1846

JANE EYRE

by Charlotte Bronte

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

TO THE SECOND EDITION

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

Chenaanah 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 Ramoth-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 summer-cloud 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 21st, 1847.

THE AUTHOR'S 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 13th, 1848.

JANE EYRE

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 outdoor 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 small 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 window-seat: 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

breakfast-room 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 armchair, 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 dependant,

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, etc. 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 piled-up 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 housemaid 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 looking-glass; 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 pea-chicks, 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

gleaming 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 bed-foot 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 intimated 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 tonight: 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,' etc., etc.

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

watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; ear, eye,

and mind were alike strained by dread: such dread as children only can

feel.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the

red-room; 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 fox-glove 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 Brobdingnag 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 were 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, Mis 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 daresay 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 Gates-head 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

red-room.'

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 uttering 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 ringleted; 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 stair-head 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 under-nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs,

etc.). 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 have 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

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 so 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!'

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 unhoped-for 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 sequestered; 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 fell at 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 daresay

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 enchaining 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 good-bye?'

'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

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 day-light, 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, etc., 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 enclosure, 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-

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, etc., 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,' etc. etc.

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 ship-money, 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, etc.; 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 curtsey; 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's 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 no

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 ill-usage 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

teatime; 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, etc.; 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 the 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 tomorrow: 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 enchained 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 sat 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 questions 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 secondhand

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 as 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 to-morrow 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 the bye, 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 wrens' 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; snowdrops, 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 around 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 Welsh-woman, 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

'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).

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.

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:-

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

recollections of the map of England; yes, I saw it; both the shire and

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

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 L15 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 tonight, 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 daresay 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 daresay 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 mantel-piece, 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

high-backed 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 daresay 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, 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

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 gouvernante!' 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 daresay.'

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 hands 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, etc. 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 stained 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 daresay 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 bed-steads 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 dint 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 fellow-creatures 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 a 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, heroic-looking 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 forefeet. The traveller waited and

watched for some time, and at last he laughed.

'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

side-door, 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 two-leaved 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 piecing 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, etc., 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-?'

'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

dining-room. 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 self-indulgent 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 granite-hewn 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 India-rubber 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 tonight.'

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 tonight,' 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 L30 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 dependant 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 or 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 cella," 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, etc. 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 muffled 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 sterness 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 chambermaid 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, etc.- 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

kitchen-door 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.

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,

then 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,

good-night!'

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,' etc.

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

window-seat, 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 bedclothes or the woodwork 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 off 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

tea-time: 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 to-day: 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 breakfast! 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 dependant 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-fatuus-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 hues, 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 self-control 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 it necessary 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; and 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 dessert-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, etc. 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, etc. '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 backstairs

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 high-born 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

by, 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 coffee-cups. 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 drawing-room 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 prendre 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 candlelight at least) still

black; her teeth, too, were still apparently perfect. Most people

would have termed her a splendid woman of her age: and so she was,

no doubt, physically speaking; but then there was an expression of

almost insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance. She

had Roman features and a double chin, disappearing into a throat

like a pillar: these features appeared to me not only inflated and

darkened, but even furrowed with pride; and the chin was sustained

by the same principle, in a position of almost preternatural

erectness. She had, likewise, a fierce and a hard eye: it reminded

me of Mrs. Reed's; she mouthed her words in speaking; her voice was

deep, its inflections very pompous, very dogmatical,- very

intolerable, in short. A crimson velvet robe, and a shawl turban of

some gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I suppose she

thought) with a truly imperial dignity.

Blanche and Mary were of equal stature,- straight and tall as

poplars. Mary was too slim for her height, but Blanche was moulded

like a Dian. I regarded her, of course, with special interest.

First, I wished to see whether her appearance accorded with Mrs.

Fairfax's description; secondly, whether it at all resembled the fancy

miniature I had painted of her; and thirdly- it will out!- whether

it were such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester's taste.

As far as person went, she answered point for point, both to my

picture and Mrs. Fairfax's description. The noble bust, the sloping

shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were

all there;- but her face? Her face was like her mother's; a youthful

unfurrowed likeness: the same low brow, the same high features, the

same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a pride! she laughed

continually; her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual

expression of her arched and haughty lip.

Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss

Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious- remarkably

self-conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the

gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that science:

though, as she said, she liked flowers, 'especially wild ones'; Miss

Ingram had, and she ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently

perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed) trailing Mrs. Dent;

that is, playing on her ignorance: her trail might be clever, but it

was decidedly not good-natured. She played: her execution was

brilliant; she sang, her voice was fine; she talked French apart to

her mama; 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 Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man. Mr. Eshton, the

magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like: his hair is quite

white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which gives him something

of the appearance of a 'pere noble de theatre.' Lord Ingram, like

his sisters, is very tall; like them, also, he is handsome; but he

shares Mary's apathetic and listless look: he seems to have more

length of limb than vivacity of blood or vigour of brain.

And where is Mr. Rochester?

He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him

enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles,

on the meshes of the purse I am forming- I wish to think only of the

work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads

that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I

inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after I had

rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my

hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed

a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part.

How near had I approached him at that moment! What had occurred since,

calculated to change his and my relative positions? Yet now, how

distant, how far estranged we were! So far estranged, that I did not

expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder, when, without

looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of the room, and began

conversing with some of the ladies.

No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and

that I might gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn

involuntarily to his face; I could not keep their lids under

control: they would rise, and the irids would fix on him. I looked,

and had an acute pleasure in looking,- a precious yet poignant

pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like

what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which

he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts

nevertheless.

Most true is it that 'beauty is in the eye of the gazer.' My

master's colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty

eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth,- all energy,

decision, will,- were not beautiful, according to rule; but they

were more than beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an

influence that quite mastered me,- that took my feelings from my own

power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him; the

reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of

love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they

spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without

looking at me.

I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the

Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,- even the military

distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native pith

and genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearance, their

expression: yet I could imagine that most observers would call them

attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.

Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them

smile, laugh- it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much

soul in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance

as their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile:- his stern features

softened; his eye grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both

searching and sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and

Amy Eshton. I wondered to see them receive with calm that look which

seemed to me so penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall, their

colour to rise under it; yet I was glad when I found they were in no

sense moved. 'He is not to them what he is to me,' I thought: 'he is

not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;- I am sure he is- I feel

akin to him- I understand the language of his countenance and

movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in

my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me

mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do

with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to

think of him in any other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against

nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers

impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must

smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For

when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his

force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I

have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then,

repeat continually that we are for ever sundered:- and yet, while I

breathe and think, I must love him.'

Coffee is handed. The ladies, since the gentlemen entered, have

become lively as larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel

Dent and Mr. Eshton argue on politics; their wives listen. The two

proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram, confabulate together. Sir

George- whom, by the bye, I have forgotten to describe,- a very big,

and very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa,

coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr. Frederick

Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is showing her the

engravings of a splendid volume: she looks, smiles now and then, but

apparently says little. The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with

folded arms on the chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton; she

glances up at him, and chatters like a wren: she likes him better than

she does Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken possession of an

ottoman at the feet of Louisa: Adele shares it with him: he is

trying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders.

With whom will Blanche Ingram pair? She is standing alone at the

table, bending gracefully over an album. She seems waiting to be

sought; but she will not wait too long: she herself selects a mate.

Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth

as solitary as she stands by the table: she confronts him, taking

her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.

'Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?'

'Nor am I.'

'Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as

that?' (pointing to Adele). 'Where did you pick her up?'

'I did not pick her up; she was left on my hands.'

'You should have sent her to school.'

'I could not afford it: schools are so dear.'

'Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saw a person with

her just now- is she gone? Oh, no! there she is still, behind the

window-curtain. You pay her, of course; I should think it quite as

expensive,- more so; for you have them both to keep in addition.'

I feared- or should I say, hoped?- the allusion to me would make

Mr. Rochester glance my way; and I involuntarily shrank farther into

the shade: but he never turned his eyes.

'I have not considered the subject,' said he indifferently, looking

straight before him.

'No, you men never do consider economy and common sense. You should

hear mama on the chapter of governesses: Mary and I have had, I should

think, a dozen at least in our day; half of them detestable and the

rest ridiculous, and all incubi- were they not, mama?'

'Did you speak, my own?'

The young lady thus claimed as the dowager's special property,

reiterated her question with an explanation.

'My dearest, don't mention governesses; the word makes me

nervous. I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and

caprice. I thank Heaven I have now done with them!'

Mrs. Dent here bent over to the pious lady, and whispered something

in her car; I suppose, from the answer elicited, it was a reminder

that one of the anathematised race was present.

'Tant pis!' said her ladyship, 'I hope it may do her good!' Then,

in a lower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, 'I noticed her;

I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see all the faults of her

class.'

'What are they, madam?' inquired Mr. Rochester aloud.

'I will tell you in your private ear,' replied she, wagging her

turban three times with portentous significancy.

'But my curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food now.'

'Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I.'

'Oh, don't refer him to me, mama! I have just one word to say of

the whole tribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I ever suffered much

from them; I took care to turn the tables. What tricks Theodore and

I used to play on our Miss Wilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and Madame

Jouberts! Mary was always too sleepy to join in a plot with spirit.

The best fun was with Madame Joubert: Miss Wilson was a poor sickly

thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the trouble of

vanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and insensible; no

blow took effect on her. But poor Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her

raging passions, when we had driven her to extremities- spilt our tea,

crumbled our bread and butter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, and

played a charivari with the ruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons.

Theodore, do you remember those merry days?'

'Yaas, to be sure I do,' drawled Lord Ingram; 'and the poor old

stick used to cry out "Oh you villains childs!"- and then we

sermonised her on the presumption of attempting to teach such clever

blades as we were, when she was herself so ignorant.'

'We did; and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecuting (or

persecuting) your tutor, whey-faced Mr. Vining- the parson in the pip,

as we used to call him. He and Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling

in love with each other- at least Tedo and I thought so; we

surprised sundry tender glances and sighs which we interpreted as

tokens of "la belle passion," and I promise you the public soon had

the benefit of our discovery; we employed it as a sort of lever to

hoist our dead-weights from the house. Dear mama, there, as soon as

she got an inkling of the business, found out that it was of an

immoral tendency. Did you not, my lady-mother?'

'Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on that: there

are a thousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and tutors

should never be tolerated a moment in any well-regulated house;

firstly-'

'Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the enumeration! Au reste, we all

know them: danger of bad example to innocence of childhood;

distractions and consequent neglect of duty on the part of the

attached- mutual alliance and reliance; confidence thence resulting-

insolence accompanying- mutiny and general blowup. Am I right,

Baroness Ingram, of Ingram Park?'

'My lily-flower, you are right now, as always.'

'Then no more need be said: change the subject.'

Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum, joined in

with her soft, infantine tone: 'Louisa and I used to quiz our

governess too; but she was such a good creature, she would bear

anything: nothing put her out. She was never cross with us; was she,

Louisa?'

'No, never: we might do what we pleased; ransack her desk and her

workbox, and turn her drawers inside out; and she was so good-natured,

she would give us anything we asked for.'

'I suppose, now,' said Miss Ingram, curling her lip

sarcastically, 'we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the

governesses extant: in order to avert such a visitation, I again

move the introduction of a new topic. Mr. Rochester, do you second

my motion?'

'Madam, I support you on this point, as on every other.'

'Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signior Eduardo,

are you in voice to-night?'

'Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be.'

'Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to furbish up your

lungs and other vocal organs, as they will be wanted on my royal

service.'

'Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?'

'A fig for Rizzio!' cried she, tossing her head with all its curls,

as she moved to the piano. 'It is my opinion the fiddler David must

have been an insipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell better:

to my mind a man is nothing without a spice of the devil in him; and

history may say what it will of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he

was just the sort of wild, fierce, bandit hero whom I could have

consented to gift with my hand.'

'Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?'

cried Mr. Rochester.

'I should say the preference lies with you,' responded Colonel

Dent.

'On my honour, I am much obliged to you,' was the reply.

Miss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud grace at the

piano, spreading out her snowy robes in queenly amplitude, commenced a

brilliant prelude; talking meantime. She appeared to be on her high

horse to-night; both her words and her air seemed intended to excite

not only the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors: she was

evidently bent on striking them as something very dashing and daring

indeed.

'Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!' exclaimed

she, rattling away at the instrument. 'Poor, puny things, not fit to

stir a step beyond papa's park gates: nor to go even so far without

mama's permission and guardianship! Creatures so absorbed in care

about their pretty faces, and their white hands, and their small feet;

as if a man had anything to do with beauty! As if loveliness were

not the special prerogative of woman- her legitimate appanage and

heritage! I grant an ugly woman is a blot on the fair face of

creation; but as to the gentlemen, let them be solicitous to possess

only strength and valour: let their motto be:- Hunt, shoot, and fight:

the rest is not worth a fillip. Such should be my device, were I a

man.'

'Whenever I marry,' she continued after a pause which none

interrupted, 'I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a

foil to me. I will suffer no competitor near the throne; I shall exact

an undivided homage: his devotions shall not be shared between me

and the shape he sees in his mirror. Mr. Rochester, now sing, and I

will play for you.'

'I am all obedience,' was the response.

'Here then is a Corsair-song. Know that I doat on Corsairs; and for

that reason, sing it con spirito.'

'Commands from Miss Ingram's lips would put spirit into a mug of

milk and water.'

'Take care, then: if you don't please me, I will shame you by

showing how such things should be done.'

'That is offering a premium on incapacity: I shall now endeavour to

fail.'

'Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully, I shall devise a

proportionate punishment.'

'Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her power to

inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance.'

'Ha! explain!' commanded the lady.

'Pardon me, madam: no need of explanation; your own fine sense must

inform you that one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute

for capital punishment.'

'Sing!' said she, and again touching the piano, she commenced an

accompaniment in spirited style.

'Now is my time to slip away,' thought I: but the tones that then

severed the air arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester

possessed a fine voice: he did- a mellow, powerful bass, into which he

threw his own feeling, his own force: finding a way through the ear to

the heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the

last deep and full vibration had expired- till the tide of talk,

checked an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my

sheltered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was

fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall: in

crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to tie it,

kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the

staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a gentleman came out;

rising hastily, I stood face to face with him: it was Mr. Rochester.

'How do you do?' he asked.

'I am very well, sir.'

'Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?'

I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it: but

I would not take that freedom. I answered-

'I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir.'

'What have you been doing during my absence?'

'Nothing particular; teaching Adele as usual.'

'And getting a good deal paler than you were- as I saw at first

sight. What is the matter?'

'Nothing at all, sir.'

'Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?'

'Not the least.'

'Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too early.'

'I am tired, sir.'

He looked at me for a minute.

'And a little depressed,' he said. 'What about? Tell me.'

'Nothing- nothing, sir. I am not depressed.'

'But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words

would bring tears to your eyes- indeed, they are there now, shining

and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to

the flag. If I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating

prig of a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well,

to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as my visitors

stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it

is my wish; don't neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adele.

Good-night, my-' He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.

CHAPTER XVIII

MERRY days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too: how

different from the first three months of stillness, monotony, and

solitude I had passed beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now

driven from the house, all gloomy associations forgotten: there was

life everywhere, movement all day long. You could not now traverse the

gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so

tenantless, without encountering a smart lady's-maid or a dandy valet.

The kitchen, the butler's pantry, the servants' hall, the

entrance hall, were equally alive; and the saloons were only left void

and still when the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial

spring weather called their occupants out into the grounds. Even

when that weather was broken, and continuous rain set in for some

days, no damp seemed cast over enjoyment: indoor amusements only

became more lively and varied, in consequence of the stop put to

outdoor gaiety.

I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of

entertainment was proposed: they spoke of 'playing charades,' but in

my ignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called

in, the dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise

disposed, the chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While

Mr. Rochester and the other gentlemen directed these alterations,

the ladies were running up and down stairs ringing for their maids.

Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give information respecting the resources

of the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of any kind; and certain

wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked, and their contents, in

the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black

modes, lace lappets, etc., were brought down in armfuls by the

abigails; then a selection was made, and such things as were chosen

were carried to the boudoir within the drawing-room.

Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him,

and was selecting certain of their number to be of his party. 'Miss

Ingram is mine, of course,' said he: afterwards he named the two

Misses Eshton, and Mrs. Dent. He looked at me: I happened to be near

him, as I had been fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent's bracelet,

which had got loose.

'Will you play?' he asked. I shook my head. He did not insist,

which I rather feared he would have done; he allowed me to return

quietly to my usual seat.

He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the other party,

which was headed by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of

chairs. One of the gentlemen, Mr. Eshton, observing me, seemed to

propose that I should be asked to join them; but Lady Ingram instantly

negatived the notion.

'No,' I heard her say: 'she looks too stupid for any game of the

sort.'

Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within the

arch, the bulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had

likewise chosen, was seen enveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a

table, lay open a large book; and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped

in Mr. Rochester's cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody,

unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adele (who had insisted on being

one of her guardian's party), bounded forward, scattering round her

the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Then

appeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a

long veil on her head, and a wreath of roses round her brow; by her

side walked Mr. Rochester, and together they drew near the table. They

knelt; while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in white,

took up their stations behind them. A ceremony followed, in dumb show,

in which it was easy to recognise the pantomime of a marriage. At

its termination, Colonel Dent, and his party consulted in whispers for

two minutes, then the Colonel called out-

'Bride!' Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell.

A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second

rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last.

The drawing-room, as I have before observed, was raised two steps

above the dining-room, and on the top of the upper step, placed a yard

or two back within the room, appeared a large marble basin, which I

recognised as an ornament of the conservatory- where it usually stood,

surrounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish- and whence it must

have been transported with some trouble, on account of its size and

weight.

Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen Mr.

Rochester, costumed in shawls, with a turban on his head. His dark

eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features suited the costume

exactly: he looked the very model of an Eastern emir, an agent or a

victim of the bowstring. Presently advanced into view Miss Ingram.

She, too, was attired in oriental fashion: a crimson scarf tied

sash-like round the waist; an embroidered handkerchief knotted about

her temples; her beautifully moulded arms bare, one of them upraised

in the act of supporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head.

Both her cast of form and feature, her complexion and her general air,

suggested the idea of some Israelitish princess of the patriarchal

days; and such was doubtless the character she intended to represent.

She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her

pitcher; she again lifted it to her head. The personage on the

well-brink now seemed to accost her; to make some request:- 'She

hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him to drink.' From

the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket, opened it and

showed magnificent bracelets and earrings; she acted astonishment

and admiration; kneeling, he laid the treasure at her feet;

incredulity and delight were expressed by her looks and gestures;

the stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her

ears. It was Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were wanting.

The divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they

could not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated.

Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demanded 'the tableau of the whole';

whereupon the curtain again descended.

On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was

disclosed; the rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort

of dark and coarse drapery. The marble basin was removed; in its place

stood a deal table and a kitchen chair: these objects were visible

by a very dim light proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles

being all extinguished.

Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting

on his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr. Rochester;

though the begrimed face, the disordered dress (his coat hanging loose

from one arm, as if it had been almost torn from his back in a

scuffle), the desperate and scowling countenance the rough,

bristling hair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a chain

clanked; to his wrists were attached fetters.

'Bridewell!' exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade was solved.

A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume

their ordinary costume, they re-entered the dining-room. Mr. Rochester

led in Miss Ingram; she was complimenting him on his acting.

'Do you know,' said she, 'that, of the three characters, I liked

you in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier,

what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made!'

'Is all the soot washed from my face?' he asked, turning it towards

her.

'Alas! yes: the more's the pity! Nothing could be more becoming

to your complexion than that ruffian's rouge.'

'You would like a hero of the road then?'

'An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an

Italian bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine

pirate.'

'Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married

an hour since, in the presence of all these witnesses.' She giggled,

and her colour rose.

'Now, Dent,' continued Mr. Rochester, 'it is your turn.' And as the

other party withdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss

Ingram placed herself at her leader's right hand; the other diviners

filled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did not now watch the

actors; I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my

attention was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on

the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs.

What charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word they

chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no longer remember; but I

still see the consultation which followed each scene: I see Mr.

Rochester turn to Miss Ingram, and Miss Ingram to him; I see her

incline her head towards him, till the jetty curls almost touch his

shoulder and wave against his cheek; I hear their mutual

whisperings; I recall their interchanged glances; and something even

of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this

moment.

I have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr. Rochester: I

could not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to

notice me- because I might pass hours in his presence, and he would

never once turn his eyes in my direction- because I saw all his

attentions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned to touch me

with the hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and

imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as

from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove

him, because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady- because I

read daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting her-

because I witnessed hourly in him a style of courtship which, if

careless and choosing rather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in

its very carelessness, captivating, and in its very pride,

irresistible.

There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances,

though much to create despair. Much too, you will think, reader, to

engender jealousy: if a woman, in my position, could presume to be

jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram's. But I was not jealous: or very

rarely;- the nature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by

that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too

inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean

what I say. She was very showy, but she was not genuine: she had a

fine person, many brilliant attainments; but her mind was poor, her

heart barren by nature: nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no

unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good;

she was not original: she used to repeat sounding phrases from

books: she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She

advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she did not know the

sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her.

Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent she gave to a

spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Adele: pushing her

away with some contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her;

sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating her with

coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine watched these

manifestations of character- watched them closely, keenly, shrewdly.

Yes; the future bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over

his intended a ceaseless surveillance; and it was from this

sagacity- this guardedness of his- this perfect, clear consciousness

of his fair one's defects- this obvious absence of passion in his

sentiments towards her, that my ever-torturing pain arose.

I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political

reasons, because her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had

not given her his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted

to win from him that treasure. This was the point- this was where

the nerve was touched and teased- this was where the fever was

sustained and fed: she could not charm him.

If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and

sincerely laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face,

turned to the wall, and (figuratively) have died to them. If Miss

Ingram had been a good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour,

kindness, sense, I should have had one vital struggle with two tigers-

jealousy and despair: then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should

have admired her- acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for

the rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, the deeper

would have been my admiration- the more truly tranquil my

quiescence. But as matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram's

efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester, to witness their repeated

failure- herself unconscious that they did fail; vainly fancying

that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming

herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelled

further and further what she wished to allure- to witness this, was to

be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.

Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded.

Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and

fell harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand,

have quivered keen in his proud heart- have called love into his stern

eye, and softness into his sardonic face; or, better still, without

weapons a silent conquest might have been won.

'Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw

so near to him?' I asked myself. 'Surely she cannot truly like him, or

not like him with true affection! If she did, she need not coin her

smiles so lavishly, flash her glances so unremittingly, manufacture

airs so elaborate, graces so multitudinous. It seems to me that she

might, by merely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and

looking less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far

different expression from that which hardens it now while she is so

vivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself: it was not

elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres; and one had

but to accept it- to answer what he asked without pretension, to

address him when needful without grimace- and it increased and grew

kinder and more genial, and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam. How

will she manage to please him when they are married? I do not think

she will manage it; and yet it might be managed; and his wife might, I

verily believe, be the very happiest woman the sun shines on.'

I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester's

project of marrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when

I first discovered that such was his intention: I had thought him a

man unlikely to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his

choice of a wife; but the longer I considered the position, education,

etc., of the parties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming

either him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and

principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood. All

their class held these principles: I supposed, then, they had

reasons for holding them such as I could not fathom. It seemed to me

that, were I a gentleman like him, I would take to my bosom only

such a wife as I could love; but the very obviousness of the

advantages to the husband's own happiness offered by this plan

convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption

of which I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world

would act as I wished to act.

But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to

my master: I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once

kept a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my endeavour to study

all sides of his character: to take the bad with the good; and from

the just weighing of both, to form an equitable judgment. Now I saw no

bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me

once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their

presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively

insipid. And as for the vague something- was it a sinister or a

sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expression?- that opened upon a

careful observer, now and then, in his eye, and closed again before

one could fathom the strange depth partially disclosed; that something

which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wandering

amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground

quiver and seen it gape: that something, I, at intervals, beheld

still; and with throbbing heart, but not with palsied nerves.

Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to dare- to divine it; and I

thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day she might look into the

abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets and analyse their nature.

Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride-

saw only them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their

movements of importance- the rest of the party were occupied with

their own separate interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram

continued to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their

two turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in confronting

gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on

which their gossip ran, like a pair of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs.

Dent talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two sometimes

bestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel

Dent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justice

business. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and

sang to and with one of the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened

languidly to the gallant speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with

one consent, suspended their by-play to observe and listen to the

principal actors: for, after all, Mr. Rochester and- because closely

connected with him- Miss Ingram were the life and soul of the party.

If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptible dulness seemed

to steal over the spirits of his guests; and his re-entrance was

sure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity of conversation.

The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly

felt one day that he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and

was not likely to return till late. The afternoon was wet: a walk

the party had proposed to take to see a gipsy camp, lately pitched

on a common beyond Hay, was consequently deferred. Some of the

gentlemen were gone to the stables: the younger ones, together with

the younger ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. The

dowagers Ingram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet game at cards.

Blanche Ingram, after having repelled, by supercilious taciturnity,

some efforts of Mrs. Dent and Mrs. Eshton to draw her into

conversation, had first murmured over some sentimental tunes and

airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a novel from the

library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and

prepared to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of

absence. The room and the house were silent: only now and then the

merriment of the billiard-players was heard from above.

It was verging on dusk, and the dock had already given warning of

the hour to dress for dinner, when little Adele, who knelt by me in

the drawing-room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed-

'Voila Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!'

I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the

others, too, looked up from their several occupations; for at the same

time a crunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became

audible on the wet gravel. A post-chaise was approaching.

'What can possess him to come home in that style?' said Miss

Ingram. 'He rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went

out? and Pilot was with him:- what has he done with the animals?'

As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments

so near the window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the

breaking of my spine: in her eagerness she did not observe me at

first, but when she did, she curled her lip and moved to another

casement. The post-chaise stopped; the driver rang the door-bell,

and a gentleman alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not

Mr. Rochester; it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.

'How provoking!' exclaimed Miss Ingram: 'you tiresome monkey!'

(apostrophising Adele), 'who perched you up in the window to give

false intelligence?' and she cast on me an angry glance, as if I

were in fault.

Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the newcomer

entered. He bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady

present.

'It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam,' said he, 'when

my friend, Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I arrive from a very

long journey, and I think I may presume so far on old and intimate

acquaintance as to instal myself here till he returns.'

His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck me as

being somewhat unusual,- not precisely foreign, but still not

altogether English: his age might be about Mr. Rochester's,- between

thirty and forty; his complexion was singularly sallow: otherwise he

was a fine-looking man, at first sight especially. On closer

examination, you detected something in his face that displeased, or

rather that failed to please. His features were regular, but too

relaxed: his eye was large and well cut, but the life looking out of

it was a tame, vacant life- at least so I thought.

The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party. It was not till

after dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at his ease.

But I liked his physiognomy even less than before: it struck me as

being at the same time unsettled and inanimate. His eye wandered,

and had no meaning in its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such

as I never remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an

unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there was no

power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness in

that aquiline nose and small cherry mouth; there was no thought on the

low, even forehead; no command in that blank, brown eye.

As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the light of

the girandoles on the mantelpiece beaming full over him- for he

occupied an arm-chair drawn close to the fire and kept shrinking still

nearer, as if he were cold- I compared him with Mr. Rochester. I think

(with deference be it spoken) the contrast could not be much greater

between a sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and

the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian.

He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend. A curious

friendship theirs must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of

the old adage that 'extremes meet.'

Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times

scraps of their conversation across the room. At first I could not

make much sense of what I heard; for the discourse of Louisa Eshton

and Mary Ingram, who sat nearer to me, confused the fragmentary

sentences that reached me at intervals. These last were discussing the

stranger; they both called him 'a beautiful man.' Louisa said he was

'a love of a creature,' and she 'adored him'; and Mary instanced his

'pretty little mouth, and nice nose,' as her ideal of the charming.

'And what a sweet-tempered forehead he hast' cried Louisa,- 'so

smooth- none of those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and

such a placid eye and smile!'

And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned them to the

other side of the room, to settle some point about the deferred

excursion to Hay Common.

I was now able to concentrate my attention on the group by the

fire, and I presently gathered that the newcomer was called Mr. Mason;

then I learned that he was but just arrived in England, and that he

came from some hot country: which was the reason, doubtless, his

face was so sallow, and that he sat so near the hearth, and wore a

surtout in the house. Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Spanish

Town, indicated the West Indies as his residence; and it was with no

little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he had there first seen and

become acquainted with Mr. Rochester. He spoke of his friend's dislike

of the burning heats, the hurricanes, and rainy seasons of that

region. I knew Mr. Rochester had been a traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had

said so; but I thought the continent of Europe had bounded his

wanderings; till now I had never heard a hint given of visits to

more distant shores.

I was pondering these things, when an incident, and a somewhat

unexpected one, broke the thread of my musings. Mr. Mason, shivering

as some one chanced to open the door, asked for more coal to be put on

the fire, which had burnt out its flame, though its mass of cinder

still shone hot and red. The footman who brought the coal, in going

out, stopped near Mr. Eshton's chair, and said something to him in a

low voice, of which I heard only the words, 'old woman,'- 'quite

troublesome.'

'Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take

herself off,' replied the magistrate.

'No- stop!' interrupted Colonel Dent. 'Don't send her away, Eshton;

we might turn the thing to account; better consult the ladies.' And

speaking aloud, he continued- 'Ladies, you talked of going to Hay

Common to visit the gipsy camp; Sam here says that one of the old

Mother Bunches is in the servants' hall at this moment, and insists

upon being brought in before "the quality," to tell them their

fortunes. Would you like to see her?'

'Surely, colonel,' cried Lady Ingram, 'you would not encourage such

a low impostor? Dismiss her, by all means, at once!'

'But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,' said the

footman; 'nor can any of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with her just

now, entreating her to be gone; but she has taken a chair in the

chimney-corner, and says nothing shall stir her from it till she

gets leave to come in here.'

'What does she want?' asked Mrs. Eshton.

'"To tell the gentry their fortunes," she says, ma'am; and she

swears she must and will do it.'

'What is she like?' inquired the Misses Eshton, in a breath.

'A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as a crock.'

'Why, she's a real sorceress!' cried Frederick Lynn. 'Let us have

her in, of course.'

'To be sure,' rejoined his brother; 'it would be a thousand

pities to throw away such a chance of fun.'

'My dear boys, what are you thinking about?' exclaimed Mrs. Lynn.

'I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding,'

chimed in the Dowager Ingram.

'Indeed, mama, but you can- and will,' pronounced the haughty voice

of Blanche, as she turned round on the piano-stool; where till now she

had sat silent, apparently examining sundry sheets of music. 'I have a

curiosity to hear my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame

forward.'

'My darling Blanche! recollect-'

'I do- I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will-

quick, Sam!'

'Yes- yes- yes!' cried all the juveniles, both ladies and

gentlemen. 'Let her come- it will be excellent sport!'

The footman still lingered. 'She looks such a rough one,' said he.

'Go!' ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went.

Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of

raillery and jests was proceeding when Sam returned.

'She won't come now,' said he. 'She says it's not her mission to

appear before the "vulgar herd" (them's her words). I must show her

into a room by herself, and then those who wish to consult her must go

to her one by one.'

'You see now, my queenly Blanche,' began Lady Ingram, 'she

encroaches. Be advised, my angel girl- and-'

'Show her into the library, of course,' cut in the 'angel girl,'

'It is not my mission to listen to her before the vulgar herd

either: I mean to have her all to myself. Is there a fire in the

library?'

'Yes, ma'am- but she looks such a tinkler.'

'Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.'

Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expectation rose to

full flow once more.

'She's ready now,' said the footman, as he reappeared. 'She

wishes to know who will be her first visitor.'

'I think I had better just look in upon her before any of the

ladies go,' said Colonel Dent.

'Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming.'

Sam went and returned.

'She says, sir, that she'll have no gentlemen; they need not

trouble themselves to come near her; nor,' he added, with difficulty

suppressing a titter, 'any ladies either, except the young and

single.'

'By Jove, she has taste!' exclaimed Henry Lynn.

Miss Ingram rose solemnly: 'I go first,' she said, in a tone

which might have befitted the leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a

breach in the van of his men.

'Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause- reflect!' was her mama's

cry; but she swept past her in stately silence, passed through the

door which Colonel Dent held open, and we heard her enter the library.

A comparative silence ensued. Lady Ingram thought it 'le cas' to

wring her hands: which she did accordingly. Miss Mary declared she

felt, for her part, she never dared venture. Amy and Louisa Eshton

tittered under their breath, and looked a little frightened.

The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the

library-door again opened. Miss Ingram returned to us through the

arch.

Would she laugh? Would she take it as a joke? All eyes met her with

a glance of eager curiosity, and she met all eyes with one of rebuff

and coldness; she looked neither flurried nor merry: she walked

stiffly to her seat, and took it in silence.

'Well, Blanche?' said Lord Ingram.

'What did she say, sister?' asked Mary.

'What did you think? How do you feel? Is she a real

fortune-teller?' demanded the Misses Eshton.

'Now, now, good people,' returned Miss Ingram, 'don't press upon

me. Really your organs of wonder and credulity are easily excited: you

seem, by the importance you all- my good mama included- ascribe to

this matter, absolutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the

house, who is in close alliance with the old gentleman. I have seen

a gipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed fashion the science

of palmistry and told me what such people usually tell. My whim is

gratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag in

the stocks to-morrow morning, as he threatened.'

Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and so declined

further conversation. I watched her for nearly half an hour: during

all that time she never turned a page, and her face grew momently

darker, more dissatisfied, and more sourly expressive of

disappointment. She had obviously not heard anything to her advantage:

and it seemed to me, from her prolonged fit of gloom and

taciturnity, that she herself, notwithstanding her professed

indifference, attached undue importance to whatever revelations had

been made her.

Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, declared they dared

not go alone; and yet they all wished to go. A negotiation was

opened through the medium of the ambassador, Sam; and after much

pacing to and fro, till, I think, the said Sam's calves must have

ached with the exercise, permission was at last, with great

difficulty, extorted from the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait

upon her in a body.

Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram's had been: we heard

hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library;

and at the end of about twenty minutes they burst the door open, and

came running across the hall, as if they were half-scared out of their

wits.

'I am sure she is something not right!' they cried, one and all.

'She told us such things! She knows all about us!' and they sank

breathless into the various seats the gentlemen hastened to bring

them.

Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of

things they had said and done when they were mere children;

described books and ornaments they had in their boudoirs at home:

keepsakes that different relations had presented to them. They

affirmed that she had even divined their thoughts, and had whispered

in the ear of each the name of the person she liked best in the world,

and informed them of what they most wished for.

Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be

further enlightened on these two last-named points; but they got

only blushes, ejaculations, tremors, and titters, in return for

their importunity. The matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and

wielded fans; and again and again reiterated the expression of their

concern that their warning had not been taken in time; and the elder

gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged their services on the

agitated fair ones.

In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully

engaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I

turned, and saw Sam.

'If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is another

young single lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she

swears she will not go till she has seen all. I thought it must be

you: there is no one else for it. What shall I tell her?'

'Oh, I will go by all means,' I answered: and I was glad of the

unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped

out of the room, unobserved by any eye- for the company were

gathered in one mass about the trembling trio just returned- and I

closed the door quietly behind me.

'If you like, miss,' said Sam, 'I'll wait in the hall for you;

and if she frightens you, just call and I'll come in.'

'No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid.' Nor

was I; but I was a good deal interested and excited.

CHAPTER XIX

THE library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the

Sibyl- if Sibyl she were- was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at

the chimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or

rather, a broad-brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped

handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the

table; she was bending over the fire, and seemed reading in a little

black book, like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she

muttered the words to herself, as most old women do, while she read;

she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she

wished to finish a paragraph.

I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were rather cold with

sitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as

composed as ever I did in my life: there was nothing indeed in the

gipsy's appearance to trouble one's calm. She shut her book and slowly

looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as

she raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and

black: elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed

under her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or rather jaws: her eye

confronted me at once, with a bold and direct gaze.

'Well, and you want your fortune told?' she said, in a voice as

decided as her glance, as harsh as her features.

'I don't care about it, mother; you may please yourself: but I

ought to warn you, I have no faith.'

'It's like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you; I

heard it in your step as you crossed the threshold.'

'Did you? You've a quick ear.'

'I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain.'

'You need them all in your trade.'

'I do; especially when I've customers like you to deal with. Why

don't you tremble?'

'I'm not cold.'

'Why don't you turn pale?'

'I am not sick.'

'Why don't you consult my art?'

'I'm not silly.'

The old crone 'nichered' a laugh under her bonnet and bandage;

she then drew out a short black pipe, and lighting it began to

smoke. Having indulged a while in this sedative, she raised her bent

body, took the pipe from her lips, and while gazing steadily at the

fire, said very deliberately-

'You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly.'

'Prove it,' I rejoined.

'I will, in few words. You are cold, because you are alone: no

contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are sick;

because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to

man, keeps far away from you. You are silly, because, suffer as you

may, you will not beckon it to approach, nor will you stir one step to

meet it where it waits you.'

She again put her short black pipe to her lips, and renewed her

smoking with vigour.

'You might say all that to almost any one who you knew lived as a

solitary dependant in a great house.'

'I might say it to almost any one: but would it be true of almost

any one?'

'In my circumstances.'

'Yes; just so, in your circumstances: but find me another precisely

placed as you are.'

'It would be easy to find you thousands.'

'You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are peculiarly

situated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of it. The

materials are all prepared; there only wants a movement to combine

them. Chance laid them somewhat apart; let them be once approached and

bliss results.'

'I don't understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my

life.'

'If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm.'

'And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?'

'To be sure.'

I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which

she took out of her pocket, and having tied it round and returned

it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did. She approached her face to

the palm, and pored over it without touching it.

'It is too fine,' said she. 'I can make nothing of such a hand as

that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is not

written there.'

'I believe you,' said I.

'No,' she continued, 'it is in the face: on the forehead, about the

eyes, in the eyes themselves, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and

lift up your head.'

'Ah! now you are coming to reality,' I said, as I obeyed her. 'I

shall begin to put some faith in you presently.'

I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so that

a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however,

as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine, it

illumined.

'I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night,' she said,

when she had examined me a while. 'I wonder what thoughts are busy

in your heart during all the hours you sit in yonder room with the

fine people flitting before you like shapes in a magic-lantern: just

as little sympathetic communion passing between you and them as if

they were really mere shadows of human forms, and not the actual

substance.'

'I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad.'

'Then you have some secret hope to buoy you up and please you

with whispers of the future?'

'Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my

earnings to set up a school some day in a little house rented by

myself.'

'A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on: and sitting in that

window-seat (you see I know your habits)-'

'You have learned them from the servants.'

'Ah! you think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have: to speak

truth, I have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole-'

I started to my feet when I heard the name.

'You have- have you?' thought I; 'there is diablerie in the

business after all, then!'

'Don't be alarmed,' continued the strange being; 'she's a safe hand

is Mrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose confidence in her.

But, as I was saying: sitting in that window-seat, do you think of

nothing but your future school? Have you no present interest in any of

the company who occupy the sofas and chairs before you? Is there not

one face you study? one figure whose movements you follow with at

least curiosity?'

'I like to observe all the faces and all the figures.'

'But do you never single one from the rest-or it may be, two?'

'I do frequently; when the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling

a tale: it amuses me to watch them.'

'What tale do you like best to hear?'

'Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same

theme- courtship; and promise to end in the same catastrophe-

marriage.'

'And do you like that monotonous theme?'

'Positively, I don't care about it: it is nothing to me.'

'Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and health,

charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune,

sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you-'

'I what?'

'You know- and perhaps think well of.'

'I don't know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a

syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I consider

some respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others young,

dashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all at liberty

to be the recipients of whose smiles they please, without my feeling

disposed to consider the transaction of any moment to me.'

'You don't know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged a

syllable with one of them? Will you say that of the master of the

house!'

'He is not at home.'

'A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went to Millcote

this morning, and will be back here to-night or to-morrow: does that

circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance- blot him,

as it were, out of existence?'

'No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the

theme you had introduced.'

'I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of

late so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester's eyes that they

overflow like two cups filled above the brim: have you never

remarked that?'

'Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his guests.'

'No question about his right: but have you never observed that,

of all the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been

favoured with the most lively and the most continuous?'

'The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator.'

I said this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk,

voice, manner, had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One

unexpected sentence came from her lips after another, till I got

involved in a web of mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit

had been sitting for weeks by my heart watching its workings and

taking record of every pulse.

'Eagerness of a listener!' repeated she: 'yes; Mr. Rochester has

sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took

such delight in their task of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was

so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given

him; you have noticed this?'

'Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face.'

'Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if

not gratitude?'

I said nothing.

'You have seen love: have you not?- and, looking forward, you

have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?'

'Humph! Not exactly. Your witch's skill is rather at fault

sometimes.'

'What the devil have you seen, then?'

'Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known

that Mr. Rochester is to be married?'

'Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.'

'Shortly?'

'Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt

(though, with an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem

to question it), they will be a superlatively happy pair. He must love

such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she

loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse. I know she

considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree; though

(God pardon me!) I told her something on that point about an hour

ago which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her mouth

fell half an inch. I would advise her black-aviced suitor to look out:

if another comes, with a longer or clearer rent-roll,- he's dished-'

'But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester's fortune: I

came to hear my own; and you have told me nothing of it.'

'Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face, one trait

contradicted another. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness:

that I know. I knew it before I came here this evening. She has laid

it carefully on one side for you. I saw her do it. It depends on

yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up: but whether you

will do so, is the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug.'

'Don't keep me long; the fire scorches me.'

I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back

in her chair. She began muttering,-

'The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks

soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon; it is susceptible;

impression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it

ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the

lid: that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns

from me; it will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a

mocking glance, the truth of the discoveries I have already made,-

to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin: its pride and

reserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable.

'As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is

disposed to impart all that the brain conceives; though I daresay it

would be silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible, it

was never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of

solitude; it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often, and

have human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too is

propitious.

'I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow

professes to say,- "I can live alone, if self-respect and

circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy

bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive

if all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only at a

price I cannot afford to give." The forehead declares, "Reason sits

firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the feelings burst away

and hurry her to wild chasms. The passions may rage furiously, like

true heathens, as they are; and the desires may imagine all sorts of

vain things: but judgment shall still have the last word in every

argument, and the casting vote in every decision. Strong wind,

earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by: but I shall follow the guiding

of that still small voice which interprets the dictates of

conscience."

'Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have

formed my plans- right plans I deem them- and in them I have

attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I know

how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup of bliss

offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were

detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution- such is

not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight- to earn gratitude,

not to wring tears of blood- no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in

smiles, in endearments, in sweet- That will do. I think I rave in a

kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish now to protract this

moment ad infinitum; but I dare not. So far I have governed myself

thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore I would act; but

further might try me beyond my strength. Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me;

"the play is played out."'

Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I

dream still? The old woman's voice had changed: her accent, her

gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass- as the

speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I stirred

the fire, and I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her

bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me to depart. The

flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused now, and on the alert

for discoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was no more the

withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded supple member, with

smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on the

little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I

had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at the face; which was

no longer turned from me- on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed,

the bandage displaced, the head advanced.

'Well, Jane, do you know me?' asked the familiar voice.

'Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then-'

'But the string is in a knot- help me.'

'Break it, sir.'

'There, then- "Off, ye lendings!"' And Mr. Rochester stepped out of

his disguise.

'Now, sir, what a strange idea!'

'But well carried out, eh? Don't you think so?'

'With the ladies you must have managed well.'

'But not with you?'

'You did not act the character of a gipsy with me.'

'What character did I act? My own?'

'No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been

trying to draw me out- or in; you have been talking nonsense to make

me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir.'

'Do you forgive me, Jane?'

'I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on

reflection, I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall

try to forgive you; but it was not right.'

'Oh, you have been very correct- very careful, very sensible.'

I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort;

but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the

interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and

fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman

had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her

anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace

Poole- that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I

considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.

'Well,' said he, 'what are you musing about? What does that grave

smile signify?'

'Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to

retire now, I suppose?'

'No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room

yonder are doing.'

'Discussing the gipsy, I daresay.'

'Sit down!- Let me hear what they said about me.'

'I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o'clock.

Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here

since you left this morning?'

'A stranger!- no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he gone?'

'No; he said he had known you long, and that he could take the

liberty of installing himself here till you returned.'

'The devil he did! Did he give his name?'

'His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West Indies; from

Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think.'

Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if

to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive

grip; the smile on his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his

breath.

'Mason!- the West Indies!' he said, in the tone one might fancy a

speaking automaton to enounce its single words; 'Mason!- the West

Indies!' he reiterated; and he went over the syllables three times,

growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly

seemed to know what he was doing.

'Do you feel ill, sir?' I inquired.

'Jane, I've got a blow; I've got a blow, Jane!' He staggered.

'Oh, lean on me, sir.'

'Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it

now.'

'Yes, sir, yes; and my arm.'

He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both

his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most

troubled and dreary look.

'My little friend!' said he, 'I wish I were in a quiet island

with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections

removed from me.'

'Can I help you, sir?- I'd give my life to serve you.'

'Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your hands; I promise

you that.'

'Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do,- I'll try, at least, to do

it.'

'Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they

will be at supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what

he is doing.'

I went. I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as

Mr. Rochester had said; they were not seated at table,- the supper was

arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they

stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in

their hands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and

conversation were general and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire,

talking to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of

them. I filled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly

as I did so: she thought I was taking a liberty, I daresay), and I

returned to the library.

Mr. Rochester's extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked

once more firm and stern. He took the glass from my hand.

'Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!' he said. He

swallowed the contents and returned it to me. 'What are they doing,

Jane?'

'Laughing and talking, sir.'

'They don't look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard

something strange?'

'Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety.'

'And Mason?'

'He was laughing too.'

'If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would

you do, Jane?'

'Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could.'

He half smiled. 'But if I were to go to them, and they only

looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other,

and then dropped off and left me one by one, what then? Would you go

with them?'

'I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in staying

with you.'

'To comfort me?'

'Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could.'

'And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?'

'I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if I did,

I should care nothing about it.'

'Then, you could dare censure for my sake?'

'I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my

adherence; as you, I am sure, do.'

'Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper

in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show

him in here and then leave me.'

'Yes, sir.'

I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight

among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded

him from the room: I ushered him into the library, and then I went

upstairs.

At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the

visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester's

voice, and heard him say, 'This way, Mason; this is your room.'

He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease. I was soon

asleep.

CHAPTER XX

I HAD forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also

to let down my window-blind. The consequence was, that when the

moon, which was full and bright (for the night was fine), came in

her course to that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked

in at me through the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me.

Awaking in the dead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk-

silver-white and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn: I

half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain.

Good God! What a cry!

The night- its silence- its rest, was rent in twain by a savage,

a sharp, a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.

My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was

paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being

uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it: not the

widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession, send out

such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering

such utterance must rest ere it could repeat the effort.

It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead. And

overhead- yes, in the room just above my chamber-ceiling- I now

heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed from the noise; and a

half-smothered voice shouted-

'Help! help! help!' three times rapidly.

'Will no one come?' it cried; and then, while the staggering and

stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster:-

'Rochester! Rochester! for God's sake, come!'

A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the

gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above and something

fell; and there was silence.

I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs; I

issued from my apartment. The sleepers were all aroused: ejaculations,

terrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after door unclosed; one

looked out and another looked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen and

ladies alike had quitted their beds; and 'Oh! what is it?'- 'Who is

hurt?'- 'What has happened?'- 'Fetch a light!'- 'Is it fire?'- 'Are

there robbers?'- 'Where shall we run?' was demanded confusedly on

all hands. But for the moon-light they would have been in complete

darkness. They ran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed,

some stumbled: the confusion was inextricable.

'Where the devil is Rochester?' cried Colonel Dent. 'I cannot

find him in his bed.'

'Here! here!' was shouted in return. 'Be composed, all of you:

I'm coming.'

And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester

advanced with a candle: he had just descended from the upper storey.

One of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss

Ingram.

'What awful event has taken place?' said she. 'Speak! let us know

the worst at once!'

'But don't pull me down or strangle me,' he replied: for the Misses

Eshton were clinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast

white wrappers, were bearing down on him like ships in full sail.

'All's right!- all's right!' he cried. 'It's a mere rehearsal of

Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous.'

And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks. Calming

himself by an effort, he added-

'A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She's an

excitable, nervous person: she construed her dream into an apparition,

or something of that sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with

fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms; for,

till the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have

the goodness to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you

will not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa,

return to your nests like a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames' (to

the dowagers), 'you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in

this chill gallery any longer.'

And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived

to get them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories. I

did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed, as

unnoticed I had left it.

Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and dressed

myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the

words that had been uttered, had probably been heard only by me; for

they had proceeded from the room above mine: but they assured me

that it was not a servant's dream which had thus struck horror through

the house; and that the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was merely

an invention framed to pacify his guests. I dressed, then, to be ready

for emergencies. When dressed, I sat a long time by the window looking

out over the silent grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew

not what. It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry,

struggle, and call.

No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased

gradually, and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as

a desert. It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire.

Meantime the moon declined: she was about to set. Not liking to sit in

the cold and darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed

as I was. I left the window, and moved with little noise across the

carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped

low at the door.

'Am I wanted?' I asked.

'Are you up?' asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my

master's.

'Yes, sir.'

'And dressed?'

'Yes.'

'Come out, then, quietly.'

I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

'I want you,' he said: 'come this way: take your time, and make

no noise.'

My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a

cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and st