, that I installed her in an hotel; gave her

a

complete establishment of servants, a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds,

dentelles, &c. In short, I began the process of ruining myself in the

received style, like any other spoony. I had not, it seems, the

originality to chalk out a new road to shame and destruction, but trode

the old track with stupid exactness not to deviate an inch from the

beaten centre. I had--as I deserved to have--the fate of all other

spoonies. Happening to call one evening when Celine did not expect me,

I

found her out; but it was a warm night, and I was tired with strolling

through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air

consecrated so lately by her presence. No,--I exaggerate; I never

thought there was any consecrating virtue about her: it was rather a

sort

of pastille perfume she had left; a scent of musk and amber, than an

odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fumes of

conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences, when I bethought myself to

open the window and step out on to the balcony. It was moonlight and

gaslight besides, and very still and serene. The balcony was furnished

with a chair or two; I sat down, and took out a cigar,--I will take one

now, if you will excuse me."

Here ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and lighting of a

cigar;

having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah incense

on

the freezing and sunless air, he went on--

"I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was

_croquant_--(overlook the barbarism)--_croquant_ chocolate comfits, and

smoking alternately, watching meantime the equipages that rolled along

the fashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house, when in

an

elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and

distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I recognised the 'voiture'

I

had given Celine. She was returning: of course my heart thumped with

impatience against the iron rails I leant upon. The carriage stopped,

as

I had expected, at the hotel door; my flame (that is the very word for

an

opera inamorata) alighted: though muffed in a cloak--an unnecessary

encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so warm a June evening--I knew her

instantly

by her little foot, seen peeping from the skirt of her dress, as she

skipped from the carriage-step. Bending over the balcony, I was about

to

murmur 'Mon ange'--in a tone, of course, which should be audible to the

ear of love alone--when a figure jumped from the carriage after her;

cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel which had rung on the

pavement,

and that was a hatted head which now passed under the arched _porte

cochere_ of the hotel.

"You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need

not

ask you; because you never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to

experience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall

waken it. You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in

which your youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes

and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far off in

the

bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base. But I tell

you--and you may mark my words--you will come some day to a craggy pass

in the channel, where the whole of life's stream will be broken up into

whirl and tumult, foam and noise: either you will be dashed to atoms on

crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave into a

calmer

current--as I am now.

"I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and

stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield, its

antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its grey

facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin: and yet

how long have I abhorred the very thought of it, shunned it like a

great

plague-house? How I do still abhor--"

He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck his

boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in

its grip, and to hold him so tightly that he could not advance.

We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused; the hall was before

us.

Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a glare such as I

never saw before or since. Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust,

detestation, seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the

large

pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which

should

be paramount; but another feeling rose and triumphed: something hard

and

cynical: self-willed and resolute: it settled his passion and petrified

his countenance: he went on--

"During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point

with

my destiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk--a hag like one of

those who appeared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres. 'You like

Thornfield?' she said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the

air

a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front,

between the upper and lower row of windows, 'Like it if you can! Like

it

if you dare!'

"'I will like it,' said I; 'I dare like it;' and" (he subjoined

moodily)

"I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to happiness, to

goodness--yes, goodness. I wish to be a better man than I have been,

than I am; as Job's leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the

habergeon, hindrances which others count as iron and brass, I will

esteem

but straw and rotten wood."

Adele here ran before him with her shuttlecock. "Away!" he cried

harshly; "keep at a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!" Continuing

then to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the

point

whence he had abruptly diverged--

"Did you leave the balcony, sir," I asked, "when Mdlle. Varens

entered?"

I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed question, but, on

the contrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he turned his

eyes

towards me, and the shade seemed to clear off his brow. "Oh, I had

forgotten Celine! Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in

accompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss, and the green snake

of jealousy, rising on undulating coils from the moonlit balcony,

glided

within my waistcoat, and ate its way in two minutes to my heart's core.

Strange!" he exclaimed, suddenly starting again from the point.

"Strange

that I should choose you for the confidant of all this, young lady;

passing strange that you should listen to me quietly, as if it were the

most usual thing in the world for a man like me to tell stories of his

opera-mistresses to a quaint, inexperienced girl like you! But the

last

singularity explains the first, as I intimated once before: you, with

your gravity, considerateness, and caution were made to be the

recipient

of secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a mind I have placed in

communication with my own: I know it is one not liable to take

infection:

it is a peculiar mind: it is a unique one. Happily I do not mean to

harm

it: but, if I did, it would not take harm from me. The more you and I

converse, the better; for while I cannot blight you, you may refresh

me."

After this digression he proceeded--

"I remained in the balcony. 'They will come to her boudoir, no doubt,'

thought I: 'let me prepare an ambush.' So putting my hand in through

the

open window, I drew the curtain over it, leaving only an opening

through

which I could take observations; then I closed the casement, all but a

chink just wide enough to furnish an outlet to lovers' whispered vows:

then I stole back to my chair; and as I resumed it the pair came in.

My

eye was quickly at the aperture. Celine's chamber-maid entered, lit a

lamp, left it on the table, and withdrew. The couple were thus

revealed

to me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and there was 'the Varens,'

shining in satin and jewels,--my gifts of course,--and there was her

companion in an officer's uniform; and I knew him for a young roue of a

vicomte--a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in

society, and had never thought of hating because I despised him so

absolutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy was

instantly broken; because at the same moment my love for Celine sank

under an extinguisher. A woman who could betray me for such a rival

was

not worth contending for; she deserved only scorn; less, however, than

I,

who had been her dupe.

"They began to talk; their conversation eased me completely: frivolous,

mercenary, heartless, and senseless, it was rather calculated to weary

than enrage a listener. A card of mine lay on the table; this being

perceived, brought my name under discussion. Neither of them possessed

energy or wit to belabour me soundly, but they insulted me as coarsely

as

they could in their little way: especially Celine, who even waxed

rather

brilliant on my personal defects--deformities she termed them. Now it

had been her custom to launch out into fervent admiration of what she

called my '_beaute male_:' wherein she differed diametrically from you,

who told me point-blank, at the second interview, that you did not

think

me handsome. The contrast struck me at the time and--"

Adele here came running up again.

"Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and

wishes to see you."

"Ah! in that case I must abridge. Opening the window, I walked in upon

them; liberated Celine from my protection; gave her notice to vacate

her

hotel; offered her a purse for immediate exigencies; disregarded

screams,

hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an appointment

with

the vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning I had

the pleasure of encountering him; left a bullet in one of his poor

etiolated arms, feeble as the wing of a chicken in the pip, and then

thought I had done with the whole crew. But unluckily the Varens, six

months before, had given me this filette Adele, who, she affirmed, was

my

daughter; and perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs of such grim

paternity written in her countenance: Pilot is more like me than she.

Some years after I had broken with the mother, she abandoned her child,

and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I acknowledged no

natural claim on Adele's part to be supported by me, nor do I now

acknowledge any, for I am not her father; but hearing that she was

quite

destitute, I e'en took the poor thing out of the slime and mud of

Paris,

and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the wholesome soil of an

English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it; but now

you

know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera-girl, you

will perhaps think differently of your post and protegee: you will be

coming to me some day with notice that you have found another place--

that

you beg me to look out for a new governess, &c.--Eh?"

"No: Adele is not answerable for either her mother's faults or yours: I

have a regard for her; and now that I know she is, in a sense,

parentless--forsaken by her mother and disowned by you, sir--I shall

cling closer to her than before. How could I possibly prefer the

spoilt

pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess as a nuisance, to

a

lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend?"

"Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go in now;

and

you too: it darkens."

But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adele and Pilot--ran a race

with her, and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock. When we

went

in, and I had removed her bonnet and coat, I took her on my knee; kept

her there an hour, allowing her to prattle as she liked: not rebuking

even some little freedoms and trivialities into which she was apt to

stray when much noticed, and which betrayed in her a superficiality of

character, inherited probably from her mother, hardly congenial to an

English mind. Still she had her merits; and I was disposed to

appreciate

all that was good in her to the utmost. I sought in her countenance

and

features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none: no trait, no turn

of expression announced relationship. It was a pity: if she could but

have been proved to resemble him, he would have thought more of her.

It was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the night,

that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me. As he had

said, there was probably nothing at all extraordinary in the substance

of

the narrative itself: a wealthy Englishman's passion for a French

dancer,

and her treachery to him, were every-day matters enough, no doubt, in

society; but there was something decidedly strange in the paroxysm of

emotion which had suddenly seized him when he was in the act of

expressing the present contentment of his mood, and his newly revived

pleasure in the old hall and its environs. I meditated wonderingly on

this incident; but gradually quitting it, as I found it for the present

inexplicable, I turned to the consideration of my master's manner to

myself. The confidence he had thought fit to repose in me seemed a

tribute to my discretion: I regarded and accepted it as such. His

deportment had now for some weeks been more uniform towards me than at

the first. I never seemed in his way; he did not take fits of chilling

hauteur: when he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome; he

had always a word and sometimes a smile for me: when summoned by formal

invitation to his presence, I was honoured by a cordiality of reception

that made me feel I really possessed the power to amuse him, and that

these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for

my

benefit.

I, indeed, talked comparatively little, but I heard him talk with

relish.

It was his nature to be communicative; he liked to open to a mind

unacquainted with the world glimpses of its scenes and ways (I do not

mean its corrupt scenes and wicked ways, but such as derived their

interest from the great scale on which they were acted, the strange

novelty by which they were characterised); and I had a keen delight in

receiving the new ideas he offered, in imagining the new pictures he

portrayed, and following him in thought through the new regions he

disclosed, never startled or troubled by one noxious allusion.

The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint: the friendly

frankness, as correct as cordial, with which he treated me, drew me to

him. I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than my master:

yet he was imperious sometimes still; but I did not mind that; I saw it

was his way. So happy, so gratified did I become with this new

interest

added to life, that I ceased to pine after kindred: my thin

crescent-destiny seemed to enlarge; the blanks of existence were filled

up; my bodily health improved; I gathered flesh and strength.

And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader: gratitude, and

many associations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face the object

I

best liked to see; his presence in a room was more cheering than the

brightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his faults; indeed, I could

not,

for he brought them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic,

harsh

to inferiority of every description: in my secret soul I knew that his

great kindness to me was balanced by unjust severity to many others.

He

was moody, too; unaccountably so; I more than once, when sent for to

read

to him, found him sitting in his library alone, with his head bent on

his

folded arms; and, when he looked up, a morose, almost a malignant,

scowl

blackened his features. But I believed that his moodiness, his

harshness, and his former faults of morality (I say _former_, for now

he

seemed corrected of them) had their source in some cruel cross of fate.

I

believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher

principles,

and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed, education

instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there were excellent

materials in him; though for the present they hung together somewhat

spoiled and tangled. I cannot deny that I grieved for his grief,

whatever that was, and would have given much to assuage it.

Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed, I

could

not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue, and

told

how his destiny had risen up before him, and dared him to be happy at

Thornfield.

"Why not?" I asked myself. "What alienates him from the house? Will

he

leave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer

than

a fortnight at a time; and he has now been resident eight weeks. If he

does go, the change will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent

spring,

summer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine and fine days will seem!"

I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any

rate,

I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and

lugubrious,

which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I had kept my candle

burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits were depressed. I

rose

and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.

I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my inward

tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two.

Just then it seemed my chamber-door was touched; as if fingers had

swept

the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside. I said,

"Who

is there?" Nothing answered. I was chilled with fear.

All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the kitchendoor

chanced to be left open, not unfrequently found his way up to the

threshold of Mr. Rochester's chamber: I had seen him lying there myself

in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down. Silence

composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again through

the whole house, I began to feel the return of slumber. But it was not

fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached

my

ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow-freezing incident

enough.

This was a demoniac laugh--low, suppressed, and deep--uttered, as it

seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was

near the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher stood at my

bedside--or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked round,

and

could see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was

reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My first

impulse

was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry out, "Who is

there?"

Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery

towards the third-storey staircase: a door had lately been made to shut

in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was still.

"Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?" thought I.

Impossible now to remain longer by myself: I must go to Mrs. Fairfax.

I

hurried on my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt and opened the

door

with a trembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and on

the matting in the gallery. I was surprised at this circumstance: but

still more was I amazed to perceive the air quite dim, as if filled

with

smoke; and, while looking to the right hand and left, to find whence

these blue wreaths issued, I became further aware of a strong smell of

burning.

Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr.

Rochester's,

and the smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no more of Mrs.

Fairfax; I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the laugh: in an instant,

I

was within the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the

curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester

lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.

"Wake! wake!" I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned:

the

smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets

were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was

wide

and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up,

deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my

own water-jug, baptized the couch afresh, and, by God's aid, succeeded

in

extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.

The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I

flung

from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash of the

shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last.

Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him

fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of

water.

"Is there a flood?" he cried.

"No, sir," I answered; "but there has been a fire: get up, do; you are

quenched now; I will fetch you a candle."

"In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?" he

demanded. "What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in

the

room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?"

"I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven's name, get up.

Somebody

has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and what it

is."

"There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait

two

minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be--yes,

here

is my dressing-gown. Now run!"

I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery.

He

took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened

and

scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round swimming in water.

"What is it? and who did it?" he asked. I briefly related to him what

had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery: the step

ascending to the third storey; the smoke,--the smell of fire which had

conducted me to his room; in what state I had found matters there, and

how I had deluged him with all the water I could lay hands on.

{"What is it and who did it?" he asked: p140.jpg}

He listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed more

concern

than astonishment; he did not immediately speak when I had concluded.

"Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?" I asked.

"Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for? What can

she

do? Let her sleep unmolested."

"Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife."

"Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not warm

enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and sit down

in

the arm-chair: there,--I will put it on. Now place your feet on the

stool, to keep them out of the wet. I am going to leave you a few

minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are till I return;

be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second storey.

Don't

move, remember, or call any one."

He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very

softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible,

shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I was left in total

darkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing. A very long

time elapsed. I grew weary: it was cold, in spite of the cloak; and

then

I did not see the use of staying, as I was not to rouse the house. I

was

on the point of risking Mr. Rochester's displeasure by disobeying his

orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery wall, and

I

heard his unshod feet tread the matting. "I hope it is he," thought I,

"and not something worse."

He re-entered, pale and very gloomy. "I have found it all out," said

he,

setting his candle down on the washstand; "it is as I thought."

"How, sir?"

He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the

ground.

At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather a peculiar tone--

"I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your

chamber

door."

"No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground."

"But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I

should

think, or something like it?"

"Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole,--she

laughs in that way. She is a singular person."

"Just so. Grace Poole--you have guessed it. She is, as you say,

singular--very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am

glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the

precise details of to-night's incident. You are no talking fool: say

nothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs" (pointing

to

the bed): "and now return to your own room. I shall do very well on

the

sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four:--in

two

hours the servants will be up."

"Good-night, then, sir," said I, departing.

He seemed surprised--very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to

go.

"What!" he exclaimed, "are you quitting me already, and in that way?"

"You said I might go, sir."

"But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of

acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry

fashion.

Why, you have saved my life!--snatched me from a horrible and

excruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual

strangers!

At least shake hands."

He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, them in

both his own.

"You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a

debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been

tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation:

but

you: it is different;--I feel your benefits no burden, Jane."

He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,--but

his voice was checked.

"Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation,

in the case."

"I knew," he continued, "you would do me good in some way, at some

time;--I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression

and smile did not"--(again he stopped)--"did not" (he proceeded

hastily)

"strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of

natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains of

truth

in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, goodnight!"

Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.

"I am glad I happened to be awake," I said: and then I was going.

"What! you _will_ go?"

"I am cold, sir."

"Cold? Yes,--and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!" But he

still

retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an

expedient.

"I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir," said I.

"Well, leave me:" he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.

I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I

was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble

rolled

under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters

a

shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening

gale,

wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne: but I

could not reach it, even in fancy--a counteracting breeze blew off

land,

and continually drove me back. Sense would resist delirium: judgment

would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day

dawned.

CHAPTER XVI

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed

this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to

meet his eye. During the early part of the morning, I momentarily

expected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit of entering the

schoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had

the

impression that he was sure to visit it that day.

But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened to interrupt the

quiet course of Adele's studies; only soon after breakfast, I heard

some

bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester's chamber, Mrs. Fairfax's

voice, and Leah's, and the cook's--that is, John's wife--and even

John's

own gruff tones. There were exclamations of "What a mercy master was

not

burnt in his bed!" "It is always dangerous to keep a candle lit at

night." "How providential that he had presence of mind to think of the

water-jug!" "I wonder he waked nobody!" "It is to be hoped he will

not

take cold with sleeping on the library sofa," &c.

To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to

rights; and when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I

saw

through the open door that all was again restored to complete order;

only

the bed was stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up in the windowseat,

rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke. I was about to address

her, for I wished to know what account had been given of the affair:

but,

on advancing, I saw a second person in the chamber--a woman sitting on

a

chair by the bedside, and sewing rings to new curtains. That woman was

no other than Grace Poole.

There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown stuff

gown, her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap. She was intent on

her work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard

forehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing either of the

paleness or desperation one would have expected to see marking the

countenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and whose intended

victim had followed her last night to her lair, and (as I believed),

charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate. I was

amazed--confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her: no

start,

no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of

guilt, or fear of detection. She said "Good morning, Miss," in her

usual

phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking up another ring and more tape,

went on with her sewing.

"I will put her to some test," thought I: "such absolute

impenetrability

is past comprehension."

"Good morning, Grace," I said. "Has anything happened here? I thought

I

heard the servants all talking together a while ago."

"Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep

with

his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he

awoke

before the bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to quench

the flames with the water in the ewer."

"A strange affair!" I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her

fixedly--"Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move?"

She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something of

consciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine me warily;

then

she answered--

"The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be

likely

to hear. Mrs. Fairfax's room and yours are the nearest to master's;

but

Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people get elderly, they

often

sleep heavy." She paused, and then added, with a sort of assumed

indifference, but still in a marked and significant tone--"But you are

young, Miss; and I should say a light sleeper: perhaps you may have

heard

a noise?"

"I did," said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still

polishing

the panes, could not hear me, "and at first I thought it was Pilot: but

Pilot cannot laugh; and I am certain I heard a laugh, and a strange

one."

She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her

needle with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure--

"It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he

was in such danger: You must have been dreaming."

"I was not dreaming," I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolness

provoked me. Again she looked at me; and with the same scrutinising

and

conscious eye.

"Have you told master that you heard a laugh?" she inquired.

"I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning."

"You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the

gallery?" she further asked.

She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me

information unawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew

or suspected her guilt, she would be playing of some of her malignant

pranks on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard.

"On the contrary," said I, "I bolted my door."

"Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before

you get into bed?"

"Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans

accordingly!" Indignation again prevailed over prudence: I replied

sharply, "Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten the bolt: I did not

think it necessary. I was not aware any danger or annoyance was to be

dreaded at Thornfield Hall: but in future" (and I laid marked stress on

the words) "I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture

to

lie down."

"It will be wise so to do," was her answer: "this neighbourhood is as

quiet as any I know, and I never heard of the hall being attempted by

robbers since it was a house; though there are hundreds of pounds'

worth

of plate in the plate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for such

a

large house, there are very few servants, because master has never

lived

here much; and when he does come, being a bachelor, he needs little

waiting on: but I always think it best to err on the safe side; a door

is

soon fastened, and it is as well to have a drawn bolt between one and

any

mischief that may be about. A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting

all

to Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the means,

though He often blesses them when they are used discreetly." And here

she closed her harangue: a long one for her, and uttered with the

demureness of a Quakeress.

I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her

miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the

cook

entered.

"Mrs. Poole," said she, addressing Grace, "the servants' dinner will

soon

be ready: will you come down?"

"No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding 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 rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last

night--remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!"

I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment

vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Adele was drawing; I

bent

over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.

"Qu' avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said she. "Vos doigts tremblent comme

la

feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme des cerises!"

"I am hot, Adele, with stooping!" She went on sketching; I went on

thinking.

I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been

conceiving

respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared myself with her,

and

found we were different. Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady;

and

she spoke truth--I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I did

when Bessie saw me; I had more colour and more flesh, more life, more

vivacity, because I had brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.

"Evening approaches," said I, as I looked towards the window. "I have

never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step in the house to-day; but

surely

I shall see him before night: I feared the meeting in the morning; now

I

desire it, because expectation has been so long baffled that it is

grown

impatient."

When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go and play in the

nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for the

bell to ring below; I listened for Leah coming up with a message; I

fancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester's own tread, and I turned to

the

door, expecting it to open and admit him. The door remained shut;

darkness only came in through the window. Still it was not late; he

often sent for me at seven and eight o'clock, and it was yet but six.

Surely I should not be wholly disappointed to-night, when I had so many

things to say to him! I wanted again to introduce the subject of Grace

Poole, and to hear what he would answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if

he really believed it was she who had made last night's hideous

attempt;

and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It little mattered

whether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the pleasure of vexing and

soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and a sure

instinct always prevented me from going too far; beyond the verge of

provocation I never ventured; on the extreme brink I liked well to try

my

skill. Retaining every minute form of respect, every propriety of my

station, I could still meet him in argument without fear or uneasy

restraint; this suited both him and me.

A tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her appearance; but

it

was only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax's room.

Thither

I repaired, glad at least to go downstairs; for that brought me, I

imagined, nearer to Mr. Rochester's presence.

"You must want your tea," said the good lady, as I joined her; "you ate

so little at dinner. I am afraid," she continued, "you are not well

today:

you look flushed and feverish."

"Oh, quite well! I never felt better."

"Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill the

teapot while I knit off this needle?" Having completed her task, she

rose to draw down the blind, which she had hitherto kept up, by way, I

suppose, of making the most of daylight, though dusk was now fast

deepening into total obscurity.

"It is fair to-night," said she, as she looked through the panes,

"though

not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day

for

his journey."

"Journey!--Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he was out."

"Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas,

Mr. Eshton's place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe

there is quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn,

Colonel Dent, and others."

"Do you expect him back to-night?"

"No--nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay a

week or more: when these fine, fashionable people get together, they

are

so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with all that

can

please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gentlemen

especially are often in request on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is

so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a general

favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though you would not think

his appearance calculated to recommend him particularly in their eyes:

but I suppose his acquirements and abilities, perhaps his wealth and

good

blood, make amends for any little fault of look."

"Are there ladies at the Leas?"

"There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters--very elegant young

ladies

indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram, most

beautiful women, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven

years since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a

Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave. You should have seen the

dining-room that day--how richly it was decorated, how brilliantly lit

up! I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present--all

of

the first county families; and Miss Ingram was considered the belle of

the evening."

"You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?"

"Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown open; and, as it

was

Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to

hear some of the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to

come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never

saw

a more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed; most of

them--at least most of the younger ones--looked handsome; but Miss

Ingram

was certainly the queen."

"And what was she like?"

"Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive

complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr.

Rochester's: large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then

she had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly

arranged:

a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest

curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white; an amber-coloured

scarf

was passed over her shoulder and across her breast, tied at the side,

and

descending in long, fringed ends below her knee. She wore an

amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair: it contrasted well with the

jetty mass of her curls."

"She was greatly admired, of course?"

"Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments.

She was one of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her on the

piano. She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet."

"Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing."

"Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music."

"And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?"

"A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it was a treat to

listen to her;--and she played afterwards. I am no judge of music, but

Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say her execution was remarkably

good."

"And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?"

"It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large

fortunes. Old Lord Ingram's estates were chiefly entailed, and the

eldest son came in for everything almost."

"But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to

her:

Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not?"

"Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age: Mr.

Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five."

"What of that? More unequal matches are made every day."

"True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an

idea

of the sort. But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted since you

began tea."

"No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another cup?"

I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between Mr.

Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adele came in, and the

conversation was turned into another channel.

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into

my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring

back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination's

boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes,

wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night--of the

general

state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past;

Reason

having come forward and told, in her own quiet way a plain, unvarnished

tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the

ideal;--I pronounced judgment to this effect:--

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of

life;

that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies,

and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

"_You_," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester? _You_ gifted with

the

power of pleasing him? _You_ of importance to him in any way? Go!

your

folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens

of preference--equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a

man

of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid

dupe!--Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to

yourself this morning the brief scene of last night?--Cover your face

and

be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind

puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed

senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her

superior,

who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women

to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and

unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and

responded to, must lead, _ignis-fatus_-like, into miry wilds whence

there

is no extrication.

"Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass

before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without

softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing

irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected,

poor, and plain.'

"Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in

your

drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest

tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate

carefully

the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and

sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of

Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye;--What!

you

revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!--no sentiment!-

-no

regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august

yet

harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and

dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond

ring

nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aerial lace and

glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it 'Blanche, an

accomplished lady of rank.'

"Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks

well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them: say, 'Mr.

Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if he chose to

strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this

indigent and insignificant plebeian?'"

"I'll do it," I resolved: and having framed this determination, I grew

calm, and fell asleep.

I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in

crayons; and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory

miniature

of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face enough, and

when

compared with the real head in chalk, the contrast was as great as

selfcontrol

could desire. I derived benefit from the task: it had kept my

head and hands employed, and had given force and fixedness to the new

impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on my heart.

Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of

wholesome

discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit. Thanks to

it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm,

which,

had they found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to

maintain, even externally.

CHAPTER XVII

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

the

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."

I went on with my day's business tranquilly; but ever and anon vague

suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit

Thornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and

pondering

conjectures about new situations: these thoughts I did not think to

check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.

Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post

brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.

"It is from the master," said she, as she looked at the direction.

"Now

I suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not."

And while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on taking

my coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed to that

circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand

shook, and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into

my

saucer, I did not choose to consider.

"Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being

busy enough now: for a little while at least," said Mrs. Fairfax, still

holding the note before her spectacles.

Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of

Adele's pinafore, which happened to be loose: having helped her also to

another bun and refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly--

"Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?"

"Indeed he is--in three days, he says: that will be next Thursday; and

not alone either. I don't know how many of the fine people at the Leas

are coming with him: he sends directions for all the best bedrooms to

be

prepared; and the library and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; I am

to get more kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote, and from

wherever else I can; and the ladies will bring their maids and the

gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full house of it." And Mrs.

Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to commence

operations.

The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought

all

the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged; but it

appears I was mistaken. Three women were got to help; and such

scrubbing, such brushing, such washing of paint and beating of carpets,

such taking down and putting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors

and lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing of sheets

and feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld, either before or since.

Adele ran quite wild in the midst of it: the preparations for company

and

the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies. She

would have Sophie to look over all her "toilettes," as she called

frocks;

to furbish up any that were "_passees_," and to air and arrange the

new.

For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the front chambers,

jump

on and off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and piled-up

bolsters

and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys. From

school duties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into her

service, and I was all day in the storeroom, helping (or hindering) her

and the cook; learning to make custards and cheese-cakes and French

pastry, to truss game and garnish desert-dishes.

The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for

dinner at six. During the intervening period I had no time to nurse

chimeras; and I believe I was as active and gay as anybody--Adele

excepted. Still, 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-storey 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; when I watched her glide along the

gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her look

into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,--just say a word, perhaps, to

the charwoman about the proper way to polish a grate, or clean a marble

mantelpiece, or take stains from papered walls, and then pass on. She

would thus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a

moderate pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter

with

her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. 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

second storey: 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 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 the 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.

Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening;

carpets

were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes

spread, toilet tables arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in

vases:

both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could

make

them. The hall, too, was scoured; and the great carved clock, as well

as

the steps and banisters of the staircase, were polished to the

brightness

of glass; in the dining-room, the sideboard flashed resplendent with

plate; in the drawing-room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed on all

sides.

Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown, her

gloves, and her gold watch; for it was her part to receive the

company,--to conduct the ladies to their rooms, &c. Adele, too, would

be

dressed: though I thought she had little chance of being introduced to

the party that day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie

to

apparel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself, I had

no need to make any change; I should not be called upon to quit my

sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was now become to me,--"a

very pleasant refuge in time of trouble."

It had been a mild, serene spring day--one of those days which, towards

the end of March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth

as heralds of summer. It was drawing to an end now; but the evening

was

even warm, and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open.

"It gets late," said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state. "I am

glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned;

for

it is past six now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if there

is anything on the road: one can see a long way from thence in the

direction of Millcote." She went to the window. "Here he is!" said

she.

"Well, John" (leaning out), "any news?"

"They're coming, ma'am," was the answer. "They'll be here in ten

minutes."

Adele flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one

side,

so that, screened by the curtain, I could see without being seen.

The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels

were

heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two

open carriages. Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the

vehicles;

two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third

was

Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him;

at

his side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party. Her

purple riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil streamed long on

the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming through

them, shone rich raven ringlets.

"Miss Ingram!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she hurried to her post

below.

The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly turned the

angle

of the house, and I lost sight of it. Adele now petitioned to go down;

but I took her on my knee, and gave her to understand that she must not

on any account think of venturing in sight of the ladies, either now or

at any other time, unless expressly sent for: that Mr. Rochester would

be

very angry, &c. "Some natural tears she shed" on being told this; but

as

I began to look very grave, she consented at last to wipe them.

A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen's deep tones and

ladies' silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and

distinguishable

above all, though not loud, was the sonorous voice of the master of

Thornfield Hall, welcoming his fair and gallant guests under its roof.

Then light steps ascended the stairs; and there was a tripping through

the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and closing doors,

and, for a time, a hush.

"Elles changent de toilettes," said Adele; who, listening attentively,

had followed every movement; and she sighed.

"Chez maman," said she, "quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais

partout, au salon et a leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes

de

chambre coiffer et habiller les dames, et c'etait si amusant: comme

cela

on apprend."

"Don't you feel hungry, Adele?"

"Mais oui, mademoiselle: voila cinq ou six heures que nous n'avons pas

mange."

"Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down and

get you something to eat."

And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a back-stairs

which

conducted directly to the kitchen. All in that region was fire and

commotion; the soup and fish were in the last stage of projection, and

the cook hung over her crucibles in a frame of mind and body

threatening

spontaneous combustion. In the servants' hall two coachmen and three

gentlemen's gentlemen stood or sat round the fire; the abigails, I

suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses; the new servants, that

had

been hired from Millcote, were bustling about everywhere. Threading

this

chaos, I at last reached the larder; there I took possession of a cold

chicken, a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two and a knife and

fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regained the

gallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind me, when an

accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were about to issue from

their

chambers. I could not proceed to the schoolroom without passing some

of

their doors, and running the risk of being surprised with my cargo of

victualage; so I stood still at this end, which, being windowless, was

dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set and twilight gathering.

Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another:

each

came out 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 then

descended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls

down

a hill. Their collective appearance had left on me an impression of

highborn

elegance, such as I had never before received.

I found Adele 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-bye, 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."

She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to divert her

attention for a time. It was well I secured this forage, or both she,

I,

and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share of our repast, would have run a

chance of getting no dinner at all: every one downstairs was too much

engaged to think of us. The dessert was not carried out till after

nine

and at ten footmen were still running to and fro with trays and coffeecups.

I allowed Adele to sit up much later than usual; for she

declared

she could not possibly go to sleep while the doors kept opening and

shutting below, and people bustling about. Besides, she added, a

message

might possibly come from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed; "et

alors

quel dommage!"

I told her stories as long as she would listen to them; and then for a

change I took her out into the gallery. The hall lamp was now lit, and

it amused her to look over the balustrade and watch the servants

passing

backwards and forwards. When the evening was far advanced, a sound of

music issued from the drawing-room, whither the piano had been removed;

Adele and I sat down on the top step of the stairs to listen.

Presently

a voice blent with the rich tones of the instrument; it was a lady who

sang, and very sweet her notes were. The solo over, a duet followed,

and

then a glee: a joyous conversational murmur filled up the intervals. I

listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was wholly intent on

analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to discriminate amidst the

confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester; and when it caught them,

which it soon did, it found a further task in framing the tones,

rendered

by distance inarticulate, into words.

The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adele, whose head leant against

my

shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up in my arms and

carried her off to bed. It was near one before the gentlemen and

ladies

sought their chambers.

The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by the

party

to an excursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They set out early

in

the forenoon, some on horseback, the rest in carriages; I witnessed

both

the departure and the return. Miss Ingram, as before, was the only

lady

equestrian; and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at her side; the two

rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out this circumstance to

Mrs. Fairfax, who was standing at the window with me--

"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. "I happened to

remark to Mr. Rochester how much Adele wished to be introduced to the

ladies, and he said: 'Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after

dinner; and request Miss Eyre to accompany her.'"

"Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I am sure," I

answered.

"Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, I did not

think you would like appearing before so gay a party--all strangers;

and

he replied, in his quick way--'Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it

is

my particular wish; and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her

in

case of contumacy.'"

"I will not give him that trouble," I answered. "I will go, if no

better

may be; but I don't like it. Shall you be there, Mrs. Fairfax?"

"No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I'll tell you how to

manage

so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance, which is

the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go into the

drawingroom

while it is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table;

choose

your seat in any quiet nook you like; you need not stay long after the

gentlemen come in, unless you please: just let Mr. Rochester see you

are

there and then slip away--nobody will notice you."

"Will these people remain long, do you think?"

"Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the Easter

recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected member for Millcote,

will

have to go up to town and take his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will

accompany him: it surprises me that he has already made so protracted a

stay at Thornfield."

It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I

was to repair with my charge to the drawing-room. Adele had been in a

state of ecstasy all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the

ladies in the evening; and it was not till Sophie commenced the

operation

of dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance of the

process quickly steadied her, and by the time she had her curls

arranged

in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her pink satin frock put on, her

long sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, she looked as grave as

any

judge. No need to warn her not to disarrange her attire: when she was

dressed, she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking care

previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it,

and

assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly

was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss Temple's

wedding, and never worn since) was soon put on; my hair was soon

smoothed; my sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We

descended.

Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than that

through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We found the

apartment vacant; a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth,

and

wax candles shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with

which the tables were adorned. The crimson curtain hung before the

arch:

slight as was the separation this drapery formed from the party in the

adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low a key that nothing of their

conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.

Adele, 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 from a table near,

endeavoured to read. Adele brought her stool to my feet; ere long she

touched my knee.

"What is it, Adele?"

"Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs

magnifiques,

mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma toilette."

"You think too much of your 'toilette,' Adele: but you may have a

flower." And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash.

She

sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness

were

now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I could not

suppress:

there was something ludicrous as well as painful in the little

Parisienne's earnest and innate devotion to matters of dress.

A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept back

from the arch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its lit lustre

pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent

dessert-service covering a long table; a band of ladies stood in the

opening; they entered, and the curtain fell behind them.

There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave the

impression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall; many

were dressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that

seemed to magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose

and

curtseyed to them: one or two bent their heads in return, the others

only

stared at me.

They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the lightness and

buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some of

them threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas and

ottomans: some bent over the tables and examined the flowers and books:

the rest gathered in a group round the fire: all talked in a low but

clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I knew their names

afterwards,

and may as well mention them now.

First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had

evidently

been a handsome woman, and was well preserved still. Of her daughters,

the eldest, Amy, was rather little: naive, and child-like in face and

manner, and piquant in form; her white muslin dress and blue sash

became

her well. The second, Louisa, was taller and more elegant in figure;

with a very pretty face, of that order the French term _minois

chiffone_:

both sisters were fair as lilies.

Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty, very erect,

very haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful

sheen:

her dark hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume, and

within the circlet of a band of gems.

Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more lady-like. She

had a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her black

satin

dress, her scarf of rich foreign lace, and her pearl ornaments, pleased

me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame.

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 goodnatured.

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 Adele 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 Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed; and