COLLECTION OF BRITISH
AUTHORS. VOL. CXLV.
JANE EYRE BY CURRER
BELL. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I.
TO W. M. THACKERAY,
ESQ. THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY THE AUTHOR.
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 wVho 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.
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.
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 book-case: 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 letter-press 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 even-tide.
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, &c. Also I
had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared
aloud.
"What! what!"
he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana?
Won’t I tell mama? but first --"
He ran headlong at me:
I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing.
I really saw in him a tyrant: a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my
head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering:
these sensations, for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in
frantic sort. I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me
"Rat! rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and
Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone up stairs: 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.
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
house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the
furniture a week’s quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited
it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where
were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her
deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room: the
spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur.
Mr. Reed had been dead
nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state;
hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker’s men; and, since that day, a
sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion.
My seat, to which
Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near
the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was
the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of
its pannels; 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 brow-beaten, 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 scape-goat 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.
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," &c. &c.
At last both slept: the
fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches of that long night passed in
ghastly wakefulness; 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 Gateshead Hall.
"The fall did not
make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone.
"I was shut up in
a room where there is a ghost till after dark."
I saw Mr. Lloyd smile
and frown at the same time. "Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You
are afraid of ghosts?"
"Of Mr. Reed’s
ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there. Neither Bessie nor
any one else will go into it at night, if they can help it; and it was cruel to
shut me up alone without a candle, -- so cruel that I think I shall never
forget it."
"Nonsense! And is
it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?"
"No: but night
will come again before long: and besides, -- I am unhappy, -- very unhappy, for
other things."
"What other
things? Can you tell me some of them?"
How much I wished to
reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to frame any answer!
Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings; and if the analysis
is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express the result of
the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only
opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause,
contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response.
"For one thing, I
have no father or mother, brothers or sisters."
"You have a kind
aunt and cousins."
Again I paused; then
bunglingly enounced:
"But John Reed
knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the 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.
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 account of the awfully sudden death of
Martha G----, a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.’"
With these words Mr.
Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having rung
for his carriage, he departed.
Mrs. Reed and I were
left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her.
Mrs. Reed might be at that time some six or seven and thirty; she was a woman
of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though
stout, not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much
developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth
and nose sufficiently regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid
of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution
was sound as a bell -- illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever
manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control; her
children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she
dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off handsome
attire.
Sitting on a low stool,
a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her figure; I perused her features.
In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the Liar, to which
narrative my attention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning. What had
just passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the
whole tenor of their conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my mind; I
had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly, and a passion of
resentment fomented now within me.
Mrs. Reed looked up
from her work; her eye settled on mine, her fingers at the same time suspended
their nimble movements.
"Go out of the
room; return to the nursery," was her mandate. My look or something else
must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed
irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I came back again; I walked to the
window, across the room, then close up to her.
Speak I must: I had
been trodden on severely, and must turn: but how? What strength had I to dart
retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered my energies and launched them in this
blunt sentence: --
"I am not
deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I do not love
you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this
book about the liar, you may give to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she who
tells lies, and not I."
Mrs. Reed’s hands still
lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued to dwell freezingly on mine.
"What more have
you to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address
an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.
That eye of hers, that
voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with
ungovernable excitement, I continued: --
"I am glad you are
no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again 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.
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 his hollow
horn, and away we rattled over the "stony street" of L----.
The afternoon came on
wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I began to feel that we were
getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to pass through towns; the
country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the horizon: as twilight
deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long after night had
overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.
Lulled by the sound, I
at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered when the sudden cessation of
motion awoke me; the coach-door was open, and a person like a servant was
standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of the lamps.
"Is there a little
girl called Jane Eyre here?" she asked. I answered "Yes", and
was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach instantly drove
away.
I was stiff with long
sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of the coach: gathering my
faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air;
nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door open in it; through
this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked it behind her. There
was now visible a house or houses -- for the building spread far -- with many
windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad pebbly path, splashing
wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage
into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.
I stood and warmed my
numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked round; there was no candle, but
the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered walls,
carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was a parlour, not so spacious
or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was
puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door
opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed close
behind.
The first was a tall
lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large forehead; her figure was
partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance was grave, her bearing erect.
"The child is very
young to be sent alone," said she, putting her candle down on the table.
She considered me attentively for a minute or two, then further added, --
"She had better be
put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?" she asked, placing her
hand on my shoulder.
"A little, Ma’am."
"And hungry too,
no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Miss Miller. Is this
the first time you have left your parents to come to school, my little
girl?"
I explained to her that
I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been dead: then how old I was,
what was my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little: then she
touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying, "She hoped I
should be a good child," dismissed me along with Miss Miller.
The lady I had left
might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me appeared some years
younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Miss Miller was
more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn countenance; hurried
in gait and action, like one who had always a multiplicity of tasks on hand:
she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was, an under-teacher.
Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment, from passage to passage,
of a large and irregular building; till, emerging from the total and somewhat
dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we had traversed, we came
upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a wide, long room, with
great deal tables, two at each end, on each of which burnt a pair of candles,
and seated all round on benches, a congregation of girls of every age, from
nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, their number to me
appeared countless, though not in reality exceeding eighty; they were uniformly
dressed in brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It
was the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over their to-morrow’s
task, and the hum I had heard was the combined result of their whispered
repetitions.
Miss Miller signed to
me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking up to the top of the long room
she cried out, --
"Monitors, collect
the lesson-books and put them away!"
Four tall girls arose
from different tables, and going round, gathered the books and removed them.
Miss Miller again gave the word of command, --
"Monitors, fetch
the supper-trays!"
The tall girls went out
and returned presently, each bearing a tray, with portions of something, I knew
not what, arranged thereon, and a pitcher of water and mug in the middle of
each tray. The portions were handed round; those who liked took a draught of
the water, the mug being common to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I
was thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue rendering me
incapable of eating; I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten cake shared
into fragments.
The meal over, prayers
were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed off, two and two, upstairs.
Overpowered by this time with weariness, I scarcely noticed what sort of a
place the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw it was very
long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow; she helped me to undress:
when laid down I glanced at the long rows of beds, each of which was quickly
filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the single light was extinguished,
and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.
The night passed
rapidly: I was too tired even to dream; I only once awoke to hear the wind rave
in furious gusts, and the rain fall in torrents, and to be sensible that Miss
Miller had taken her place by my side. When I again unclosed my eyes, a loud
bell was ringing; the girls were up and dressing; day had not yet begun to
dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was
bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when
there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur soon, as there was but one basin
to six girls, on the stands down the middle of the room. Again the bell rang;
all formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs and
entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers were read by Miss
Miller; afterwards she called out: --
"Form
classes!"
A great tumult
succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller repeatedly exclaimed,
"Silence!" and "Order!" When it subsided, I saw them all
drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables;
all held books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay on each
table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some seconds succeeded, filled up by
the low, vague hum of numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing
this indefinite sound.
A distant bell tinkled:
immediately three ladies entered the room, each walked to a table and took her
seat; Miss Miller assumed the fourth vacant chair, which was that nearest the
door, and around which the smallest of the children were assembled: to this
inferior class I was called, and placed at the bottom of it.
Business now began: the
day’s Collect was repeated, then certain texts of Scripture were said, and to
these succeeded a protracted reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted an
hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day had fully dawned. The
indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: the classes were marshalled
and marched into another room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a prospect
of getting something to eat! I was now nearly sick from inanition, having taken
so little the day before.
The refectory was a
great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables smoked basins of something
hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour far from inviting. I saw
a universal manifestation of discontent when the fumes of the repast met the
nostrils of those destined to swallow it; from the van of the procession, the
tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered words: --
"Disgusting! The
porridge is burnt again!"
"Silence!"
ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the upper teachers, a
little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of somewhat morose aspect, who
installed herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady presided at
the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the night before; she was
not visible: Miss Miller occupied the foot of the table where I sat, and a
strange, foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards
found, took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was said
and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the teachers, and the
meal began.
Ravenous, and now very
faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my portion without thinking of its
taste; but the first edge of hunger blunted, I perceived I had got in hand a
nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes; famine
itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw each girl
taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases the effort was soon
relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. Thanks being
returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refectory was
evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in passing
the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and taste it; she
looked at the others; all their countenances expressed displeasure, and one of
them, the stout one, whispered: --
"Abominable stuff!
How shameful!"
A quarter of an hour
passed before lessons again began, during which the schoolroom was in a
glorious tumult; for that space of time it seemed to be permitted to talk loud
and more freely, and they used their privilege. The whole conversation ran on
the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly. Poor things! it was the sole
consolation they had. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room: a group
of great girls standing about her spoke with serious and sullen gestures. I
heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at which Miss
Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made no great effort to check the
general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.
A clock in the
schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and standing in the middle
of the room, cried: --
"Silence! To your
seats!"
Discipline prevailed:
in five minutes the confused throng was resolved into order, and comparative
silence quelled the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper teachers now punctually
resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the
sides of the room, the eighty girls sat motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage
they appeared, all with plain locks combed from their faces, not a curl
visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded by a narrow tucker about
the throat, with little pockets of holland (shaped something like a Highlander’s
purse) tied in front of their frocks, and destined to serve the purpose of a
work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen stockings and country-made shoes, fastened
with brass buckles. Above twenty of those clad in this costume were full-grown
girls, or rather young women; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity
even to the prettiest.
I was still looking at
them, and also at intervals examining the teachers -- none of whom precisely
pleased me; for the stout one was a little coarse, the dark one not a little
fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked
purple, weather-beaten, and over-worked -- when, as my eye wandered from face
to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring.
What was the matter? I
had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I had gathered my wits, the
classes were again seated: but as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine
followed the general direction, and encountered the personage who had received
me last night. She stood at the bottom of the long room, on the hearth; for
there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and
gravely. Miss Miller, approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having
received her answer, went back to her place, and said aloud, --
"Monitor of the
first class, fetch the globes!"
While the direction was
being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly up the room. I suppose I have a
considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe
with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad 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: --
"Lowood
Institution. -- This portion was rebuilt A.D. ----, by Naomi Brocklehurst, of
Brocklehurst Hall, in this county." "Let your light so shine before
men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in
heaven." -- St. Matt. v. 16.
I read these words over
and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged to them, and was unable
fully to penetrate their import. I was still pondering the signification of
"Institution", and endeavouring to make out a connection between the
first words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a cough close behind
me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was
bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from where I stood
I could see the title -- it was "Rasselas"; a name that struck me as
strange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look
up, and I said to her directly: --
"Is your book
interesting?" I had already formed the intention of asking her to lend it
to me some day.
"I like it,"
she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which she examined me.
"What is it
about?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus to
open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and
habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I
too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest
or comprehend the serious or substantial.
"You may look at
it," replied the girl, offering me the book.
I did so; a brief
examination convinced me that the contents were less taking than the title:
Rasselas looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing
about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the closely-printed pages. I
returned it to her; she received it quietly, and without saying anything she
was about to relapse into her former studious mood: again I ventured to disturb
her: --
"Can you tell me
what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is Lowood Institution?"
"This house where
you are come to live."
"And why do they
call it Institution? Is it in any way different from other schools?"
"It is partly a
charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are charity-children. I
suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father or your mother
dead?"
"Both died before
I can remember."
"Well, all the
girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an
institution for educating orphans."
"Do we pay no
money? Do they keep us for nothing?"
"We pay, or our
friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each."
"Then why do they
call us charity-children?"
"Because fifteen
pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by
subscription."
"Who
subscribes?"
"Different
benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in
London."
"Who was Naomi
Brocklehurst?"
"The lady who
built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and whose son
overlooks and directs everything here."
"Why?"
"Because he is
treasurer and manager of the establishment."
"Then this house
does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and who said we were to
have some bread and cheese?"
"To Miss Temple?
Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurst for all she does.
Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our clothes."
"Does he live
here?"
"No -- two miles
off, at a large hall."
"Is he a good
man?"
"He is a
clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good."
"Did you say that
tall lady was called Miss Temple?"
"Yes."
"And what are the
other teachers called?"
"The one with red
cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, and cuts out -- for we
make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little one
with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and hears
the second class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl, and has a
pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot:
she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French."
"Do you like the
teachers?"
"Well
enough."
"Do you like the
little black one, and the Madame --? -- I cannot pronounce her name as you
do."
"Miss Scatcherd is
hasty -- you must take care not to offend her; Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort
of person."
"But Miss Temple
is the best -- isn’t she?"
"Miss Temple is
very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because she knows far more
than they do."
"Have you been
long here?"
"Two years."
"Are you an
orphan?"
"My mother is
dead."
"Are you happy
here?"
"You ask rather
too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present: now I want
to read."
But at that moment the
summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the house. The odour which now
filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than that which had regaled
our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated
vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to
consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and
cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful was
apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myself
whether every day’s fare would be like this.
After dinner, we
immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced, and were
continued till five o’clock.
The only marked event
of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I had conversed in the
verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a history class, and sent
to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom. The punishment seemed to me in
a high degree ignominious, especially for so great a girl -- she looked thirteen
or upwards. I expected she would show signs of great distress and shame; but to
my surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though grave, she stood,
the central mark of all eyes. "How can she bear it so quietly -- so
firmly?" I asked of myself. "Were I in her place, it seems to me I
should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were
thinking of something beyond her punishment -- beyond her situation: of
something not round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams -- is she in
a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see
it -- her sight seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at
what she can remember, I believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what
sort of a girl she is -- whether good or naughty."
Soon after five P.M. we
had another meal, consisting of a small mug of coffee, and half a slice of
brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank my coffee with relish; but I should
have been glad of as much more -- I was still hungry. Half an hour’s recreation
succeeded, then study; then the glass of water and the piece of oat-cake,
prayers, and bed. Such was my first day at Lowood.
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.
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, oh, 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.
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 bed-time: 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 Être, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls,
by-the-by, 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.
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 sickbed, 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."
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 must advertise in the ----shire Herald."
"How? I know
nothing about advertising."
Replies rose smooth and
prompt now: --
"You must enclose
the advertisement and the money to pay for it under a cover directed to the
editor of the Herald; you must put it, the first opportunity you have, into the
post at Lowton; answers must be addressed to J. E., at the post-office there;
you can go and inquire in about a week after you send your letter, if any are
come, and act accordingly."
This scheme I went over
twice, thrice; it was then digested in my mind; I had it in a clear practical
form: I felt satisfied, and fell asleep.
With earliest day, I
was up: I had my advertisement written, enclosed, and directed before the bell
rang to rouse the school; it ran thus: --
"A young lady
accustomed to tuition" (had I not been a teacher two years?) "is
desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are
under fourteen" (I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do
to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). "She is qualified
to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French,
Drawing, and Music" (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of
accomplishments, would have been held tolerably comprehensive). "Address,
J. E., Post-office, Lowton, ----shire."
This document remained
locked in my drawer all day: after tea, I asked leave of the new superintendent
to go to Lowton, in order to perform some small commissions for myself and one
or two of my fellow-teachers; permission was readily granted; I went. It was a
walk of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the days were still long; I
visited a shop or two, slipped the letter into the post-office, and came back
through heavy rain, with streaming garments, but with a relieved heart.
The succeeding week
seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, like all sublunary things, and
once more, towards the close of a pleasant autumn day, I found myself afoot on
the road to Lowton. A picturesque track it was, by the way; lying along the
side of the beck and through the sweetest curves of the dale: but that day I
thought more of the letters, that might or might not be awaiting me at the
little burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of lea and water.
My ostensible errand on
this occasion was to get measured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that
business first, and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet
little street from the shoemaker’s to the post-office: it was kept by an old
dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands.
"Are there any
letters for J. E.?" I asked.
She peered at me over
her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents for
a long time, so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having held a
document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across
the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance
-- it was for J. E.
"Is there only
one?" I demanded.
"There are no
more," said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward: I
could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was
already half-past seven.
Various duties awaited
me on my arrival: I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then
it was my turn to read prayers; to see them to bed: afterwards I supped with
the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable
Miss Gryce was still my companion: we had only a short end of candle in our
candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out;
fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect:
she was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still remained
an inch of candle: I now took out my letter; the seal was an initial F.; I
broke it; the contents were brief.
"If J. E., who
advertised in the ----shire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements
mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to
character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one
pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty
pounds per annum. J. E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all
particulars to the direction: --
"Mrs. Fairfax,
Thornfield, near Millcote, ----shire."
I examined the document
long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an
elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory: a private fear had haunted
me, that in thus acting for vmyself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of
getting into some scrape; and, above all things, I wished the result of my
endeavours to be respectable, proper, en regle. I now felt that an elderly lady
was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in
a black gown and widow’s cap; frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil: a model of
elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of
her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; though I failed in my efforts to
conceive a correct plan of the premises. Millcote, ----shire; I brushed up my
recollections of the map of England; yes, I saw it; both the shire and the
town. ----shire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I
now resided: that was a recommendation to me. I longed to go where there was
life and movement: Millcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the
A----; a busy place enough, doubtless: so much the better; it would be a
complete change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of
long chimneys and clouds of smoke -- "but," I argued,
"Thornfield will, probably, be a good way from the town."
Here the socket of the
candle dropped, and the wick went out.
Next day new steps were
to be taken; my plans could no longer be confined to my own breast; I must
impart them in order to achieve their success. Having sought and obtained an
audience of the superintendent during the noontide recreation, I told her I had
a prospect of getting a new situation where the salary would be double what I
now received (for at Lowood I only got 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.
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 back ground 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 governess for her. He intended
to have her brought up in ----shire, I believe. Here she comes, with her
"bonne," as she calls her nurse." The enigma then was explained:
this affable and kind little widow was no great dame; but a dependant like
myself. I did not like her the worse for that; on the contrary, I felt better
pleased than ever. The equality between her and me was real; not the mere
result of condescension on her part: so much the better -- my position was all
the freer.
As I was meditating on
this discovery, a little girl, followed by her attendant, came running up the
lawn. I looked at my pupil, who did not at first appear to notice me: she was
quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly built, with a pale,
small-featured face, and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.
"Good morning,
Miss Adela," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Come and speak to the lady who is to
teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day." She approached.
"C’est là 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?"
"Adèle," 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.
Adèle 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, Adèle
and I withdrew to the library, which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had
directed should be used as the school-room. 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 side-board.
"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 Adèle, continued till we reached the light and cheerful region below.
Adèle came running to meet us in the hall, exclaiming: --
"Mesdames, vous êtes
servies!" adding, "J’ai bien faim, moi!"
We found dinner ready,
and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax’s room.
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 Adèle’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 Adèle 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 Adèle; 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 Adèle, because she had a cold; and, as Adèle 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 Adèle 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 bientôt, ma bonne amie, ma chère 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 Adèle, 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 Adèle;
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.
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.
Adèle 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.
Adèle 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 là dedans un cadeau pour moi, et
peutêtre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a parlé de vous: il m’a demandé
le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n’était pas une petite personne, assez
mince et un peu pâle. 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 Adèle 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 -- Adèle knelt near him. Half reclined on a couch
appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the cushion; he was looking at Adèle
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 Adèle went to the table; but the master did not leave
his couch.
"Will you hand Mr.
Rochester’s cup?" said Mrs. Fairfax to me; "Adèle might perhaps spill
it."
I did as requested. As
he took the cup from my hand, Adèle, 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 Adèle: she demands a ‘cadeau,’ clamorously, the
moment she sees me: you beat about the bush."
"Because I have
less confidence in my deserts than Adèle 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 Adèle, 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 Adèle 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; Adèle wanted to take a seat on
my knee, but she was ordered to amuse herself with Pilot.
"You have been
resident in my house three months?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And you came from
--?"
"From Lowood
school, in ----shire."
"Ah! a charitable
concern. -- How long were you there?"
"Eight
years."
"Eight years! you
must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time in such a place would have
done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the look of another world.
I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When you came on me in Hay
Lane last night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to
demand whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who are your
parents?"
"I have none."
"Nor ever had, I
suppose: do you remember them?"
"No."
"I thought not.
And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that stile?"
"For whom,
Sir?"
"For the men in
green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them. Did I break through one of
your rings, that you spread that damned ice on the causeway?"
I shook my head.
"The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago," said I,
speaking as seriously as he had done. "And not even in Hay Lane, or the
fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I don’t think either summer or
harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more."
Mrs. Fairfax had
dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows, seemed wondering what sort of
talk this was.
"Well,"
resumed Mr. Rochester, "if you disown parents, you must have some sort of
kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?"
"No; none that I
ever saw."
"And your
home?"
"I have
none."
"Where do your
brothers and sisters live?"
"I have no
brothers or sisters."
"Who recommended
you to come here?"
"I advertised, and
Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement."
"Yes," said
the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon, "and I am daily
thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable
companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adèle."
"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.
"Adèle 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. Adèle 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 Adèle;
-- 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 Adèle sit up so long? Take her to
bed!"
Adèle 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 Adèle 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.
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 Adèle 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 Adèle were to go downstairs. I brushed
Adèle’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,
Adèle 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 boîte! ma boîte!"
exclaimed she, running towards it.
"Yes, there is
your ‘boîte’ 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?"
Adèle 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 tête-à-tête 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 Adèle 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."
Adèle, 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
"boîte"; 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 Adèle (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. Adèle 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 Adèle 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 30l 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 Adèle 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: Adèle 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 Adèle (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 à l’instant même!’ 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 Céline 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, Adèle’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 bonté;" then rising, she added, "C’est
comme cela que maman faisait, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?"
"Pre-cise-ly!"
was the answer; "and, ‘comme cela,’ she charmed my English gold out of my
British breeches’ pocket. I have been green, too, Miss Eyre -- ay, grass green:
not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me. My Spring is
gone, however, but it has left me that French floweret on my hands, which, in
some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang;
having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure, I
have but half a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks so artificial
as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of
expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I’ll explain all
this some day. Good-night."
MR. ROCHESTER did, on a
future occasion, explain it. It was one afternoon, when he chanced to meet me
and Adèle 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, Céline Varens, towards whom he had
once cherished what he called a "grande passion." This passion Céline
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’athlète"
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 Céline 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 Céline. 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 cochère 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."
Adèle 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 Céline! 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.
Céline’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 Céline 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 Céline,
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 "beauté mâle": 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 --"
Adèle 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 Céline
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 Adèle, 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 Adèle’s part to be supported by me, nor do I now acknowledge any, for
I am not her father; but hearing that she was quite destitute, I e’en took the
poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow
up clean in the wholesome soil of an English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found
you to train it; but now you know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a
French opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and protegee:
you will be coming to me some day with notice that you have found another place
-- that you beg me to look out for a new governess, &c. -- eh?"
"No -- Adèle 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 Adèle 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.
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 Adèle’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; Adèle 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, Adèle,
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 Adèle 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 ford 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 Adèle 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.
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 protegée, 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 Adèle’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. Adèle
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 "passées," 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 -- Adèle 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 bed-rooms, -- 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 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. Adèle, 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 school-room
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."
Adèle 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. Adèle 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 Adèle; 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 à
leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller
les dames, et c’était si amusant: comme cela on apprend."
"Don’t you feel
hungry, Adèle?"
"Mais oui,
mademoiselle: voilà cinq ou six heures que nous n’avons pas mangé."
"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 Adèle 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 Adèle 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; Adèle 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 Adèle, 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 Adèle 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. Adèle 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.
Adèle, 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. Adèle
brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my knee.
"What is it, Adèle?"
"Est-ce que je ne
puis pas prendre une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques, mademoiselle? Seulement
pour compléter ma toilette."
"You think too
much of your "toilette," Adèle: 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 Adèle has all this time been sitting motionless on the stool at my
feet: no; when the ladies entered, she rose, advanced to meet them, made a
stately reverence, and said with gravity, --
"Bon jour,
Mesdames."
And Miss Ingram had
looked down at her with a mocking air, and exclaimed, "Oh, what a little
puppet!"
Lady Lynn had remarked,
"It is Mr. Rochester’s ward, I suppose -- the little French girl he was
speaking of."
Mrs. Dent had kindly
taken her hand, and given her a kiss. Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out
simultaneously, --
"What a love of a
child!"
And then they had
called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensconced between them, chattering
alternately in French and broken English; absorbing not only the young ladies’
attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and getting spoilt to her
heart’s content.
At last coffee is
brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. I sit in the shade -- if any shade
there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment; the window-curtain half hides me.
Again the arch yawns; they come. The collective appearance of the gentlemen,
like that of the ladies, is very imposing: they are all costumed in black; most
of them are tall, some young. Henry and 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 "père
noble de théâtre." 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: Adèle 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 Adèle).
"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 Adèle 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 Adèle. Good-night, my --" He
stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.
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 Adèle (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 Adèle: 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 teazed -- 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 Adèle, who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat, suddenly
exclaimed: --
"Voilà 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 Adèle), "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.
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, vcharming 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-a-viced 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 dropt 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.
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 stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey:
I had followed and stood at his side.
"Have you a sponge
in your room?" he asked in a whisper.
"Yes, Sir."
"Have you any
salts -- volatile salts?"
"Yes."
"Go back and fetch
both."
I returned, sought the
sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer, and once more retraced my
steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the
small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again.
"You don’t turn
sick at the sight of blood?"
"I think I shall
not: I have never been tried yet."
I felt a thrill while I
answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness.
"Just give me your
hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a fainting fit."
I put my fingers into
his. "Warm and steady," was his remark: he turned the key and opened
the door.
I saw a room I
remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house:
it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part, and
there was a door apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open; a
light shone out of the room within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound,
almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, said to
me, "Wait a minute," and he went forward to the inner apartment. A
shout of laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in
Grace Poole’s own goblin ha! ha! She then was there. He made some sort of
arrangement without speaking: though I heard a low voice address him: he came
out and closed the door behind him.
"Here, Jane!"
he said; and I walked round to the other side of a large bed, which with its
drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the chamber. An easy-chair
was near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat;
he was still; his head leant back; his eyes were closed. Mr. Rochester held the
candle over him; I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face -- the
stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side and one arm, was almost
soaked in blood.
"Hold the
candle," said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a basin of water
from the washstand: "Hold that," said he. I obeyed. He took the
sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpse-like face; he asked for my
smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed his
eyes; he groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm
and shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away blood, trickling fast down.
"Is there
immediate danger?" murmured Mr. Mason.
"Pooh! No -- a
mere scratch. Don’t be so overcome, man: bear up! I’ll fetch a surgeon for you
now, myself: you’ll be able to be removed by morning, I hope. Jane," he
continued.
"Sir?"
"I shall have to
leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours:
you will sponge the blood as I do when it returns: if he feels faint, you will
put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose.
You will not speak to him on any pretext -- and -- Richard, it will be at the
peril of your life if you speak to her: open your lips -- agitate yourself --
and I’ll not answer for the consequences."
Again the poor man
groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear, either of death or of
something else, appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the now
bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded to use it as he had done. He
watched me a second, then saying, "Remember! -- No conversation," he
left the room. I experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock,
and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard.
Here then I was in the
third storey, fastened into one of its mystic cells; night around me; a pale
and bloody spectacle under my eyes and hands; a murderess hardly separated from
me by a single door: yes -- that was appalling -- the rest I could bear; but I
shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me.
I must keep to my post,
however. I must watch this ghastly countenance -- these blue, still lips
forbidden to unclose -- these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through
the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must
dip my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the
trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my
employment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and
grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over
the doors of a great cabinet opposite -- whose front, divided into twelve
panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles, each enclosed
in its separate panel as in a frame; while above them at the top rose an ebon
crucifix and a dying Christ.
According as the
shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here or glanced there, it was
now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John’s long hair
that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the panel,
and seemed gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor --
of Satan himself -- in his subordinate’s form.
Amidst all this, I had
to listen as well as watch: to listen for the movements of the wild beast or
the fiend in yonder side den. But since Mr. Rochester’s visit it seemed
spellbound: all the night I heard but three sounds at three long intervals, --
a step creak, a momentary renewal of the snarling, canine noise, and a deep
human groan.
Then my own thoughts
worried me. What crime was this, that lived incarnate in this sequestered
mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner? -- what mystery,
that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night?
What creature was it, that, masked in an ordinary woman’s face and shape,
uttered the voice, now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird
of prey?
And this man I bent
over -- this commonplace, quiet stranger -- how had he become involved in the
web of horror? and why had the Fury flown at him? What made him seek this
quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he should have been asleep in
bed? I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below -- what brought
him here? And why, now, was he so tame under the violence or treachery done
him? Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced?
Why did Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been outraged,
his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted against; and both
attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion! Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason
was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the latter held
complete sway over the inertness of the former: the few words which had passed
between them assured me of this. It was evident that in their former
intercourse, the passive disposition of the one had been habitually influenced
by the active energy of the other: whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester’s
dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason’s arrival? Why had the mere name of this
unresisting individual -- whom his word now sufficed to control like a child --
fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on an oak?
Oh! I could not forget
his look and his paleness when he whispered: "Jane, I have got a blow -- I
have got a blow, Jane." I could not forget how the arm had trembled which
he rested on my shoulder: and it was no light matter which could thus bow the
resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester.
"When will he
come? When will he come?" I cried inwardly, as the night lingered and
lingered -- as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened: and neither day
nor aid arrived. I had, again and again, held the water to Mason’s white lips;
again and again offered him the stimulating salts: my efforts seemed
ineffectual: either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of blood, or all three
combined, were fast prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so weak,
wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; and I might not even speak to him.
The candle, wasted at
last, went out; as it expired, I perceived streaks of grey light edging the
window curtains: dawn was then approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark far
below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope revived. Nor was it
unwarranted: in five minutes more the grating key, the yielding lock, warned me
my watch was relieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: many a
week has seemed shorter.
Mr. Rochester entered,
and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch.
"Now, Carter, be
on the alert," he said to this last: "I give you but half an hour for
dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient downstairs and
all."
"But is he fit to
move, Sir?"
"No doubt of it;
it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his spirits must be kept up. Come, set to
work."
Mr. Rochester drew back
the thick curtain, drew up the holland blind, let in all the daylight he could;
and I was surprised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what rosy
streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom the
surgeon was already handling.
"Now, my good
fellow, how are you?" he asked.
"She’s done for
me, I fear," was the faint reply.
"Not a whit! --
courage! This day fortnight you’ll hardly be a pin the worse of it: you’ve lost
a little blood; that’s all. Carter, assure him there’s no danger."
"I can do that
conscientiously," said Carter, who had now undone the bandages; "only
I wish I could have got here sooner: he would not have bled so much -- but how
is this? The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not
done with a knife: there have been teeth here!"
"She bit me,"
he murmured. "She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife
from her."
"You should not
have yielded: you should have grappled with her at once," said Mr.
Rochester.
"But under such circumstances,
what could one do?" returned Mason. "Oh, it was frightful!" he
added, shuddering. "And I did not expect it: she looked so quiet at
first."
"I warned
you," was his friend’s answer; "I said -- be on your guard when you
go near her. Besides, you might have waited till to-morrow, and had me with
you: it was mere folly to attempt the interview to-night, and alone."
"I thought I could
have done some good."
"You thought! you
thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to hear you: but, however, you have
suffered, and are likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice; so I’ll say
no more. Carter -- hurry! -- hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him
off."
"Directly, Sir;
the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm: she
has had her teeth here too, I think."
"She sucked the
blood: she said she’d drain my heart," said Mason.
I saw Mr. Rochester
shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his
countenance almost to distortion, but he only said: --
"Come, be silent,
Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don’t repeat it."
"I wish I could
forget it," was the answer.
"You will when you
are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town, you may think of her
as dead and buried -- or rather, you need not think of her at all."
"Impossible to
forget this night!"
"It is not
impossible: have some energy, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring
two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. There! -- Carter has done
with you or nearly so; I’ll make you decent in a trice. Jane" (he turned
to me for the first time since his re-entrance), "take this key: go down
into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room; open the top
drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bring
them here; and be nimble."
I went; sought the
repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them.
"Now," said
he, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; but don’t
leave the room: you may be wanted again."
I retired as directed.
"Was anybody
stirring below when you went down, Jane?" inquired Mr. Rochester
presently.
"No, Sir; all was
very still."
"We shall get you
off cannily, Dick: and it will be better, both for your sake, and for that of
the poor creature in yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I
should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his
waistcoat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You can’t travel a mile
without that, I know, in this damned cold climate. In your room? -- Jane, run
down to Mr. Mason’s room, -- the one next mine, -- and fetch a cloak you will
see there."
Again I ran, and again
returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and edged with fur.
"Now, I’ve another
errand for you," said my untiring master; "you must away to my room
again. What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane! -- a clod-hopping messenger
would never do at this juncture. You must open the middle drawer of my
toilet-table and take out a little phial and a little glass you will find
there, -- quick!"
I flew thither and
back, bringing the desired vessels.
"That’s well! Now,
doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a dose myself, on my own
responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, of an Italian charlatan -- a fellow
you would have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be used indiscriminately,
but it is good upon occasion: as now, for instance. Jane, a little water."
He held out the tiny
glass, and I half filled it from the water bottle on the wash-stand.
"That will do: --
now wet the lip of the phial."
I did so; he measured
twelve drops of a crimson liquid, and presented it to Mason.
"Drink, Richard:
it will give you the heart you lack, for an hour or so."
"But will it hurt
me? -- is it inflammatory?"
"Drink! drink!
drink!"
Mr. Mason obeyed,
because it was evidently useless to resist. He was dressed now: he still looked
pale, but he was no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three
minutes after he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his arm: --
"Now I am sure you
can get on your feet," he said: -- "try."
The patient rose.
"Carter, take him
under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard; step out: -- that’s
it!"
"I do feel
better," remarked Mr. Mason.
"I am sure you do.
Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage
door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard -- or
just outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement
-- to be ready; we are coming: and, Jane, if any one is about, come to the foot
of the stairs and hem."
It was by this time
half-past five, and the sun was on the point of rising; but I found the kitchen
still dark and silent. The side-passage door was fastened; I opened it with as
little noise as possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide
open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated
on the box, stationed outside. I approached him, and said the gentlemen were
coming; he nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened. The stillness of
early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet drawn over the
servants’ chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the
blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over
the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped from time
to time in their closed stables: all else was still.
The gentlemen now
appeared. Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk
with tolerable ease: they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed.
"Take care of
him," said Mr. Rochester to the latter, "and keep him at your house
till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on.
Richard, how is it with you?"
"The fresh air
revives me, Fairfax."
"Leave the window
open on his side, Carter; there is no wind -- good-bye, Dick."
"Fairfax --"
"Well, what is
it?"
"Let her be taken
care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be: let her --" he stopped
and burst into tears.
"I do my best; and
have done it, and will do it," was the answer: he shut up the chaise door,
and the vehicle drove away.
"Yet would to God
there was an end of all this!" added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and
barred the heavy yard-gates.
This done, he moved
with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in the wall bordering the
orchard. I, supposing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house;
again, however, I heard him call "Jane!" He had opened the portal and
stood at it, waiting for me.
"Come where there
is some freshness, for a few moments," he said; "that house is a mere
dungeon: don’t you feel it so?"
"It seems to me a
splendid mansion, Sir."
"The glamour of
inexperience is over your eyes," he answered; "and you see it through
a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk
draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere
refuse chips and scaly bark. Now here (he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had
entered) all is real, sweet, and pure."
He strayed down a walk
edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees, and cherry trees on one side, and
a border on the other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks,
sweet-williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and
various fragrant herbs. They were fresh now as a succession of April showers
and gleams, followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was
just entering the dappled east, and his light illumined the wreathed and dewy
orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks under them.
"Jane, will you
have a flower?"
He gathered a
half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and offered it to me.
"Thank you,
Sir."
"Do you like this
sunrise, Jane? That sky with its high and light clouds which are sure to melt
away as the day waxes warm -- this placid and balmy atmosphere?"
"I do, very
much."
"You have passed a
strange night, Jane."
"Yes, Sir."
"And it has made
you look pale -- were you afraid when I left you alone with Mason?"
"I was afraid of
some one coming out of the inner room."
"But I had
fastened the door -- I had the key in my pocket: I should have been a careless
shepherd if I had left a lamb -- my pet lamb -- so near a wolf’s den,
unguarded: you were safe."
"Will Grace Poole
live here still, Sir?"
"Oh yes! don’t
trouble your head about her =- put the thing out of your thoughts."
"Yet it seems to
me your life is hardly secure while she stays."
"Never fear -- I
will take care of myself."
"Is the danger you
apprehended last night gone by now, Sir?"
"I cannot vouch
for that till Mason is out of England: nor even then. To live, for me, Jane, is
to stand on a crater-crust which may crack and spue fire any day."
"But Mr. Mason
seems a man easily led. Your influence, Sir, is evidently potent with him: he
will never set you at defiance or wilfully injure you."
"Oh no! Mason will
not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me -- but, unintentionally, he might
in a moment, by one careless word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of
happiness."
"Tell him to be
cautious, Sir: let him know what you fear, and show him how to avert the
danger."
He laughed
sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw it from him.
"If I could do
that, simpleton, where would the danger be? Annihilated in a moment. Ever since
I have known Mason, I have only had to say to him "Do that," and the
thing has been done. But I cannot give him orders in this case: I cannot say
"Beware of harming me, Richard"; for it is imperative that I should
keep him ignorant that harm to me is possible. Now you look puzzled; and I will
puzzle you further. You are my little friend, are you not?"
"I like to serve
you, Sir, and to obey you in all that is right."
"Precisely: I see
you do. I see genuine contentment in your gait and mien, your eye and face,
when you are helping me and pleasing me -- working for me, and with me, in, as
you characteristically say, "all that is right:" for if I bid you do
what you thought wrong, there would be no light-footed running, no neat-handed
alacrity, no lively glance and animated complexion. My friend would then turn
to me, quiet and pale, and would say, "No, Sir; that is impossible: I
cannot do it, because it is wrong"; and would become immutable as a fixed
star. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure me: yet I dare not show
you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you should
transfix me at once."
"If you have no
more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me, Sir, you are very safe."
"God grant it may
be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down."
The arbour was an arch
in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic seat. Mr. Rochester took it,
leaving room, however, for me: but I stood before him.
"Sit," he
said; "the bench is long enough for two. You don’t hesitate to take a
place at my side, do you? Is that wrong, Jane?"
I answered him by
assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise.
"Now, my little
friend, while the sun drinks the dew -- while all the flowers in this old
garden awake and expand, and the birds fetch their young ones’ breakfast out of
the Thornfield, and the early bees do their first spell of work -- I’ll put a
case to you, which you must endeavour to suppose your own: but first, look at
me, and tell me you are at ease, and not fearing that I err in detaining you,
or that you err in staying."
"No, Sir; I am
content."
"Well then, Jane,
call to aid your fancy: -- suppose you were no longer a girl well reared and
disciplined, but a wild boy indulged from childhood upwards; imagine yourself
in a remote foreign land; conceive that you there commit a capital error, no
matter of what nature or from what motives, but one whose consequences must
follow you through life and taint all your existence. Mind, I don’t say a
crime; I am not speaking of shedding of blood or any other guilty act, which
might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my word is error. The results
of what you have done become in time to you utterly insupportable; you take
measures to obtain relief: unusual measures, but neither unlawful nor culpable.
Still you are miserable; for hope has quitted you on the very confines of life:
your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which you feel will not leave it till
the time of setting. Bitter and base associations have become the sole food of
your memory: you wander here and there, seeking rest in exile: happiness in
pleasure -- I mean in heartless, sensual pleasure -- such as dulls intellect
and blights feeling. Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years
of voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance -- how or where no matter:
you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you have
sought for twenty years, and never before encountered; and they are all fresh,
healthy, without soil and without taint. Such society revives, regenerates: you
feel better days come back-higher wishes, purer feelings; you desire to
recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of days in a way more
worthy of an immortal being. To attain this end, are you justified in
overleaping an obstacle of custom -- a mere conventional impediment which
neither your conscience sanctifies nor your judgment approves?"
He paused for an
answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for some good spirit to suggest a judicious
and satisfactory response! Vain aspiration! The west wind whispered in the ivy
round me; but no gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as a medium of speech: the
birds sang in the tree-tops; but their song, however sweet, was inarticulate.
Again Mr. Rochester
propounded his query:
"Is the wandering
and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant, man justified in daring the
world’s opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious,
genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of
life?"
"Sir," I
answered, "a Wanderer’s repose or a sinner’s reformation should never
depend on a fellow-creature. Men and women die; philosophers falter in wisdom,
and Christians in goodness: if any one you know has suffered and erred, let him
look higher than his equals for strength to amend and solace to heal."
"But the
instrument -- the instrument! God, who does the work, ordains the instrument. I
have myself -- I tell it you without parable -- been a worldly, dissipated,
restless man; and I believe I have found the instrument for my cure, in
--"
He paused: the birds
went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I almost wondered they did not
check their songs and whispers to catch the suspended revelation; but they
would have had to wait many minutes -- so long was the silence protracted. At
last I looked up at the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me.
"Little friend,"
said he, in quite a changed tone -- while his face changed too, losing all its
softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic -- "you have
noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don’t you think if I married her
she would regenerate me with a vengeance?"
He got up instantly,
went quite to the other end of the walk, and when he came back he was humming a
tune.
"Jane, Jane,"
said he, stopping before me, "you are quite pale with your vigils: don’t
you curse me for disturbing your rest?"
"Curse you? No,
Sir."
"Shake hands in
confirmation of the word. What cold fingers! They were warmer last night when I
touched them at the door of the mysterious chamber. Jane, when will you watch
with me again?"
"Whenever I can be
useful, Sir."
"For instance, the
night before I am married! I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. Will you
promise to sit up with me to bear me company? To you I can talk of my lovely
one: for now you have seen her and know her."
"Yes, Sir."
"She’s a rare one,
is she not, Jane?"
"Yes, Sir."
"A strapper -- a
real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair just such as the ladies
of Carthage must have had. Bless me! there’s Dent and Lynn in the stables! Go
in by the shrubbery, through that wicket."
As I went one way, he
went another, and I heard him in the yard, saying cheerfully: --
"Mason got the
start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise: I rose at four to
see him off."
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