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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

Release Date: May, 2002 [Etext #3237]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this file first posted = 02/05/01]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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Click here to start MP3 Text Speech

PREFACE A preface
to the first edition of
"Jane Eyre"
being unnecessary,
I gave none:

this second edition demands a few words both of acknowledgment and miscellaneous remark.

My thanks are due in three quarters.

To the Public,
for the indulgent ear it has inclined
to a plain tale
with few pretensions.

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

To my Publishers,
for the aid their tact,
their energy,
their practical sense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and unrecommended Author.

The Press and the Public are but vague personifications
for me,
and I must thank them in vague terms;
but my Publishers are definite:

so are certain generous critics who have encouraged me as only large-hearted and high-minded men know how
to encourage a struggling stranger;
to them,
i.e.,
to my Publishers and the select Reviewers,
I say cordially,
Gentlemen,
I thank you from my heart.

Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided and approved me,
I turn
to another class;
a small one,
so far as I know,
but not,
therefore,
to be overlooked.

I mean the timorous or carping few who doubt the tendency of such books as
"Jane Eyre:"
in whose eyes whatever is unusual is wrong;
whose ears detect in each protest against bigotry--that parent of crime--an insult
to piety,
that regent of God on earth.

I would suggest
to such doubters certain obvious distinctions;
I would remind them of certain simple truths.

Conventionality is not morality.

Self-righteousness is not religion.

To attack the first is not
to assail the last.

To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee,
is not
to lift an impious hand
to the Crown of Thorns.

These things and deeds are diametrically opposed:

they are as distinct as is vice from virtue.

Men too often confound them:

they should not be confounded:

appearance should not be mistaken
for truth;
narrow human doctrines,
that only tend
to elate and magnify a few,
should not be substituted
for the world-redeeming creed of Christ.

There is--I repeat it--a difference;
and it is a good,
and not a bad action
to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them.

The world may not like
to see these ideas dissevered,
for it has been accustomed
to blend them;
finding it convenient
to make external show pass
for sterling worth--to let white-washed walls vouch
for clean shrines.

It may hate him who dares
to scrutinise and expose--to rase the gilding,
and show base metal under it--to penetrate the sepulchre,
and reveal charnel relics:

but hate as it will,
it is indebted
to him.

Ahab did not like Micaiah,
because he never prophesied good concerning him,
but evil;
probably he liked the sycophant son of Chenaannah better;
yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death,
had he but stopped his ears
to flattery,
and opened them
to faithful counsel.

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

who,
to my thinking,
comes before the great ones of society,
much as the son of Imlah came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel;
and who speaks truth as deep,
with a power as prophet-like and as vital--a mien as dauntless and as daring.

Is the satirist of
"Vanity Fair"
admired in high places?

I cannot tell;
but I think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire of his sarcasm,
and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation,
were
to take his warnings in time--they or their seed might yet escape a fatal Rimoth-Gilead.

Why have I alluded
to this man?

I have alluded
to him,
Reader,
because I think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his contemporaries have yet recognised;
because I regard him as the first social regenerator of the day--as the very master of that working corps who would restore
to rectitude the warped system of things;
because I think no commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison that suits him,
the terms which rightly characterise his talent.

They say he is like Fielding:

they talk of his wit,
humour,
comic powers.

He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture:

Fielding could stoop on carrion,
but Thackeray never does.

His wit is bright,
his humour attractive,
but both bear the same relation
to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of the 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.

NOTE
to THE THIRD EDITION I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition of
"Jane Eyre"
affords me,
of again addressing a word
to the Public,
to explain that my claim
to the title of novelist rests on this one work alone.

If,
therefore,
the authorship of other works of fiction has been attributed
to me,
an honour is awarded where it is not merited;
and consequently,
denied where it is justly due.

This explanation will serve
to rectify mistakes which may already have been made,
and
to prevent future errors.

CURRER BELL.

April 13th,
1848.

CHAPTER I There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

We had been wandering,
indeed,
in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning;
but since dinner
(Mrs. Reed,
when there was no company,
dined early)
the cold winter wind had brought
with it clouds so sombre,
and a rain so penetrating,
that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.

I was glad of it:

I never liked long walks,
especially on chilly afternoons:

dreadful
to me was the coming home in the raw twilight,
with nipped fingers and toes,
and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie,
the nurse,
and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority
to Eliza,
John,
and Georgiana Reed.

The said Eliza,
John,
and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room:

she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside,
and
with her darlings about her
(for the time neither quarrelling nor crying)
looked perfectly happy.

Me,
she had dispensed from joining the group;
saying,
"She regretted
to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance;
but that until she heard from Bessie,
and could discover by her own observation,
that I was endeavouring in good earnest
to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition,
a more attractive and sprightly manner-- something lighter,
franker,
more natural,
as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only
for contented,
happy,
little children."

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

"Jane,
I don't like cavillers or questioners;
besides,
there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner.

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

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

It contained a bookcase:

I soon possessed myself of a volume,
taking care that it should be one stored
with pictures.

I mounted into the window-seat:

gathering up my feet,
I sat cross-legged,
like a Turk;
and,
having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close,
I was shrined in double retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view
to the right hand;
to the left were the clear panes of glass,
protecting,
but not separating me from the drear November day.

At intervals,
while turning over the leaves of my book,
I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon.

Afar,
it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud;
near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub,
with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

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

the letterpress thereof I cared little for,
generally speaking;
and yet there were certain introductory pages that,
child as I was,
I could not pass quite as a blank.

They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl;
of
"the solitary rocks and promontories"
by them only inhabited;
of the coast of Norway,
studded
with isles from its southern extremity,
the Lindeness,
or Naze,
to the North Cape -
"Where the Northern Ocean,
in vast whirls,
Boils round the naked,
melancholy isles Of farthest Thule;
and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides."

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland,
Siberia,
Spitzbergen,
Nova Zembla,
Iceland,
Greenland,
with
"the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone,
and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow,
where firm fields of ice,
the accumulation of centuries of winters,
glazed in Alpine heights above heights,
surround the pole,
and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold."

Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own:

shadowy,
like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains,
but strangely impressive.

The words in these introductory pages connected themselves
with the succeeding vignettes,
and gave significance
to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray;
to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast;
to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.

I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard,
with its inscribed headstone;
its gate,
its two trees,
its low horizon,
girdled by a broken wall,
and its newly-risen crescent,
attesting the hour of eventide.

The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea,
I believed
to be marine phantoMs. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him,
I passed over quickly:

it was an object of terror.

So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock,
surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.

Each picture told a story;
mysterious often
to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings,
yet ever profoundly interesting:

as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings,
when she chanced
to be in good humour;
and when,
having brought her ironing-table
to the nursery hearth,
she allowed us
to sit about it,
and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills,
and crimped her nightcap borders,
fed our eager attention
with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads;
or
(as at a later period I discovered)
from the pages of Pamela,
and Henry,
Earl of Moreland.

With Bewick on my knee,
I was then happy:

happy at least in my way.

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

The breakfast-room door opened.

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

he found the room apparently empty.

"Where the dickens is she!"
he continued.

"Lizzy! Georgy!
(calling
to his sisters)
Joan is not here:

tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!"
"It is well I drew the curtain,"
thought I;
and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place:

nor would John Reed have found it out himself;
he was not quick either of vision or conception;
but Eliza just put her head in at the door,
and said at once -
"She is in the window-seat,
to be sure,
Jack."

And I came out immediately,
for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack.

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

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

"I want you
to come here;"
and seating himself in an arm-chair,
he intimated by a gesture that I was
to approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old;
four years older than I,
for I was but ten:

large and stout
for his age,
with a dingy and unwholesome skin;
thick lineaments in a spacious visage,
heavy limbs and large extremities.

He gorged himself habitually at table,
which made him bilious,
and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks.

He ought now
to have been at school;
but his mama had taken him home
for a month or two,
"on account of his delicate health."

Mr. Miles,
the master,
affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home;
but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh,
and inclined rather
to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing
to over-application and,
perhaps,
to pining after home.

John had not much affection
for his mother and sisters,
and an antipathy
to me.

He bullied and punished me;
not two or three times in the week,
nor once or twice in the day,
but continually:

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

There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired,
because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions;
the servants did not like
to offend their young master by taking my part against him,
and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject:

she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me,
though he did both now and then in her very presence,
more frequently,
however,
behind her back.

Habitually obedient
to John,
I came up
to his chair:

he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots:

I knew he would soon strike,
and while dreading the blow,
I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it.

I wonder if he read that notion in my face;
for,
all at once,
without speaking,
he struck suddenly and strongly.

I tottered,
and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair.

"That is
for your impudence in answering mama awhile since,"
said he,
"and
for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains,
and
for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since,
you rat!"
Accustomed
to John Reed's abuse,
I never had an idea of replying
to it;
my care was how
to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.

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

"I was reading."

"Show the book."

I returned
to the window and fetched it thence.

"You have no business
to take our books;
you are a dependent,
mama says;
you have no money;
your father left you none;
you ought
to beg,
and not
to live here
with gentlemen's children like us,
and eat the same meals we do,
and wear clothes at our mama's expense.

Now,
I'll teach you
to rummage my bookshelves:

for they ARE mine;
all the house belongs
to me,
or will do in a few years.

Go and stand by the door,
out of the way of the mirror and the windows."

I did so,
not at first aware what was his intention;
but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act
to hurl it,
I instinctively started aside
with a cry of alarm:

not soon enough,
however;
the volume was flung,
it hit me,
and I fell,
striking my head against the door and cutting it.

The cut bled,
the pain was sharp:

my terror had passed its climax;
other feelings succeeded.

"Wicked and cruel boy!"
I said.

"You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!"
I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome,
and had formed my opinion of Nero,
Caligula,
&c.

Also I had drawn parallels in silence,
which I never thought thus
to have declared aloud.

"What! what!"
he cried.

"Did she say that
to me?

Did you hear her,
Eliza and Georgiana?

Won't I tell mama?

but first--"
He ran headlong at me:

I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder:

he had closed
with a desperate thing.

I really saw in him a tyrant,
a murderer.

I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck,
and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering:

these sensations
for the time predominated over fear,
and I received him in frantic sort.

I don't very well know what I did
with my hands,
but he called me
"Rat! Rat!"
and bellowed out aloud.

Aid was near him:

Eliza and Georgiana had run
for Mrs. Reed,
who was gone upstairs:

she now came upon the scene,
followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot.

We were parted:

I heard the words -
"Dear! dear! What a fury
to fly at Master John!"
"Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!"
Then Mrs. Reed subjoined -
"Take her away
to the red-room,
and lock her in there."

Four hands were immediately laid upon me,
and I was borne upstairs.

CHAPTER II I resisted all the way:

a new thing
for me,
and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed
to entertain of me.

The fact is,
I was a trifle beside myself;
or rather OUT of myself,
as the French would say:

I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable
to strange penalties,
and,
like any other rebel slave,
I felt resolved,
in my desperation,
to go all lengths.

"Hold her arms,
Miss Abbot:

she's like a mad cat."

"For shame!
for shame!"
cried the lady's-maid.

"What shocking conduct,
Miss Eyre,
to strike a young gentleman,
your benefactress's son! Your young master."

"Master! How is he my master?

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

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

They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed,
and had thrust me upon a stool:

my impulse was
to rise from it like a spring;
their two pair of hands arrested me instantly.

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

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

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

This preparation
for bonds,
and the additional ignominy it inferred,
took a little of the excitement out of me.

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

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

"Mind you don't,"
said Bessie;
and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding,
she loosened her hold of me;
then she and Miss Abbot stood
with folded arms,
looking darkly and doubtfully on my face,
as incredulous of my sanity.

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

"But it was always in her,"
was the reply.

"I've told Missis often my opinion about the child,
and Missis agreed
with me.

She's an underhand little thing:

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

Bessie answered not;
but ere long,
addressing me,
she said--"You ought
to be aware,
Miss,
that you are under obligations
to Mrs. Reed:

she keeps you:

if she were
to turn you off,
you would have
to go
to the poorhouse."

I had nothing
to say
to these words:

they were not new
to me:

my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind.

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

very painful and crushing,
but only half intelligible.

Miss Abbot joined in -
"And you ought not
to think yourself on an equality
with the Misses Reed and Master Reed,
because Missis kindly allows you
to be brought up
with them.

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

it is your place
to be humble,
and
to try
to make yourself agreeable
to them."

"What we tell you is
for your good,"
added Bessie,
in no harsh voice,
"you should try
to be useful and pleasant,
then,
perhaps,
you would have a home here;
but if you become passionate and rude,
Missis will send you away,
I am sure."

"Besides,"
said Miss Abbot,
"God will punish her:

He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums,
and then where would she go?

Come,
Bessie,
we will leave her:

I wouldn't have her heart
for anything.

Say your prayers,
Miss Eyre,
when you are by yourself;
for if you don't repent,
something bad might be permitted
to come down the chimney and fetch you away."

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

The red-room was a square chamber,
very seldom slept in,
I might say never,
indeed,
unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary
to turn
to account all the accommodation it contained:

yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion.

A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany,
hung
with curtains of deep red damask,
stood out like a tabernacle in the centre;
the two large windows,
with their blinds always drawn down,
were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery;
the carpet was red;
the table at the foot of the bed was covered
with a crimson cloth;
the walls were a soft fawn colour
with a blush of pink in it;
the wardrobe,
the toilet-table,
the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany.

Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high,
and glared white,
the 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 panels;
to my left were the muffled windows;
a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room.

I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door;
and when I dared move,
I got up and went
to see.

Alas! yes:

no jail was ever more secure.

Returning,
I had
to cross before the looking-glass;
my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed.

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

and the strange little figure there gazing at me,
with a white face and arms specking the gloom,
and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still,
had the effect of a real spirit:

I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms,
half fairy,
half imp,
Bessie's evening stories represented as coming out of lone,
ferny dells in moors,
and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers.

I returned
to my stool.

Superstition was
with me at that moment;
but it was not yet her hour
for complete victory:

my blood was still warm;
the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me
with its bitter vigour;
I had
to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed
to the dismal present.

All John Reed's violent tyrannies,
all his sisters'
proud indifference,
all his mother's aversion,
all the servants'
partiality,
turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well.

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

Why could I never please?

Why was it useless
to try
to win any one's favour?

Eliza,
who was headstrong and selfish,
was respected.

Georgiana,
who had a spoiled temper,
a very acrid spite,
a captious and insolent carriage,
was universally indulged.

Her beauty,
her pink cheeks and golden curls,
seemed
to give delight
to all who looked at her,
and
to purchase indemnity
for every fault.

John no one thwarted,
much less punished;
though he twisted the necks of the pigeons,
killed the little pea-chicks,
set the dogs at the sheep,
stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit,
and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory:

he called his mother
"old girl,"
too;
sometimes reviled her
for her dark skin,
similar
to his own;
bluntly disregarded her wishes;
not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire;
and he was still
"her own darling."

I dared commit no fault:

I strove
to fulfil every duty;
and I was termed naughty and tiresome,
sullen and sneaking,
from morning
to noon,
and from noon
to night.

My head still ached and bled
with the blow and fall I had received:

no one had reproved John
for wantonly striking me;
and because I had turned against him
to avert farther irrational violence,
I was loaded
with general opprobrium.

"Unjust!--unjust!"
said my reason,
forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power:

and Resolve,
equally wrought up,
instigated some strange expedient
to achieve escape from insupportable oppression--as running away,
or,
if that could not be effected,
never eating or drinking more,
and letting myself die.

What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult,
and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness,
what dense ignorance,
was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question--WHY I thus suffered;
now,
at the distance of--I will not say how many years,
I see it clearly.

I was a discord in Gateshead Hall:

I was like nobody there;
I had nothing in harmony
with Mrs. Reed or her children,
or her chosen vassalage.

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

They were not bound
to regard
with affection a thing that could not sympathise
with one amongst them;
a heterogeneous thing,
opposed
to them in temperament,
in capacity,
in propensities;
a useless thing,
incapable of serving their interest,
or adding
to their pleasure;
a noxious thing,
cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment,
of contempt of their judgment.

I know that had I been a sanguine,
brilliant,
careless,
exacting,
handsome,
romping child--though equally dependent and friendless--Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more complacently;
her children would have entertained
for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling;
the servants would have been less prone
to make me the scapegoat of the nursery.

Daylight began
to forsake the red-room;
it was past four o'clock,
and the beclouded afternoon was tending
to drear twilight.

I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window,
and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall;
I grew by degrees cold as a stone,
and then my courage sank.

My habitual mood of humiliation,
self-doubt,
forlorn depression,
fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire.

All said I was wicked,
and perhaps I might be so;
what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself
to death?

That certainly was a crime:

and was I fit
to die?

Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne?

In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried;
and led by this thought
to recall his idea,
I dwelt on it
with gathering dread.

I could not remember him;
but I knew that he was my own uncle--my mother's brother--that he had taken me when a parentless infant
to his house;
and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children.

Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise;
and so she had,
I dare say,
as well as her nature would permit her;
but how could she really like an interloper not of her race,
and unconnected
with her,
after her husband's death,
by any tie?

It must have been most irksome
to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge
to stand in the stead of a parent
to a strange child she could not love,
and
to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group.

A singular notion dawned upon me.

I doubted not--never doubted-- that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly;
and now,
as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls-- occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaning mirror--I began
to recall what I had heard of dead men,
troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes,
revisiting the earth
to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed;
and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit,
harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child,
might quit its abode--whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed--and rise before me in this chamber.

I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs,
fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice
to comfort me,
or elicit from the gloom some haloed face,
bending over me
with strange pity.

This idea,
consolatory in theory,
I felt would be terrible if realised:

with all my might I endeavoured
to stifle it- -I endeavoured
to be firm.

Shaking my hair from my eyes,
I lifted my head and tried
to look boldly round the dark room;
at this moment a light gleamed on the wall.

Was it,
I asked myself,
a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind?

No;
moonlight was still,
and this stirred;
while I gazed,
it glided up
to the ceiling and quivered over my head.

I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was,
in all likelihood,
a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn:

but then,
prepared as my mind was
for horror,
shaken as my nerves were by agitation,
I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world.

My heart beat thick,
my head grew hot;
a sound filled my ears,
which I deemed the rushing of wings;
something seemed near me;
I was oppressed,
suffocated:

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

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

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

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

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

"What for?

Are you hurt?

Have you seen something?"
again demanded Bessie.

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

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

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

"And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it,
but she only wanted
to bring us all here:

I know her naughty tricks."

"What is all this?"
demanded another voice peremptorily;
and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor,
her cap flying wide,
her gown rustling stormily.

"Abbot and Bessie,
I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came
to her myself."

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

"Let her go,"
was the only answer.

"Loose Bessie's hand,
child:

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

I abhor artifice,
particularly in children;
it is my duty
to show you that tricks will not answer:

you will now stay here an hour longer,
and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then."

"O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it--let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if--"
"Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:"
and so,
no doubt,
she felt it.

I was a precocious actress in her eyes;
she sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions,
mean spirit,
and dangerous duplicity.

Bessie and Abbot having retreated,
Mrs. Reed,
impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs,
abruptly thrust me back and locked me in,
without farther parley.

I heard her sweeping away;
and soon after she was gone,
I suppose I had a species of fit:

unconsciousness closed the scene.

CHAPTER III The next thing I remember is,
waking up
with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare,
and seeing before me a terrible red glare,
crossed
with thick black bars.

I heard voices,
too,
speaking
with a hollow sound,
and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water:

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

Ere long,
I became aware that some one was handling me;
lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture,
and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before.

I rested my head against a pillow or an arm,
and felt easy.

In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved:

I knew quite well that I was in my own bed,
and that the red glare was the nursery fire.

It was night:

a candle burnt on the table;
Bessie stood at the 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 intimates that he should call again the next day,
he departed;
to my grief:

I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow;
and as he closed the door after him,
all the room darkened and my heart again sank:

inexpressible sadness weighed it down.

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

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

"I will try."

"Would you like
to drink,
or could you eat anything?"
"No,
thank you,
Bessie."

"Then I think I shall go
to bed,
for it is past twelve o'clock;
but you may call me if you want anything in the night."

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

"Bessie,
what is the matter
with me?

Am I ill?"
"You fell sick,
I suppose,
in the red-room
with crying;
you'll be better soon,
no doubt."

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

I heard her say -
"Sarah,
come and sleep
with me in the nursery;
I daren't
for my life be alone
with that poor child to-night:

she might die;
it's such a strange thing she should have that fit:

I wonder if she saw anything.

Missis was rather too hard."

Sarah came back
with her;
they both went
to bed;
they were whispering together
for half-an-hour before they fell asleep.

I caught scraps of their conversation,
from which I was able only too distinctly
to infer the main subject discussed.

"Something passed her,
all dressed in white,
and vanished"--"A great black dog behind him"--"Three loud raps on the chamber door"--"A light in the churchyard just over his grave,"
&c.

&c.

At last both slept:

the fire and the candle went out.

For me,
the watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness;
strained by dread:

such dread as children only can feel.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the 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 foxglove leaves and bells,
under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks,
I had at length made up my mind
to the sad truth,
that they were all gone out of England
to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker,
and the population more scant;
whereas,
Lilliput and Brobdignag being,
in my creed,
solid parts of the earth's surface,
I doubted not that I might one day,
by taking a long voyage,
see
with my own eyes the little fields,
houses,
and trees,
the diminutive people,
the tiny cows,
sheep,
and birds of the one realm;
and the corn-fields forest-high,
the mighty mastiffs,
the monster cats,
the tower-like men and women,
of the other.

Yet,
when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand--when I turned over its leaves,
and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had,
till now,
never failed
to find--all was eerie and dreary;
the giants were gaunt goblins,
the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps,
Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions.

I closed the book,
which I dared no longer peruse,
and put it on the table,
beside the untasted tart.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room,
and having washed her hands,
she opened a certain little drawer,
full of splendid shreds of silk and satin,
and began making a new bonnet
for Georgiana's doll.

Meantime she sang:

her song was -
"In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago."

I had often heard the song before,
and always
with lively delight;
for Bessie had a sweet voice,--at least,
I thought so.

But now,
though her voice was still sweet,
I found in its melody an indescribable sadness.

Sometimes,
preoccupied
with her work,
she sang the refrain very low,
very lingeringly;
"A long time ago"
came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn.

She passed into another ballad,
this time a really doleful one.

"My feet they are sore,
and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way,
and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?

Men are hard-hearted,
and kind angels only Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none,
and clear stars beam mild,
God,
in His mercy,
protection is showing,
Comfort and hope
to the poor orphan child.

Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,
Or stray in the marshes,
by false lights beguiled,
Still will my Father,
with promise and blessing,
Take
to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that
for strength should avail me,
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home,
and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend
to the poor orphan child."

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

She might as well have said
to the fire,
"don't burn!"
but how could she divine the morbid suffering
to which I was a prey?

In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.

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

"Well,
nurse,
how is she?"
Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

"Then she ought
to look more cheerful.

Come here,
Miss Jane:

your name is Jane,
is it not?"
"Yes,
sir,
Jane Eyre."

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

Have you any pain?"
"No,
sir."

"Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out
with Missis in the carriage,"
interposed Bessie.

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

I thought so too;
and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge,
I answered promptly,
"I never cried
for such a thing in my life:

I hate going out in the carriage.

I cry because I am miserable."

"Oh fie,
Miss!"
said Bessie.

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled.

I was standing before him;
he fixed his eyes on me very steadily:

his eyes were small and grey;
not very bright,
but I dare say I should think them shrewd now:

he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face.

Having considered me at leisure,
he said -
"What made you ill yesterday?"
"She had a fall,"
said Bessie,
again putting in her word.

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

She must be eight or nine years old."

"I was knocked down,"
was the blunt explanation,
jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride;
"but that did not make me ill,"
I added;
while Mr. Lloyd helped himself
to a pinch of snuff.

As he was returning the box
to his waistcoat pocket,
a loud bell rang
for the servants'
dinner;
he knew what it was.

"That's
for you,
nurse,"
said he;
"you can go down;
I'll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back."

Bessie would rather have stayed,
but she was obliged
to go,
because punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.

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

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

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

"Ghost! What,
you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"
"Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am:

he died in that room,
and was laid out there.

Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night,
if they can help it;
and it was cruel
to shut me up alone without a candle,--so cruel that I think I shall never forget it."

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

Are you afraid now in daylight?"
"No:

but night will come again before long:

and besides,--I am unhappy,--very unhappy,
for other things."

"What other things?

Can you tell me some of them?"
How much I wished
to reply fully
to this question! How difficult it was
to frame any answer! Children can feel,
but they cannot analyse their feelings;
and if the analysis is partially effected in thought,
they know not how
to express the result of the process in words.

Fearful,
however,
of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it,
I,
after a disturbed pause,
contrived
to frame a meagre,
though,
as far as it went,
true response.

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

"You have a kind aunt and cousins."

Again I paused;
then bunglingly enounced -
"But John Reed knocked me down,
and my aunt shut me up in the red- room."

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

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

"Are you not very thankful
to have such a fine place
to live at?"
"It is not my house,
sir;
and Abbot says I have less right
to be here than a servant."

"Pooh! you can't be silly enough
to wish
to leave such a splendid place?"
"If I had anywhere else
to go,
I should be glad
to leave it;
but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman."

"Perhaps you may--who knows?

Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?"
"I think not,
sir."

"None belonging
to your father?"
"I don't know.

I asked Aunt Reed once,
and she said possibly I might have some poor,
low relations called Eyre,
but she knew nothing about them."

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

Poverty looks grim
to grown people;
still more so
to children:

they have not much idea of industrious,
working,
respectable poverty;
they think of the word only as connected
with ragged clothes,
scanty food,
fireless grates,
rude manners,
and debasing vices:

poverty
for me was synonymous
with degradation.

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

"Not even if they were kind
to you?"
I shook my head:

I could not see how poor people had the means of being kind;
and then
to learn
to speak like them,
to adopt their manners,
to be uneducated,
to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead:

no,
I was not heroic enough
to purchase liberty at the price of caste.

"But are your relatives so very poor?

Are they working people?"
"I cannot tell;
Aunt.

Reed says if I have any,
they must be a beggarly set:

I should not like
to go a begging."

"Would you like
to go
to school?"
Again I reflected:

I scarcely knew what school was:

Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks,
wore backboards,
and were expected
to be exceedingly genteel and precise:

John Reed hated his school,
and abused his master;
but John Reed's tastes were no rule
for mine,
and if Bessie's accounts of school-discipline
(gathered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming
to Gateshead)
were somewhat appalling,
her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were,
I thought,
equally attractive.

She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed;
of songs they could sing and pieces they could play,
of purses they could net,
of French books they could translate;
till my spirit was moved
to emulation as I listened.

Besides,
school would be a complete change:

it implied a long journey,
an entire separation from Gateshead,
an entrance into a new life.

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

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

"The child ought
to have change of air and scene,"
he added,
speaking
to himself;
"nerves not in a good state."

Bessie now returned;
at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up the gravel-walk.

"Is that your mistress,
nurse?"
asked Mr. Lloyd.

"I should like
to speak
to her before I go."

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

In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed,
I presume,
from after-occurrences,
that the apothecary ventured
to recommend my being sent
to school;
and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted;
for as Abbot said,
in discussing the subject
with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night,
after I was in bed,
and,
as they thought,
asleep,
"Missis was,
she dared say,
glad enough
to get rid of such a tiresome,
ill- conditioned child,
who always looked as if she were watching everybody,
and scheming plots underhand."

Abbot,
I think,
gave me credit
for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.

On that same occasion I learned,
for the first time,
from Miss Abbot's communications
to Bessie,
that my father had been a poor clergyman;
that my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends,
who considered the match beneath her;
that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at her disobedience,
he cut her off without a shilling;
that after my mother and father had been married a year,
the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated,
and where that disease was then prevalent:

that my mother took the infection from him,
and both died within a month of each other.

Bessie,
when she heard this narrative,
sighed and said,
"Poor Miss Jane is
to be pitied,
too,
Abbot."

"Yes,"
responded Abbot;
"if she were a nice,
pretty child,
one might compassionate her forlornness;
but one really cannot care
for such a little toad as that."

"Not a great deal,
to be sure,"
agreed Bessie:

"at any rate,
a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition."

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

"Little darling!--with her long curls and her blue eyes,
and such a sweet colour as she has;
just as if she were painted!--Bessie,
I could fancy a Welsh rabbit
for supper."

"So could I--with a roast onion.

Come,
we'll go down."

They went.

CHAPTER IV From my discourse
with Mr. Lloyd,
and from the above reported conference between Bessie and Abbot,
I gathered enough of hope
to suffice as a motive
for wishing
to get well:

a change seemed near,- -I desired and waited it in silence.

It tarried,
however:

days and weeks passed:

I had regained my normal state of health,
but no new allusion was made
to the subject over which I brooded.

Mrs. Reed surveyed me at times
with a severe eye,
but seldom addressed me:

since my illness,
she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own children;
appointing me a small closet
to sleep in by myself,
condemning me
to take my meals alone,
and pass all my time in the nursery,
while my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room.

Not a hint,
however,
did she drop about sending me
to school:

still I felt an instinctive certainty that she would not long endure me under the same roof
with her;
for her glance,
now more than ever,
when turned on me,
expressed an insuperable and rooted aversion.

Eliza and Georgiana,
evidently acting according
to orders,
spoke
to me as little as possible:

John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me,
and once attempted chastisement;
but as I instantly turned against him,
roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before,
he thought it better
to desist,
and ran from me tittering execrations,
and vowing I had burst his nose.

I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict;
and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him,
I had the greatest inclination
to follow up my advantage
to purpose;
but he was already
with his mama.

I heard him in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how
"that nasty Jane Eyre"
had flown at him like a mad cat:

he was stopped rather harshly -
"Don't talk
to me about her,
John:

I told you not
to go near her;
she is not worthy of notice;
I do not choose that either you or your sisters should associate
with her."

Here,
leaning over the banister,
I cried out suddenly,
and without at all deliberating on my words -
"They are not fit
to associate
with me."

Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman;
but,
on hearing this strange and audacious declaration,
she ran nimbly up the stair,
swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery,
and crushing me down on the edge of my crib,
dared me in an emphatic voice
to rise from that place,
or utter one syllable during the remainder of the day.

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

I say scarcely voluntary,
for it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting
to their utterance:

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

"What?"
said Mrs. Reed under her breath:

her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled
with a look like fear;
she took her hand from my arm,
and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend.

I was now in
for it.

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

they know how you shut me up all day long,
and how you wish me dead."

Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits:

she shook me most soundly,
she boxed both my ears,
and then left me without a word.

Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length,
in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under a roof.

I half believed her;
for I felt indeed only bad feelings surging in my breast.

November,
December,
and half of January passed away.

Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead
with the usual festive cheer;
presents had been interchanged,
dinners and evening parties given.

From every enjoyment I was,
of course,
excluded:

my share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza and Georgiana,
and seeing them descend
to the drawing-room,
dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes,
with hair elaborately ringletted;
and afterwards,
in listening
to the sound of the piano or the harp played below,
to the passing
to and fro of the butler and footman,
to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed,
to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed.

When tired of this occupation,
I would retire from the stairhead
to the solitary and silent nursery:

there,
though somewhat sad,
I was not miserable.

To speak truth,
I had not the least wish
to go into company,
for in company I was very rarely noticed;
and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable,
I should have deemed it a treat
to spend the evenings quietly
with her,
instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed,
in a room full of ladies and gentlemen.

But Bessie,
as soon as she had dressed her young ladies,
used
to take herself off
to the lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper's room,
generally bearing the candle along
with her.

I then sat
with my doll on my knee till the fire got low,
glancing round occasionally
to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room;
and when the embers sank
to a dull red,
I undressed hastily,
tugging at knots and strings as I best might,
and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib.

To this crib I always took my doll;
human beings must love something,
and,
in the dearth of worthier objects of affection,
I contrived
to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image,
shabby as a miniature scarecrow.

It puzzles me now
to remember
with what absurd sincerity I doated on this little toy,
half fancying it alive and capable of sensation.

I could not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown;
and when it lay there safe and warm,
I was comparatively happy,
believing it
to be happy likewise.

Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company,
and listened
for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs:

sometimes she would come up in the interval
to seek her thimble or her scissors,
or perhaps
to bring me something by way of supper--a bun or a cheese-cake--then she would sit on the bed while I ate it,
and when I had finished,
she would tuck the clothes round me,
and twice she kissed me,
and said,
"Good night,
Miss Jane."

When thus gentle,
Bessie seemed
to me the best,
prettiest,
kindest being in the world;
and I wished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable,
and never push me about,
or scold,
or task me unreasonably,
as she was too often wont
to do.

Bessie Lee must,
I think,
have been a girl of good natural capacity,
for she was smart in all she did,
and had a remarkable knack of narrative;
so,
at least,
I judge from the impression made on me by her nursery tales.

She was pretty too,
if my recollections of her face and person are correct.

I remember her as a slim young woman,
with black hair,
dark eyes,
very nice features,
and good,
clear complexion;
but she had a capricious and hasty temper,
and indifferent ideas of principle or justice:

still,
such as she was,
I preferred her
to any one else at Gateshead Hall.

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

Bessie was gone down
to breakfast;
my cousins had not yet been summoned
to their mama;
Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat
to go and feed her poultry,
an occupation of which she was fond:

and not less so of selling the eggs
to the housekeeper and hoarding up the money she thus obtained.

She had a turn
for traffic,
and a marked propensity
for saving;
shown not only in the vending of eggs and chickens,
but also in driving hard bargains
with the gardener about flower-roots,
seeds,
and slips of plants;
that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed
to buy of his young lady all the products of her parterre she wished
to sell:

and Eliza would have sold the hair off her head if she could have made a handsome profit thereby.

As
to her money,
she first secreted it in odd corners,
wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper;
but some of these hoards having been discovered by the housemaid,
Eliza,
fearful of one day losing her valued treasure,
consented
to intrust it
to her mother,
at a usurious rate of interest--fifty or sixty per cent.;
which interest she exacted every quarter,
keeping her accounts in a little book
with anxious accuracy.

Georgiana sat on a high stool,
dressing her hair at the glass,
and interweaving her curls
with artificial flowers and faded feathers,
of which she had found a store in a drawer in the attic.

I was making my bed,
having received strict orders from Bessie
to get it arranged before she returned
(for Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of under-nurserymaid,
to tidy the room,
dust the chairs,
&c.).

Having spread the quilt and folded my night-dress,
I went
to the window-seat
to put in order some picture-books and doll's house furniture scattered there;
an abrupt command from Georgiana
to let her playthings alone
(for the tiny chairs and mirrors,
the fairy plates and cups,
were her property)
stopped my proceedings;
and then,
for lack of other occupation,
I fell
to breathing on the frost-flowers
with which the window was fretted,
and thus clearing a space in the glass through which I might look out on the grounds,
where all was still and petrified under the influence of a hard frost.

From this window were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage- road,
and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling the panes as left room
to look out,
I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through.

I watched it ascending the drive
with indifference;
carriages often came
to Gateshead,
but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested;
it stopped in front of the house,
the door-bell rang loudly,
the new-comer was admitted.

All this being nothing
to me,
my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin,
which came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the casement.

The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table,
and having crumbled a morsel of roll,
I was tugging at the sash
to put out the crumbs on the window- sill,
when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery.

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

Have you washed your hands and face this morning?"
I gave another tug before I answered,
for I wanted the bird
to be secure of its bread:

the sash yielded;
I scattered the crumbs,
some on the stone sill,
some on the cherry-tree bough,
then,
closing the window,
I replied -
"No,
Bessie;
I have only just finished dusting."

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

You look quite red,
as if you had been about some mischief:

what were you opening the window for?"
I was spared the trouble of answering,
for Bessie seemed in too great a hurry
to listen
to explanations;
she hauled me
to the washstand,
inflicted a merciless,
but happily brief scrub on my face and hands
with soap,
water,
and a coarse towel;
disciplined my head
with a bristly brush,
denuded me of my pinafore,
and then hurrying me
to the top of the stairs,
bid me go down directly,
as I was wanted in the breakfast-room.

I would have asked who wanted me:

I would have demanded if Mrs. Reed was there;
but Bessie was already gone,
and had closed the nursery-door upon me.

I slowly descended.

For nearly three months,
I had never been called
to Mrs. Reed's presence;
restricted so long
to the nursery,
the breakfast,
dining,
and drawing-rooms were become
for me awful regions,
on which it dismayed me
to intrude.

I now stood in the empty hall;
before me was the breakfast-room door,
and I stopped,
intimidated and trembling.

What a miserable little poltroon had fear,
engendered of unjust punishment,
made of me in those days! I feared
to return
to the nursery,
and feared
to go forward
to the parlour;
ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation;
the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided me;
I MUST enter.

"Who could want me?"
I asked inwardly,
as
with both hands I turned the stiff door-handle,
which,
for a second or two,
resisted my efforts.

"What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?--a man or a woman?"
The handle turned,
the door unclosed,
and passing through and curtseying low,
I looked up at--a black pillar!--such,
at least,
appeared
to me,
at first sight,
the straight,
narrow,
sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug:

the grim face at the top was like a carved mask,
placed above the shaft by way of capital.

Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside;
she made a signal
to me
to approach;
I did so,
and she introduced me
to the stony stranger
with the words:

"This is the little girl respecting whom I applied
to you."

HE,
for it was a man,
turned his head slowly towards where I stood,
and having examined me
with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows,
said solemnly,
and in a bass voice,
"Her size is small:

what is her age?"
"Ten years."

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

Presently he addressed me--"Your name,
little girl?"
"Jane Eyre,
sir."

In uttering these words I looked up:

he seemed
to me a tall gentleman;
but then I was very little;
his features were large,
and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.

"Well,
Jane Eyre,
and are you a good child?"
Impossible
to reply
to this in the affirmative:

my little world held a contrary opinion:

I was silent.

Mrs. Reed answered
for me by an expressive shake of the head,
adding soon,
"Perhaps the less said on that subject the better,
Mr. Brocklehurst."

"Sorry indeed
to hear it! she and I must have some talk;"
and bending from the perpendicular,
he installed his person in the arm- chair opposite Mrs. Reed's.

"Come here,"
he said.

I stepped across the rug;
he placed me square and straight before him.

What a face he had,
now that it was almost on a level
with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!
"No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,"
he began,
"especially a naughty little girl.

Do you know where the wicked go after death?"
"They go
to hell,"
was my ready and orthodox answer.

"And what is hell?

Can you tell me that?"
"A pit full of fire."

"And should you like
to fall into that pit,
and
to be burning there
for ever?"
"No,
sir."

"What must you do
to avoid it?"
I deliberated a moment;
my answer,
when it did come,
was objectionable:

"I must keep in good health,
and not die."

"How can you keep in good health?

Children younger than you die daily.

I buried a little child of five years old only a day or two since,--a good little child,
whose soul is now in heaven.

It is
to be feared the same could not be said of you were you
to be called hence."

Not being in a condition
to remove his doubt,
I only cast my eyes down on the two large feet planted on the rug,
and sighed,
wishing myself far enough away.

"I hope that sigh is from the heart,
and that you repent of ever having been the occasion of discomfort
to your excellent benefactress."

"Benefactress! benefactress!"
said I inwardly:

"they all call Mrs. Reed my benefactress;
if so,
a benefactress is a disagreeable thing."

"Do you say your prayers night and morning?"
continued my interrogator.

"Yes,
sir."

"Do you read your Bible?"
"Sometimes."

"With pleasure?

Are you fond of it?"
"I like Revelations,
and the book of Daniel,
and Genesis and Samuel,
and a little bit of Exodus,
and some parts of Kings and Chronicles,
and Job and Jonah."

"And the Psalms?

I hope you like them?"
"No,
sir."

"No?

oh,
shocking! I have a little boy,
younger than you,
who knows six Psalms by heart:

and when you ask him which he would rather have,
a gingerbread-nut
to eat or a verse of a Psalm
to learn,
he says:

'Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;'
says he,
'I wish
to be a little angel here below;'
he then gets two nuts in recompense
for his infant piety."

"Psalms are not interesting,"
I remarked.

"That proves you have a wicked heart;
and you must pray
to God
to change it:

to give you a new and clean one:

to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."

I was about
to propound a question,
touching the manner in which that operation of changing my heart was
to be performed,
when Mrs. Reed interposed,
telling me
to sit down;
she then proceeded
to carry on the conversation herself.

"Mr. Brocklehurst,
I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote
to you three weeks ago,
that this little girl has not quite the character and disposition I could wish:

should you admit her into Lowood school,
I should be glad if the superintendent and teachers were requested
to keep a strict eye on her,
and,
above all,
to guard against her worst fault,
a tendency
to deceit.

I mention this in your hearing,
Jane,
that you may not attempt
to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst."

Well might I dread,
well might I dislike Mrs. Reed;
for it was her nature
to wound me cruelly;
never was I happy in her presence;
however carefully I obeyed,
however strenuously I strove
to please her,
my efforts were still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above.

Now,
uttered before a stranger,
the accusation cut me
to the heart;
I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she destined me
to enter;
I felt,
though I could not have expressed the feeling,
that she was sowing aversion and unkindness along my future path;
I saw myself transformed under Mr. Brocklehurst's eye into an artful,
noxious child,
and what could I do
to remedy the injury?

"Nothing,
indeed,"
thought I,
as I struggled
to repress a sob,
and hastily wiped away some tears,
the impotent evidences of my anguish.

"Deceit is,
indeed,
a sad fault in a child,"
said Mr. Brocklehurst;
"it is akin
to falsehood,
and all liars will have their portion in the lake burning
with fire and brimstone;
she shall,
however,
be watched,
Mrs. Reed.

I will speak
to Miss Temple and the teachers."

"I should wish her
to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects,"
continued my benefactress;
"to be made useful,
to be kept humble:

as
for the vacations,
she will,
with your permission,
spend them always at Lowood."

"Your decisions are perfectly judicious,
madam,"
returned Mr. Brocklehurst.

"Humility is a Christian grace,
and one peculiarly appropriate
to the pupils of Lowood;
I,
therefore,
direct that especial care shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them.

I have studied how best
to mortify in them the worldly sentiment of pride;
and,
only the other day,
I had a pleasing proof of my success.

My second daughter,
Augusta,
went
with her mama
to visit the school,
and on her return she exclaimed:

'Oh,
dear papa,
how quiet and plain all the girls at Lowood look,
with their hair combed behind their ears,
and their long pinafores,
and those little holland pockets outside their frocks--they are almost like poor people's children! and,'
said she,
'they looked at my dress and mama's,
as if they had never seen a silk gown before.'
"
"This is the state of things I quite approve,"
returned Mrs. Reed;
"had I sought all England over,
I could scarcely have found a system more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre.

Consistency,
my dear Mr. Brocklehurst;
I advocate consistency in all things."

"Consistency,
madam,
is the first of Christian duties;
and it has been observed in every arrangement connected
with the establishment of Lowood:

plain fare,
simple attire,
unsophisticated accommodations,
hardy and active habits;
such is the order of the day in the house and its inhabitants."

"Quite right,
sir.

I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood,
and there being trained in conformity
to her position and prospects?"
"Madam,
you may:

she shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants,
and I trust she will show herself grateful
for the inestimable privilege of her election."

"I will send her,
then,
as soon as possible,
Mr. Brocklehurst;
for,
I assure you,
I feel anxious
to be relieved of a responsibility that was becoming too irksome."

"No doubt,
no doubt,
madam;
and now I wish you good morning.

I shall return
to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two:

my good friend,
the Archdeacon,
will not permit me
to leave him sooner.

I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is
to expect a new girl,
so that there will he no difficulty about receiving her.

Good-bye."

"Good-bye,
Mr. Brocklehurst;
remember me
to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst,
and
to Augusta and Theodore,
and Master Broughton Brocklehurst."

"I will,
madam.

Little girl,
here is a book entitled the
'Child's Guide,'
read it
with prayer,
especially that part containing
'An account of the awfully sudden death of Martha G -,
a naughty child addicted
to falsehood and deceit.'
"
With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover,
and having rung
for his carriage,
he departed.

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone:

some minutes passed in silence;
she was sewing,
I was watching her.

Mrs. Reed might be at that time some six or seven and thirty;
she was a woman of robust frame,
square-shouldered and strong-limbed,
not tall,
and,
though stout,
not obese:

she had a somewhat large face,
the under jaw being much developed and very solid;
her brow was low,
her chin large and prominent,
mouth and nose sufficiently regular;
under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth;
her skin was dark and opaque,
her hair nearly flaxen;
her constitution was sound as a bell--illness never came near her;
she was an exact,
clever manager;
her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control;
her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it
to scorn;
she dressed well,
and had a presence and port calculated
to set off handsome attire.

Sitting on a low stool,
a few yards from her arm-chair,
I examined her figure;
I perused her features.

In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the Liar,
to which narrative my attention had been pointed as
to an appropriate warning.

What had just passed;
what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me
to Mr. Brocklehurst;
the whole tenor of their conversation,
was recent,
raw,
and stinging in my mind;
I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly,
and a passion of resentment fomented now within me.

Mrs. Reed looked up from her work;
her eye settled on mine,
her fingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements.

"Go out of the room;
return
to the nursery,"
was her mandate.

My look or something else must have struck her as offensive,
for she spoke
with extreme though suppressed irritation.

I got up,
I went
to the door;
I came back again;
I walked
to the window,
across the room,
then close up
to her.

SPEAK I must:

I had been trodden on severely,
and MUST turn:

but how?

What strength had I
to dart retaliation at my antagonist?

I gathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence -
"I am not deceitful:

if I were,
I should say I loved you;
but I declare I do not love you:

I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed;
and this book about the liar,
you may give
to your girl,
Georgiana,
for it is she who tells lies,
and not I."

Mrs. Reed's hands still lay on her work inactive:

her eye of ice continued
to dwell freezingly on mine.

"What more have you
to say?"
she asked,
rather in the tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used
to a child.

That eye of hers,
that voice stirred every antipathy I had.

Shaking from head
to foot,
thrilled
with ungovernable excitement,
I continued -
"I am glad you are no relation of mine:

I will never call you aunt again as long as I live.

I will never come
to see you when I am grown up;
and if any one asks me how I liked you,
and how you treated me,
I will say the very thought of you makes me sick,
and that you treated me
with miserable cruelty."

"How dare you affirm that,
Jane Eyre?"
"How dare I,
Mrs. Reed?

How dare I?

Because it is the TRUTH.

You think I have no feelings,
and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness;
but I cannot live so:

and you have no pity.

I shall remember how you thrust me back--roughly and violently thrust me back--into the red-room,
and locked me up there,
to my dying day;
though I was in agony;
though I cried out,
while suffocating
with distress,
'Have mercy! Have mercy,
Aunt Reed!'
And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me--knocked me down
for nothing.

I will tell anybody who asks me questions,
this exact tale.

People think you a good woman,
but you are bad,
hard- hearted.

YOU are deceitful!"
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 sequestrated;
but I found no pleasure in the silent trees,
the falling fir-cones,
the congealed relics of autumn,
russet leaves,
swept by past winds in heaps,
and now stiffened together.

I leaned against a gate,
and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding,
where the short grass was nipped and blanched.

It was a very grey day;
a most opaque sky,
"onding on snaw,"
canopied all;
thence flakes felt it intervals,
which settled on the hard path and on the hoary lea without melting.

I stood,
a wretched child enough,
whispering
to myself over and over again,
"What shall I do?--what shall I do?"
All at once I heard a clear voice call,
"Miss Jane! where are you?

Come
to lunch!"
It was Bessie,
I knew well enough;
but I did not stir;
her light step came tripping down the path.

"You naughty little thing!"
she said.

"Why don't you come when you are called?"
Bessie's presence,
compared
with the thoughts over which I had been brooding,
seemed cheerful;
even though,
as usual,
she was somewhat cross.

The fact is,
after my conflict
with and victory over Mrs. Reed,
I was not disposed
to care much
for the nursemaid's transitory anger;
and I WAS disposed
to bask in her youthful lightness of heart.

I just put my two arms round her and said,
"Come,
Bessie! don't scold."

The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated
to indulge in:

somehow it pleased her.

"You are a strange child,
Miss Jane,"
she said,
as she looked down at me;
"a little roving,
solitary thing:

and you are going
to school,
I suppose?"
I nodded.

"And won't you be sorry
to leave poor Bessie?"
"What does Bessie care
for me?

She is always scolding me."

"Because you're such a queer,
frightened,
shy little thing.

You should be bolder."

"What!
to get more knocks?"
"Nonsense! But you are rather put upon,
that's certain.

My mother said,
when she came
to see me last week,
that she would not like a little one of her own
to be in your place.--Now,
come in,
and I've some good news
for you."

"I don't think you have,
Bessie."

"Child! what do you mean?

What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well,
but Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out
to tea this afternoon,
and you shall have tea
with me.

I'll ask cook
to bake you a little cake,
and then you shall help me
to look over your drawers;
for I am soon
to pack your trunk.

Missis intends you
to leave Gateshead in a day or two,
and you shall choose what toys you like
to take
with you."

"Bessie,
you must promise not
to scold me any more till I go."

"Well,
I will;
but mind you are a very good girl,
and don't be afraid of me.

Don't start when I chance
to speak rather sharply;
it's so provoking."

"I don't think I shall ever be afraid of you again,
Bessie,
because I have got used
to you,
and I shall soon have another set of people
to dread."

"If you dread them they'll dislike you."

"As you do,
Bessie?"
"I don't dislike you,
Miss;
I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others."

"You don't show it."

"You little sharp thing! you've got quite a new way of talking.

What makes you so venturesome and hardy?"
"Why,
I shall soon be away from you,
and besides"--I was going
to say something about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed,
but on second thoughts I considered it better
to remain silent on that head.

"And so you're glad
to leave me?"
"Not at all,
Bessie;
indeed,
just now I'm rather sorry."

"Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I dare say now if I were
to ask you
for a kiss you wouldn't give it me:

you'd say you'd RATHER not."

"I'll kiss you and welcome:

bend your head down."

Bessie stooped;
we mutually embraced,
and I followed her into the house quite comforted.

That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony;
and in the evening Bessie told me some of her most enchaining stories,
and sang me some of her sweetest songs.

Even
for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

CHAPTER V Five o'clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January,
when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly dressed.

I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance,
and had washed my face,
and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just setting,
whose rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib.

I was
to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which passed the lodge gates at six a.m.

Bessie was the only person yet risen;
she had lit a fire in the nursery,
where she now proceeded
to make my breakfast.

Few children can eat when excited
with the thoughts of a journey;
nor could I.

Bessie,
having pressed me in vain
to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared
for me,
wrapped up some biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag;
then she helped me on
with my pelisse and bonnet,
and wrapping herself in a shawl,
she and I left the nursery.

As we passed Mrs. Reed's bedroom,
she said,
"Will you go in and bid Missis good-bye?"
"No,
Bessie:

she came
to my crib last night when you were gone down
to supper,
and said I need not disturb her in the morning,
or my cousins either;
and she told me
to remember that she had always been my best friend,
and
to speak of her and be grateful
to her accordingly."

"What did you say,
Miss?"
"Nothing:

I covered my face
with the bedclothes,
and turned from her
to the wall."

"That was wrong,
Miss Jane."

"It was quite right,
Bessie.

Your Missis has not been my friend:

she has been my foe."

"O Miss Jane! don't say so!"
"Good-bye
to Gateshead!"
cried I,
as we passed through the hall and went out at the front door.

The moon was set,
and it was very dark;
Bessie carried a lantern,
whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw.

Raw and chill was the winter morning:

my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive.

There was a light in the porter's lodge:

when we reached it,
we found the porter's wife just kindling her fire:

my trunk,
which had been carried down the evening before,
stood corded at the door.

It wanted but a few minutes of six,
and shortly after that hour had struck,
the distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach;
I went
to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.

"Is she going by herself?"
asked the porter's wife.

"Yes."

"And how far is it?"
"Fifty miles."

"What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid
to trust her so far alone."

The coach drew up;
there it was at the gates
with its four horses and its top laden
with passengers:

the guard and coachman loudly urged haste;
my trunk was hoisted up;
I was taken from Bessie's neck,
to which I clung
with kisses.

"Be sure and take good care of her,"
cried she
to the guard,
as he lifted me into the inside.

"Ay,
ay!"
was the answer:

the door was slapped to,
a voice exclaimed
"All right,"
and on we drove.

Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead;
thus whirled away
to unknown,
and,
as I then deemed,
remote and mysterious regions.

I remember but little of the journey;
I only know that the day seemed
to me of a preternatural length,
and that we appeared
to travel over hundreds of miles of road.

We passed through several towns,
and in one,
a very large one,
the coach stopped;
the horses were taken out,
and the passengers alighted
to dine.

I was carried into an inn,
where the guard wanted me
to have some dinner;
but,
as I had no appetite,
he left me in an immense room
with a fireplace at each end,
a chandelier pendent from the ceiling,
and a little red gallery high up against the wall filled
with musical instruments.

Here I walked about
for a long time,
feeling very strange,
and mortally apprehensive of some one coming in and kidnapping me;
for I believed in kidnappers,
their exploits having frequently figured in Bessie's fireside chronicles.

At last the guard returned;
once more I was stowed away in the coach,
my protector mounted his own seat,
sounded 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 cheek the general wrath;
doubtless she shared in it.

A clock in the schoolroom struck nine;
Miss Miller left her circle,
and standing in the middle of the room,
cried -
"Silence!
to your seats!"
Discipline prevailed:

in five minutes the confused throng was resolved into order,
and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of tongues.

The upper teachers now punctually resumed their posts:

but still,
all seemed
to wait.

Ranged on benches down the sides of the room,
the eighty girls sat motionless and erect;
a quaint assemblage they appeared,
all
with plain locks combed from their faces,
not a curl visible;
in brown dresses,
made high and surrounded by a narrow tucker about the throat,
with little pockets of holland
(shaped something like a Highlander's purse)
tied in front of their frocks,
and destined
to serve the purpose of a work- bag:

all,
too,
wearing woollen stockings and country-made shoes,
fastened
with brass buckles.

Above twenty of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls,
or rather young women;
it suited them ill,
and gave an air of oddity even
to the prettiest.

I was still looking at them,
and also at intervals examining the teachers--none of whom precisely pleased me;
for the stout one was a little coarse,
the dark one not a little fierce,
the foreigner harsh and grotesque,
and Miss Miller,
poor thing! looked purple,
weather- beaten,
and over-worked--when,
as my eye wandered from face
to face,
the whole school rose simultaneously,
as if moved by a common spring.

What was the matter?

I had heard no order given:

I was puzzled.

Ere I had gathered my wits,
the classes were again seated:

but as all eyes were now turned
to one point,
mine followed the general direction,
and encountered the personage who had received me last night.

She stood at the bottom of the long room,
on the hearth;
for there was a fire at each end;
she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely.

Miss Miller approaching,
seemed
to ask her a question,
and having received her answer,
went back
to her place,
and said aloud -
"Monitor of the first class,
fetch the globes!"
While the direction was being executed,
the lady consulted moved slowly up the room.

I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration,
for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe
with which my eyes traced her steps.

Seen now,
in broad daylight,
she looked tall,
fair,
and shapely;
brown eyes
with a benignant light in their irids,
and a fine pencilling of long lashes round,
relieved the whiteness of her large front;
on each of her temples her hair,
of a very dark brown,
was clustered in round curls,
according
to the fashion of those times,
when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue;
her dress,
also in the mode of the day,
was of purple cloth,
relieved by a sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet;
a gold watch
(watches were not so common then as now)
shone at her girdle.

Let the reader add,
to complete the picture,
refined features;
a complexion,
if pale,
clear;
and a stately air and carriage,
and he will have,
at least,
as clearly as words can give it,
a correct idea of the exterior of Miss Temple--Maria Temple,
as I afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted
to me
to carry
to church.

The superintendent of Lowood
(for such was this lady)
having taken her seat before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables,
summoned the first class round her,
and commenced giving a lesson on geography;
the lower classes were called by the teachers:

repetitions in history,
grammar,
&c.,
went on
for an hour;
writing and arithmetic succeeded,
and music lessons were given by Miss Temple
to some of the elder girls.

The duration of each lesson was measured by the clock,
which at last struck twelve.

The superintendent rose -
"I have a word
to address
to the pupils,"
said she.

The tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth,
but it sank at her voice.

She went on -
"You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat;
you must be hungry:--I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served
to all."

The teachers looked at her
with a sort of surprise.

"It is
to be done on my responsibility,"
she added,
in an explanatory tone
to them,
and immediately afterwards left the room.

The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed,
to the high delight and refreshment of the whole school.

The order was now given
"To the garden!"
Each put on a coarse straw bonnet,
with strings of coloured calico,
and a cloak of grey frieze.

I was similarly equipped,
and,
following the stream,
I made my way into the open air.

The garden was a wide inclosure,
surrounded
with walls so high as
to exclude every glimpse of prospect;
a covered verandah ran down one side,
and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little beds:

these beds were assigned as gardens
for the pupils
to cultivate,
and each bed had an owner.

When full of flowers they would doubtless look pretty;
but now,
at the latter end of January,
all was wintry blight and brown decay.

I shuddered as I stood and looked round me:

it was an inclement day
for outdoor exercise;
not positively rainy,
but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog;
all under foot was still soaking wet
with the floods of yesterday.

The stronger among the girls ran about and engaged in active games,
but sundry pale and thin ones herded together
for shelter and warmth in the verandah;
and amongst these,
as the dense mist penetrated
to their shivering frames,
I heard frequently the sound of a hollow cough.

As yet I had spoken
to no one,
nor did anybody seem
to take notice of me;
I stood lonely enough:

but
to that feeling of isolation I was accustomed;
it did not oppress me much.

I leant against a pillar of the verandah,
drew my grey mantle close about me,
and,
trying
to forget the cold which nipped me without,
and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me within,
delivered myself up
to the employment of watching and thinking.

My reflections were too undefined and fragmentary
to merit record:

I hardly yet knew where I was;
Gateshead and my past life seemed floated away
to an immeasurable distance;
the present was vague and strange,
and of the future I could form no conjecture.

I looked round the convent-like garden,
and then up at the house--a large building,
half of which seemed grey and old,
the other half quite new.

The new part,
containing the schoolroom and dormitory,
was lit by mullioned and latticed windows,
which gave it a church-like aspect;
a stone tablet over the door bore this inscription:-
"Lowood Institution.--This portion was rebuilt A.D.--,
by Naomi Brocklehurst,
of Brocklehurst Hall,
in this county."

"Let your light so shine before men,
that they may see your good works,
and glorify your Father which is in heaven."

-- St. Matt.

v.

16.

I read these words over and over again:

I felt that an explanation belonged
to them,
and was unable fully
to penetrate their import.

I was still pondering the signification of
"Institution,"
and endeavouring
to make out a connection between the first words and the verse of Scripture,
when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head.

I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near;
she was bent over a book,
on the perusal of which she seemed intent:

from where I stood I could see the title--it was
"Rasselas;"
a name that struck me as strange,
and consequently attractive.

In turning a leaf she happened
to look up,
and I said
to her directly -
"Is your book interesting?"
I had already formed the intention of asking her
to lend it
to me some day.

"I like it,"
she answered,
after a pause of a second or two,
during which she examined me.

"What is it about?"
I continued.

I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus
to open a conversation
with a stranger;
the step was contrary
to my nature and habits:

but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere;
for I too liked reading,
though of a frivolous and childish kind;
I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.

"You may look at it,"
replied the girl,
offering me the book.

I did so;
a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking than the title:

"Rasselas"
looked dull
to my trifling taste;
I saw nothing about fairies,
nothing about genii;
no bright variety seemed spread over the closely-printed pages.

I returned it
to her;
she received it quietly,
and without saying anything she was about
to relapse into her former studious mood:

again I ventured
to disturb her -
"Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means?

What is Lowood Institution?"
"This house where you are come
to live."

"And why do they call it Institution?

Is it in any way different from other schools?"
"It is partly a charity-school:

you and I,
and all the rest of us,
are charity-children.

I suppose you are an orphan:

are not either your father or your mother dead?"
"Both died before I can remember."

"Well,
all the girls here have lost either one or both parents,
and this is called an institution
for educating orphans."

"Do we pay no money?

Do they keep us
for nothing?"
"We pay,
or our friends pay,
fifteen pounds a year
for each."

"Then why do they call us charity-children?"
"Because fifteen pounds is not enough
for board and teaching,
and the deficiency is supplied by subscription."

"Who subscribes?"
"Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in London."

"Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?"
"The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records,
and whose son overlooks and directs everything here."

"Why?"
"Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment."

"Then this house does not belong
to that tall lady who wears a watch,
and who said we were
to have some bread and cheese?"
"To Miss Temple?

Oh,
no! I wish it did:

she has
to answer
to Mr. Brocklehurst
for all she does.

Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our clothes."

"Does he live here?"
"No--two miles off,
at a large hall."

"Is he a good man?"
"He is a clergyman,
and is said
to do a great deal of good."

"Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?"
"Yes."

"And what are the other teachers called?"
"The one
with red cheeks is called Miss Smith;
she attends
to the work,
and cuts out--for we make our own clothes,
our frocks,
and pelisses,
and everything;
the little one
with black hair is Miss Scatcherd;
she teaches history and grammar,
and hears the second class repetitions;
and the one who wears a shawl,
and has a pocket- handkerchief tied
to her side
with a yellow ribband,
is Madame Pierrot:

she comes from Lisle,
in France,
and teaches French."

"Do you like the teachers?"
"Well enough."

"Do you like the little black one,
and the Madame -?--I cannot pronounce her name as you do."

"Miss Scatcherd is hasty--you must take care not
to offend her;
Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person."

"But Miss Temple is the best--isn't she?"
"Miss Temple is very good and very clever;
she is above the rest,
because she knows far more than they do."

"Have you been long here?"
"Two years."

"Are you an orphan?"
"My mother is dead."

"Are you happy here?"
"You ask rather too many questions.

I have given you answers enough
for the present:

now I want
to read."

But at that moment the summons sounded
for dinner;
all re-entered the house.

The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast:

the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels,
whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat.

I found the mess
to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat,
mixed and cooked together.

Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful was apportioned
to each pupil.

I ate what I could,
and wondered within myself whether every day's fare would be like this.

After dinner,
we immediately adjourned
to the schoolroom:

lessons recommenced,
and were continued till five o'clock.

The only marked event of the afternoon was,
that I saw the girl
with whom I had conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a history class,
and sent
to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom.

The punishment seemed
to me in a high degree ignominious,
especially
for so great a girl--she looked thirteen or upwards.

I expected she would show signs of great distress and shame;
but
to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed:

composed,
though grave,
she stood,
the central mark of all eyes.

"How can she bear it so quietly--so firmly?"
I asked of myself.

"Were I in her place,
it seems
to me I should wish the earth
to open and swallow me up.

She looks as if she were thinking of something beyond her punishment--beyond her situation:

of something not round her nor before her.

I have heard of day-dreams--is she in a day-dream now?

Her eyes are fixed on the floor,
but I am sure they do not see it-- her sight seems turned in,
gone down into her heart:

she is looking at what she can remember,
I believe;
not at what is really present.

I wonder what sort of a girl she is--whether good or naughty."

Soon after five p.m.

we had another meal,
consisting of a small mug of coffee,
and half-a-slice of brown bread.

I devoured my bread and drank my coffee
with relish;
but I should have been glad of as much more--I was still hungry.

Half-an-hour's recreation succeeded,
then study;
then the glass of water and the piece of oat-cake,
prayers,
and bed.

Such was my first day at Lowood.

CHAPTER VI The next day commenced as before,
getting up and dressing by rushlight;
but this morning we were obliged
to dispense
with the ceremony of washing;
the water in the pitchers was frozen.

A change had taken place in the weather the preceding evening,
and a keen north-east wind,
whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long,
had made us shiver in our beds,
and turned the contents of the ewers
to ice.

Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-reading was over,
I felt ready
to perish
with cold.

Breakfast-time came at last,
and this morning the porridge was not burnt;
the quality was eatable,
the quantity small.

How small my portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled.

In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class,
and regular tasks and occupations were assigned me:

hitherto,
I had only been a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood;
I was now
to become an actor therein.

At first,
being little accustomed
to learn by heart,
the lessons appeared
to me both long and difficult;
the frequent change from task
to task,
too,
bewildered me;
and I was glad when,
about three o'clock in the afternoon,
Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long,
together
with needle,
thimble,
&c.,
and sent me
to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom,
with directions
to hem the same.

At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise;
but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd's chair reading,
and as all was quiet,
the subject of their lessons could be heard,
together
with the manner in which each girl acquitted herself,
and the animadversions or commendations of Miss Scatcherd on the performance.

It was English history:

among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah:

at the commencement of the lesson,
her place had been at the top of the class,
but
for some error of pronunciation,
or some inattention
to stops,
she was suddenly sent
to the very bottom.

Even in that obscure position,
Miss Scatcherd continued
to make her an object of constant notice:

she was continually addressing
to her such phrases as the following:-
"Burns"
(such it seems was her name:

the girls here were all called by their surnames,
as boys are elsewhere),
"Burns,
you are standing on the side of your shoe;
turn your toes out immediately."

"Burns,
you poke your chin most unpleasantly;
draw it in."

"Burns,
I insist on your holding your head up;
I will not have you before me in that attitude,"
&c.

&c.

A chapter having been read through twice,
the books were closed and the girls examined.

The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I.,
and there were sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and 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,
&c.;
till she dismissed me,
I could not pursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd's movements.

When I returned
to my seat,
that lady was just delivering an order of which I did not catch the import;
but Burns immediately left the class,
and going into the small inner room where the books were kept,
returned in half a minute,
carrying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end.

This ominous tool she presented
to Miss Scatcherd
with a respectful curtesy;
then she quietly,
and without being told,
unloosed her pinafore,
and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes
with the bunch of twigs.

Not a tear rose
to Burns'
eye;
and,
while I paused from my sewing,
because my fingers quivered at this spectacle
with a sentiment of unavailing and impotent anger,
not a feature of her pensive face altered its ordinary expression.

"Hardened girl!"
exclaimed Miss Scatcherd;
"nothing can correct you of your slatternly habits:

carry the rod away."

Burns obeyed:

I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the book-closet;
she was just putting back her handkerchief into her pocket,
and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek.

The play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the day at Lowood:

the bit of bread,
the draught of coffee swallowed at five o'clock had revived vitality,
if it had not satisfied hunger:

the long restraint of the day was slackened;
the schoolroom felt warmer than in the morning--its fires being allowed
to burn a little more brightly,
to supply,
in some measure,
the place of candles,
not yet introduced:

the ruddy gloaming,
the licensed uproar,
the confusion of many voices gave one a welcome sense of liberty.

On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog her pupil,
Burns,
I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and laughing groups without a companion,
yet not feeling lonely:

when I passed the windows,
I now and then lifted a blind,
and looked out;
it snowed fast,
a drift was already forming against the lower panes;
putting my ear close
to the window,
I could distinguish from the gleeful tumult within,
the disconsolate moan of the wind outside.

Probably,
if I had lately left a good home and kind parents,
this would have been the hour when I should most keenly have regretted the separation;
that wind would then have saddened my heart;
this obscure chaos would have disturbed my peace! as it was,
I derived from both a strange excitement,
and reckless and feverish,
I wished the wind
to howl more wildly,
the gloom
to deepen
to darkness,
and the confusion
to rise
to clamour.

Jumping over forms,
and creeping under tables,
I made my way
to one of the fire-places;
there,
kneeling by the high wire fender,
I found Burns,
absorbed,
silent,
abstracted from all round her by the companionship of a book,
which she read by the dim glare of the embers.

"Is it still
'Rasselas'?"
I asked,
coming behind her.

"Yes,"
she said,
"and I have just finished it."

And in five minutes more she shut it up.

I was glad of this.

"Now,"
thought I,
"I can perhaps get her
to talk."

I sat down by her on the floor.

"What is your name besides Burns?"
"Helen."

"Do you come a long way from here?"
"I come from a place farther north,
quite on the borders of Scotland."

"Will you ever go back?"
"I hope so;
but nobody can be sure of the future."

"You must wish
to leave Lowood?"
"No! why should I?

I was sent
to Lowood
to get an education;
and it would be of no use going away until I have attained that object."

"But that teacher,
Miss Scatcherd,
is so cruel
to you?"
"Cruel?

Not at all! She is severe:

she dislikes my faults."

"And if I were in your place I should dislike her;
I should resist her.

If she struck me
with that rod,
I should get it from her hand;
I should break it under her nose."

"Probably you would do nothing of the sort:

but if you did,
Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the school;
that would be a great grief
to your relations.

It is far better
to endure patiently a smart which nobody feels but yourself,
than
to commit a hasty action whose evil consequences will extend
to all connected
with you;
and besides,
the Bible bids us return good
for evil."

"But then it seems disgraceful
to be flogged,
and
to be sent
to stand in the middle of a room full of people;
and you are such a great girl:

I am far younger than you,
and I could not bear it."

"Yet it would be your duty
to bear it,
if you could not avoid it:

it is weak and silly
to say you CANNOT BEAR what it is your fate
to be required
to bear."

I heard her
with wonder:

I could not comprehend this doctrine of endurance;
and still less could I understand or sympathise
with the forbearance she expressed
for her chastiser.

Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things by a light invisible
to my eyes.

I suspected she might be right and I wrong;
but I would not ponder the matter deeply;
like Felix,
I put it off
to a more convenient season.

"You say you have faults,
Helen:

what are they?

To me you seem very good."

"Then learn from me,
not
to judge by appearances:

I am,
as Miss Scatcherd said,
slatternly;
I seldom put,
and never keep,
things,
in order;
I am careless;
I forget rules;
I read when I should learn my lessons;
I have no method;
and sometimes I say,
like you,
I cannot BEAR
to be subjected
to systematic arrangements.

This is all very provoking
to Miss Scatcherd,
who is naturally neat,
punctual,
and particular."

"And cross and cruel,"
I added;
but Helen Burns would not admit my addition:

she kept silence.

"Is Miss Temple as severe
to you as Miss Scatcherd?"
At the utterance of Miss Temple's name,
a soft smile flitted over her grave face.

"Miss Temple is full of goodness;
it pains her
to be severe
to any one,
even the worst in the school:

she sees my errors,
and tells me of them gently;
and,
if I do anything worthy of praise,
she gives me my meed liberally.

One strong proof of my wretchedly defective nature is,
that even her expostulations,
so mild,
so rational,
have not influence
to cure me of my faults;
and even her praise,
though I value it most highly,
cannot stimulate me
to continued care and foresight."

"That is curious,"
said I,
"it is so easy
to be careful."

"For YOU I have no doubt it is.

I observed you in your class this morning,
and saw you were closely attentive:

your thoughts never seemed
to wander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned you.

Now,
mine continually rove away;
when I should be listening
to Miss Scatcherd,
and collecting all she says
with assiduity,
often I lose the very sound of her voice;
I fall into a sort of dream.

Sometimes I think I am in Northumberland,
and that the noises I hear round me are the bubbling of a little brook which runs through Deepden,
near our house;--then,
when it comes
to my turn
to reply,
I have
to be awakened;
and having heard nothing of what was read
for listening
to the visionary brook,
I have no answer ready."

"Yet how well you replied this afternoon."

"It was mere chance;
the subject on which we had been reading had interested me.

This afternoon,
instead of dreaming of Deepden,
I was wondering how a man who wished
to do right could act so unjustly and unwisely as Charles the First sometimes did;
and I thought what a pity it was that,
with his integrity and conscientiousness,
he could see no farther than the prerogatives of the crown.

If he had but been able
to look
to a distance,
and see how what they call the spirit of the age was tending! Still,
I like Charles--I respect him--I pity him,
poor murdered king! Yes,
his enemies were the worst:

they shed blood they had no right
to shed.

How dared they kill him!"
Helen was talking
to herself now:

she had forgotten I could not very well understand her--that I was ignorant,
or nearly so,
of the subject she discussed.

I recalled her
to my level.

"And when Miss Temple teaches you,
do your thoughts wander then?"
"No,
certainly,
not often;
because Miss Temple has generally something
to say which is newer than my own reflections;
her language is singularly agreeable
to me,
and the information she communicates is often just what I wished
to gain."

"Well,
then,
with Miss Temple you are good?"
"Yes,
in a passive way:

I make no effort;
I follow as inclination guides me.

There is no merit in such goodness."

"A great deal:

you are good
to those who are good
to you.

It is all I ever desire
to be.

If people were always kind and obedient
to those who are cruel and unjust,
the wicked people would have it all their own way:

they would never feel afraid,
and so they would never alter,
but would grow worse and worse.

When we are struck at without a reason,
we should strike back again very hard;
I am sure we should--so hard as
to teach the person who struck us never
to do it again."

"You will change your mind,
I hope,
when you grow older:

as yet you are but a little untaught girl."

"But I feel this,
Helen;
I must dislike those who,
whatever I do
to please them,
persist in disliking me;
I must resist those who punish me unjustly.

It is as natural as that I should love those who show me affection,
or submit
to punishment when I feel it is deserved."

"Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine,
but Christians and civilised nations disown it."

"How?

I don't understand."

"It is not violence that best overcomes hate--nor vengeance that most certainly heals injury."

"What then?"
"Read the New Testament,
and observe what Christ says,
and how He acts;
make His word your rule,
and His conduct your example."

"What does He say?"
"Love your enemies;
bless them that curse you;
do good
to them that hate you and despitefully use you."

"Then I should love Mrs. Reed,
which I cannot do;
I should bless her son John,
which is impossible."

In her turn,
Helen Burns asked me
to explain,
and I proceeded forthwith
to pour out,
in my own way,
the tale of my sufferings and resentments.

Bitter and truculent when excited,
I spoke as I felt,
without reserve or softening.

Helen heard me patiently
to the end:

I expected she would then make a remark,
but she said nothing.

"Well,"
I asked impatiently,
"is not Mrs. Reed a hard-hearted,
bad woman?"
"She has been unkind
to you,
no doubt;
because you see,
she dislikes your cast of character,
as Miss Scatcherd does mine;
but how minutely you remember all she has done and said
to you! What a singularly deep impression her injustice seems
to have made on your heart! No ill-usage so brands its record on my feelings.

Would you not be happier if you tried
to forget her severity,
together
with the passionate emotions it excited?

Life appears
to me too short
to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs.

We are,
and must be,
one and all,
burdened
with faults in this world:

but the time will soon come when,
I trust,
we shall put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies;
when debasement and sin will fall from us
with this cumbrous frame of flesh,
and only the spark of the spirit will remain,--the impalpable principle of light and thought,
pure as when it left the Creator
to inspire the creature:

whence it came it will return;
perhaps again
to be communicated
to some being higher than man--perhaps
to pass through gradations of glory,
from the pale human soul
to brighten
to the seraph! Surely it will never,
on the contrary,
be suffered
to degenerate from man
to fiend?

No;
I cannot believe that:

I hold another creed:

which no one ever taught me,
and which I seldom mention;
but in which I delight,
and
to which I cling:

for it extends hope
to all:

it makes Eternity a rest--a mighty home,
not a terror and an abyss.

Besides,
with this creed,
I can so clearly distinguish between the criminal and his crime;
I can so sincerely forgive the first while I abhor the last:

with this creed revenge never worries my heart,
degradation never too deeply disgusts me,
injustice never crushes me too low:

I live in calm,
looking
to the end."

Helen's head,
always drooping,
sank a little lower as she finished this sentence.

I saw by her look she wished no longer
to talk
to me,
but rather
to converse
with her own thoughts.

She was not allowed much time
for meditation:

a monitor,
a great rough girl,
presently came up,
exclaiming in a strong Cumberland accent -
"Helen Burns,
if you don't go and put your drawer in order,
and fold up your work this minute,
I'll tell Miss Scatcherd
to come and look at it!"
Helen sighed as her reverie fled,
and getting up,
obeyed the monitor without reply as without delay.

CHAPTER VII My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age;
and not the golden age either;
it comprised an irksome struggle
with difficulties in habituating myself
to new rules and unwonted tasks.

The fear of failure in these points harassed me worse than the physical hardships of my lot;
though these were no trifles.

During January,
February,
and part of March,
the deep snows,
and,
after their melting,
the almost impassable roads,
prevented our stirring beyond the garden walls,
except
to go
to church;
but within these limits we had
to pass an hour every day in the open air.

Our clothing was insufficient
to protect us from the severe cold:

we had no boots,
the snow got into our shoes and melted there:

our ungloved hands became numbed and covered
with chilblains,
as were our feet:

I remember well the distracting irritation I endured from this cause every evening,
when my feet inflamed;
and the torture of thrusting the swelled,
raw,
and stiff toes into my shoes in the morning.

Then the scanty supply of food was distressing:

with the keen appetites of growing children,
we had scarcely sufficient
to keep alive a delicate invalid.

From this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse,
which pressed hardly on the younger pupils:

whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity,
they would coax or menace the little ones out of their portion.

Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of brown bread distributed at tea-time;
and after relinquishing
to a third half the contents of my mug of coffee,
I have swallowed the remainder
with an accompaniment of secret tears,
forced from me by the exigency of hunger.

Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season.

We had
to walk two miles
to Brocklebridge Church,
where our patron officiated.

We set out cold,
we arrived at church colder:

during the morning service we became almost paralysed.

It was too far
to return
to dinner,
and an allowance of cold meat and bread,
in the same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals,
was served round between the services.

At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and hilly road,
where the bitter winter wind,
blowing over a range of snowy summits
to the north,
almost flayed the skin from our faces.

I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our drooping line,
her plaid cloak,
which the frosty wind fluttered,
gathered close about her,
and encouraging us,
by precept and example,
to keep up our spirits,
and march forward,
as she said,
"like stalwart soldiers."

The other teachers,
poor things,
were generally themselves too much dejected
to attempt the task of cheering others.

How we longed
for the light and heat of a blazing fire when we got back! But,
to the little ones at least,
this was denied:

each hearth in the schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a double row of great girls,
and behind them the younger children crouched in groups,
wrapping their starved arms in their pinafores.

A little solace came at tea-time,
in the shape of a double ration of bread--a whole,
instead of a half,
slice--with the delicious addition of a thin scrape of butter:

it was the hebdomadal treat
to which we all looked forward from Sabbath
to Sabbath.

I generally contrived
to reserve a moiety of this bounteous repast
for myself;
but the remainder I was invariably obliged
to part with.

The Sunday evening was spent in repeating,
by heart,
the Church Catechism,
and the fifth,
sixth,
and seventh chapters of St. Matthew;
and in listening
to a long sermon,
read by Miss Miller,
whose irrepressible yawns attested her weariness.

A frequent interlude of these performances was the enactment of the part of Eutychus by some half-dozen of little girls,
who,
overpowered
with sleep,
would fall down,
if not out of the third loft,
yet off the fourth form,
and be taken up half dead.

The remedy was,
to thrust them forward into the centre of the schoolroom,
and oblige them
to stand there till the sermon was finished.

Sometimes their feet failed them,
and they sank together in a heap;
they were then propped up
with the monitors'
high stools.

I have not yet alluded
to the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst;
and indeed that gentleman was from home during the greater part of the first month after my arrival;
perhaps prolonging his stay
with his friend the archdeacon:

his absence was a relief
to me.

I need not say that I had my own reasons
for dreading his coming:

but come he did at last.

One afternoon
(I had then been three weeks at Lowood),
as I was sitting
with a slate in my hand,
puzzling over a sum in long division,
my eyes,
raised in abstraction
to the window,
caught sight of a figure just passing:

I recognised almost instinctively that gaunt outline;
and when,
two minutes after,
all the school,
teachers included,
rose en masse,
it was not necessary
for me
to look up in order
to ascertain whose entrance they thus greeted.

A long stride measured the schoolroom,
and presently beside Miss Temple,
who herself had risen,
stood the same black column which had frowned on me so ominously from the hearthrug of Gateshead.

I now glanced sideways at this piece of architecture.

Yes,
I was right:

it was Mr. Brocklehurst,
buttoned up in a surtout,
and looking longer,
narrower,
and more rigid than ever.

I had my own reasons
for being dismayed at this apparition;
too well I remembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my disposition,
&c.;
the promise pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst
to apprise Miss Temple and the teachers of my vicious nature.

All along I had been dreading the fulfilment of this promise,--I had been looking out daily
for the
"Coming Man,"
whose information respecting my past life and conversation was
to brand me as a bad child
for ever:

now there he was.

He stood at Miss Temple's side;
he was speaking low in her ear:

I did not doubt he was making disclosures of my villainy;
and I watched her eye
with painful anxiety,
expecting every moment
to see its dark orb turn on me a glance of repugnance and contempt.

I listened too;
and as I happened
to be seated quite at the top of the room,
I caught most of what he said:

its import relieved me from immediate apprehension.

"I suppose,
Miss Temple,
the thread I bought at Lowton will do;
it struck me that it would be just of the quality
for the calico chemises,
and I sorted the needles
to match.

You may tell Miss Smith that I forgot
to make a memorandum of the darning needles,
but she shall have some papers sent in next week;
and she is not,
on any account,
to give out more than one at a time
to each pupil:

if they have more,
they are apt
to be careless and lose them.

And,
O ma'am! I wish the woollen stockings were better looked to!--when I was here last,
I went into the kitchen-garden and examined the clothes drying on the line;
there was a quantity of black hose in a very bad state of repair:

from the size of the holes in them I was sure they had not been well mended from time
to time."

He paused.

"Your directions shall be attended to,
sir,"
said Miss Temple.

"And,
ma'am,"
he continued,
"the laundress tells me some of the girls have two clean tuckers in the week:

it is too much;
the rules limit them
to one."

"I think I can explain that circumstance,
sir.

Agnes and Catherine Johnstone were invited
to take tea
with some friends at Lowton last Thursday,
and I gave them leave
to put on clean tuckers
for the occasion."

Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.

"Well,
for once it may pass;
but please not
to let the circumstance occur too often.

And there is another thing which surprised me;
I find,
in settling accounts
with the housekeeper,
that a lunch,
consisting of bread and cheese,
has twice been served out
to the girls during the past fortnight.

How is this?

I looked over the regulations,
and I find no such meal as lunch mentioned.

Who introduced this innovation?

and by what authority?"
"I must be responsible
for the circumstance,
sir,"
replied Miss Temple:

"the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it;
and I dared not allow them
to remain fasting till dinner-time."

"Madam,
allow me an instant.

You are aware that my plan in bringing up these girls is,
not
to accustom them
to habits of luxury and indulgence,
but
to render them hardy,
patient,
self-denying.

Should any little accidental disappointment of the appetite occur,
such as the spoiling of a meal,
the under or the over dressing of a dish,
the incident ought not
to be neutralised by replacing
with something more delicate the comfort lost,
thus pampering the body and obviating the aim of this institution;
it ought
to be improved
to the spiritual edification of the pupils,
by encouraging them
to evince fortitude under temporary privation.

A brief address on those occasions would not be mistimed,
wherein a judicious instructor would take the opportunity of referring
to the sufferings of the primitive Christians;
to the torments of martyrs;
to the exhortations of our blessed Lord Himself,
calling upon His disciples
to take up their cross and follow Him;
to His warnings that man shall not live by bread alone,
but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God;
to His divine consolations,
"If ye suffer hunger or thirst
for My sake,
happy are ye."

Oh,
madam,
when you put bread and cheese,
instead of burnt porridge,
into these children's mouths,
you may indeed feed their vile bodies,
but you little think how you starve their immortal souls!"
Mr. Brocklehurst again paused--perhaps overcome by his feelings.

Miss Temple had looked down when he first began
to speak
to her;
but she now gazed straight before her,
and her face,
naturally pale as marble,
appeared
to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that material;
especially her mouth,
closed as if it would have required a sculptor's chisel
to open it,
and her brow settled gradually into petrified severity.

Meantime,
Mr. Brocklehurst,
standing on the hearth
with his hands behind his back,
majestically surveyed the whole school.

Suddenly his eye gave a blink,
as if it had met something that either dazzled or shocked its pupil;
turning,
he said in more rapid accents than he had hitherto used -
"Miss Temple,
Miss Temple,
what--WHAT is that girl
with curled hair?

Red hair,
ma'am,
curled--curled all over?"
And extending his cane he pointed
to the awful object,
his hand shaking as he did so.

"It is Julia Severn,"
replied Miss Temple,
very quietly.

"Julia Severn,
ma'am! And why has she,
or any other,
curled hair?

Why,
in defiance of every precept and principle of this house,
does she conform
to the world so openly--here in an evangelical,
charitable establishment--as
to wear her hair one mass of curls?"
"Julia's hair curls naturally,"
returned Miss Temple,
still more quietly.

"Naturally! Yes,
but we are not
to conform
to nature;
I wish these girls
to be the children of Grace:

and why that abundance?

I have again and again intimated that I desire the hair
to be arranged closely,
modestly,
plainly.

Miss Temple,
that girl's hair must be cut off entirely;
I will send a barber to-morrow:

and I see others who have far too much of the excrescence--that tall girl,
tell her
to turn round.

Tell all the first form
to rise up and direct their faces
to the wall."

Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips,
as if
to smooth away the involuntary smile that curled them;
she gave the order,
however,
and when the first class could take in what was required of them,
they obeyed.

Leaning a little back on my bench,
I could see the looks and grimaces
with which they commented on this manoeuvre:

it was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could not see them too;
he would perhaps have felt that,
whatever he might do
with the outside of the cup and platter,
the inside was further beyond his interference than he imagined.

He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes,
then pronounced sentence.

These words fell like the knell of doom -
"All those top-knots must be cut off."

Miss Temple seemed
to remonstrate.

"Madam,"
he pursued,
"I have a Master
to serve whose kingdom is not of this world:

my mission is
to mortify in these girls the lusts of the flesh;
to teach them
to clothe themselves
with shame-facedness and sobriety,
not
with braided hair and costly apparel;
and each of the young persons before us has a string of hair twisted in plaits which vanity itself might have woven;
these,
I repeat,
must be cut off;
think of the time wasted,
of--"
Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted:

three other visitors,
ladies,
now entered the room.

They ought
to have come a little sooner
to have heard his lecture on dress,
for they were splendidly attired in velvet,
silk,
and furs.

The two younger of the trio
(fine girls of sixteen and seventeen)
had grey beaver hats,
then in fashion,
shaded
with ostrich plumes,
and from under the brim of this graceful head-dress fell a profusion of light tresses,
elaborately curled;
the elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl,
trimmed
with ermine,
and she wore a false front of French curls.

These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple,
as Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst,
and conducted
to seats of honour at the top of the room.

It seems they had come in the carriage
with their reverend relative,
and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room upstairs,
while he transacted business
with the housekeeper,
questioned the laundress,
and lectured the superintendent.

They now proceeded
to address divers remarks and reproofs
to Miss Smith,
who was charged
with the care of the linen and the inspection of the dormitories:

but I had no time
to listen
to what they said;
other matters called off and enchanted my attention.

Hitherto,
while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss Temple,
I had not,
at the same time,
neglected precautions
to secure my personal safety;
which I thought would be effected,
if I could only elude observation.

To this end,
I had sat well back on the form,
and while seeming
to be busy
with my sum,
had held my slate in such a manner as
to conceal my face:

I might have escaped notice,
had not my treacherous slate somehow happened
to slip from my hand,
and falling
with an obtrusive crash,
directly drawn every eye upon me;
I knew it was all over now,
and,
as I stooped
to pick up the two fragments of slate,
I rallied my forces
for the worst.

It came.

"A careless girl!"
said Mr. Brocklehurst,
and immediately after--"It is the new pupil,
I perceive."

And before I could draw breath,
"I must not forget I have a word
to say respecting her."

Then aloud:

how loud it seemed
to me!
"Let the child who broke her slate come forward!"
Of my own accord I could not have stirred;
I was paralysed:

but the two great girls who sit on each side of me,
set me on my legs and pushed me towards the dread judge,
and then Miss Temple gently assisted me
to his very feet,
and I caught her whispered counsel -
"Don't be afraid,
Jane,
I saw it was an accident;
you shall not be punished."

The kind whisper went
to my heart like a dagger.

"Another minute,
and she will despise me
for a hypocrite,"
thought I;
and an impulse of fury against Reed,
Brocklehurst,
and Co.

bounded in my pulses at the conviction.

I was no Helen Burns.

"Fetch that stool,"
said Mr. Brocklehurst,
pointing
to a very high one from which a monitor had just risen:

it was brought.

"Place the child upon it."

And I was placed there,
by whom I don't know:

I was in no condition
to note particulars;
I was only aware that they had hoisted me up
to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose,
that he was within a yard of me,
and that a spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of silvery plumage extended and waved below me.

Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed.

"Ladies,"
said he,
turning
to his family,
"Miss Temple,
teachers,
and children,
you all see this girl?"
Of course they did;
for I felt their eyes directed like burning- glasses against my scorched skin.

"You see she is yet young;
you observe she possesses the ordinary form of childhood;
God has graciously given her the shape that He has given
to all of us;
no signal deformity points her out as a marked character.

Who would think that the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in her?

Yet such,
I grieve
to say,
is the case."

A pause--in which I began
to steady the palsy of my nerves,
and
to feel that the Rubicon was passed;
and that the trial,
no longer
to be shirked,
must be firmly sustained.

"My dear children,"
pursued the black marble clergyman,
with pathos,
"this is a sad,
a melancholy occasion;
for it becomes my duty
to warn you,
that this girl,
who might be one of God's own lambs,
is a little castaway:

not a member of the true flock,
but evidently an interloper and an alien.

You must be on your guard against her;
you must shun her example;
if necessary,
avoid her company,
exclude her from your sports,
and shut her out from your converse.

Teachers,
you must watch her:

keep your eyes on her movements,
weigh well her words,
scrutinise her actions,
punish her body
to save her soul:

if,
indeed,
such salvation be possible,
for
(my tongue falters while I tell it)
this girl,
this child,
the native of a Christian land,
worse than many a little heathen who says its prayers
to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut--this girl is--a liar!"
Now came a pause of ten minutes,
during which I,
by this time in perfect possession of my wits,
observed all the female Brocklehursts produce their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them
to their optics,
while the elderly lady swayed herself
to and fro,
and the two younger ones whispered,
"How shocking!"
Mr. Brocklehurst resumed.

"This I learned from her benefactress;
from the pious and charitable lady who adopted her in her orphan state,
reared her as her own daughter,
and whose kindness,
whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad,
so dreadful,
that at last her excellent patroness was obliged
to separate her from her own young ones,
fearful lest her vicious example should contaminate their purity:

she has sent her here
to be healed,
even as the Jews of old sent their diseased
to the troubled pool of Bethesda;
and,
teachers,
superintendent,
I beg of you not
to allow the waters
to stagnate round her."

With this sublime conclusion,
Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button of his surtout,
muttered something
to his family,
who rose,
bowed
to Miss Temple,
and then all the great people sailed in state from the room.

Turning at the door,
my judge said -
"Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool,
and let no one speak
to her during the remainder of the day."

There was I,
then,
mounted aloft;
I,
who had said I could not bear the shame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room,
was now exposed
to general view on a pedestal of infamy.

What my sensations were no language can describe;
but just as they all rose,
stifling my breath and constricting my throat,
a girl came up and passed me:

in passing,
she lifted her eyes.

What a strange light inspired them! What an extraordinary sensation that ray sent through me! How the new feeling bore me up! It was as if a martyr,
a hero,
had passed a slave or victim,
and imparted strength in the transit.

I mastered the rising hysteria,
lifted up my head,
and took a firm stand on the stool.

Helen Burns asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith,
was chidden
for the triviality of the inquiry,
returned
to her place,
and smiled at me as she again went by.

What a smile! I remember it now,
and I know that it was the effluence of fine intellect,
of true courage;
it lit up her marked lineaments,
her thin face,
her sunken grey eye,
like a reflection from the aspect of an angel.

Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore on her arm
"the untidy badge;"
scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by Miss Scatcherd
to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying it out.

Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet;
and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects,
and are blind
to the full brightness of the orb.

CHAPTER VIII Ere the half-hour ended,
five o'clock struck;
school was dismissed,
and all were gone into the refectory
to tea.

I now ventured
to descend:

it was deep dusk;
I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor.

The spell by which I had been so far supported began
to dissolve;
reaction took place,
and soon,
so overwhelming was the grief that seized me,
I sank prostrate
with my face
to the ground.

Now I wept:

Helen Burns was not here;
nothing sustained me;
left
to myself I abandoned myself,
and my tears watered the boards.

I had meant
to be so good,
and
to do so much at Lowood:

to make so many friends,
to earn respect and win affection.

Already I had made visible progress:

that very morning I had reached the head of my class;
Miss Miller had praised me warmly;
Miss Temple had smiled approbation;
she had promised
to teach me drawing,
and
to let me learn French,
if I continued
to make similar improvement two months longer:

and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils;
treated as an equal by those of my own age,
and not molested by any;
now,
here I lay again crushed and trodden on;
and could I ever rise more?

"Never,"
I thought;
and ardently I wished
to die.

While sobbing out this wish in broken accents,
some one approached:

I started up-- again Helen Burns was near me;
the fading fires just showed her coming up the long,
vacant room;
she brought my coffee and bread.

"Come,
eat something,"
she said;
but I put both away from me,
feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition.

Helen regarded me,
probably
with surprise:

I could not now abate my agitation,
though I tried hard;
I continued
to weep aloud.

She sat down on the ground near me,
embraced her knees
with her arms,
and rested her head upon them;
in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian.

I was the first who spoke -
"Helen,
why do you stay
with a girl whom everybody believes
to be a liar?"
"Everybody,
Jane?

Why,
there are only eighty people who have heard you called so,
and the world contains hundreds of millions."

"But what have I
to do
with millions?

The eighty,
I know,
despise me."

"Jane,
you are mistaken:

probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you:

many,
I am sure,
pity you much."

"How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?"
"Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god:

nor is he even a great and admired man:

he is little liked here;
he never took steps
to make himself liked.

Had he treated you as an especial favourite,
you would have found enemies,
declared or covert,
all around you;
as it is,
the greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared.

Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you
for a day or two,
but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts;
and if you persevere in doing well,
these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evidently
for their temporary suppression.

Besides,
Jane"--she paused.

"Well,
Helen?"
said I,
putting my hand into hers:

she chafed my fingers gently
to warm them,
and went on -
"If all the world hated you,
and believed you wicked,
while your own conscience approved you,
and absolved you from guilt,
you would not be without friends."

"No;
I know I should think well of myself;
but that is not enough:

if others don't love me I would rather die than live--I cannot bear
to be solitary and hated,
Helen.

Look here;
to gain some real affection from you,
or Miss Temple,
or any other whom I truly love,
I would willingly submit
to have the bone of my arm broken,
or
to let a bull toss me,
or
to stand behind a kicking horse,
and let it dash its hoof at my chest--"
"Hush,
Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings;
you are too impulsive,
too vehement;
the sovereign hand that created your frame,
and put life into it,
has provided you
with other resources than your feeble self,
or than creatures feeble as you.

Besides this earth,
and besides the race of men,
there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits:

that world is round us,
for it is everywhere;
and those spirits watch us,
for they are commissioned
to guard us;
and if we were dying in pain and shame,
if scorn smote us on all sides,
and hatred crushed us,
angels see our tortures,
recognise our innocence
(if innocent we be:

as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed;
for I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front),
and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh
to crown us
with a full reward.

Why,
then,
should we ever sink overwhelmed
with distress,
when life is so soon over,
and death is so certain an entrance
to happiness--
to glory?"
I was silent;
Helen had calmed me;
but in the tranquillity she imparted there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness.

I felt the impression of woe as she spoke,
but I could not tell whence it came;
and when,
having done speaking,
she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough,
I momentarily forgot my own sorrows
to yield
to a vague concern
for her.

Resting my head on Helen's shoulder,
I put my arms round her waist;
she drew me
to her,
and we reposed in silence.

We had not sat long thus,
when another person came in.

Some heavy clouds,
swept from the sky by a rising wind,
had left the moon bare;
and her light,
streaming in through a window near,
shone full both on us and on the approaching figure,
which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.

"I came on purpose
to find you,
Jane Eyre,"
said she;
"I want you in my room;
and as Helen Burns is
with you,
she may come too."

We went;
following the superintendent's guidance,
we had
to thread some intricate passages,
and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment;
it contained a good fire,
and looked cheerful.

Miss Temple told Helen Burns
to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the hearth,
and herself taking another,
she called me
to her side.

"Is it all over?"
she asked,
looking down at my face.

"Have you cried your grief away?"
"I am afraid I never shall do that."

"Why?"
"Because I have been wrongly accused;
and you,
ma'am,
and everybody else,
will now think me wicked."

"We shall think you what you prove yourself
to be,
my child.

Continue
to act as a good girl,
and you will satisfy us."

"Shall I,
Miss Temple?"
"You will,"
said she,
passing her arm round me.

"And now tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?"
"Mrs. Reed,
my uncle's wife.

My uncle is dead,
and he left me
to her care."

"Did she not,
then,
adopt you of her own accord?"
"No,
ma'am;
she was sorry
to have
to do it:

but my uncle,
as I have often heard the servants say,
got her
to promise before he died that she would always keep me."

"Well now,
Jane,
you know,
or at least I will tell you,
that when a criminal is accused,
he is always allowed
to speak in his own defence.

You have been charged
with falsehood;
defend yourself
to me as well as you can.

Say whatever your memory suggests is true;
but add nothing and exaggerate nothing."

I resolved,
in the depth of my heart,
that I would be most moderate- -most correct;
and,
having reflected a few minutes in order
to arrange coherently what I had
to say,
I told her all the story of my sad childhood.

Exhausted by emotion,
my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme;
and mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence of resentment,
I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary.

Thus restrained and simplified,
it sounded more credible:

I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.

In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come
to see me after the fit:

for I never forgot the,
to me,
frightful episode of the red-room:

in detailing which,
my excitement was sure,
in some degree,
to break bounds;
for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication
for pardon,
and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.

I had finished:

Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence;
she then said -
"I know something of Mr. Lloyd;
I shall write
to him;
if his reply agrees
with your statement,
you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation;
to me,
Jane,
you are clear now."

She kissed me,
and still keeping me at her side
(where I was well contented
to stand,
for I derived a child's pleasure from the contemplation of her face,
her dress,
her one or two ornaments,
her white forehead,
her clustered and shining curls,
and beaming dark eyes),
she proceeded
to address Helen Burns.

"How are you to-night,
Helen?

Have you coughed much to-day?"
"Not quite so much,
I think,
ma'am."

"And the pain in your chest?"
"It is a little better."

Miss Temple got up,
took her hand and examined her pulse;
then she returned
to her own seat:

as she resumed it,
I heard her sigh low.

She was pensive a few minutes,
then rousing herself,
she said cheerfully -
"But you two are my visitors to-night;
I must treat you as such."

She rang her bell.

"Barbara,"
she said
to the servant who answered it,
"I have not yet had tea;
bring the tray and place cups
for these two young ladies."

And a tray was soon brought.

How pretty,
to my eyes,
did the china cups and bright teapot look,
placed on the little round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the beverage,
and the scent of the toast! of which,
however,
I,
to my dismay
(for I was beginning
to be hungry)
discerned only a very small portion:

Miss Temple discerned it too.

"Barbara,"
said she,
"can you not bring a little more bread and butter?

There is not enough
for three."

Barbara went out:

she returned soon -
"Madam,
Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity."

Mrs. Harden,
be it observed,
was the housekeeper:

a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart,
made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.

"Oh,
very well!"
returned Miss Temple;
"we must make it do,
Barbara,
I suppose."

And as the girl withdrew she added,
smiling,
"Fortunately,
I have it in my power
to supply deficiencies
for this once."

Having invited Helen and me
to approach the table,
and placed before each of us a cup of tea
with one delicious but thin morsel of toast,
she got up,
unlocked a drawer,
and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper,
disclosed presently
to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.

"I meant
to give each of you some of this
to take
with you,"
said she,
"but as there is so little toast,
you must have it now,"
and she proceeded
to cut slices
with a generous hand.

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia;
and not the least delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification
with which our hostess regarded us,
as we satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied.

Tea over and the tray removed,
she again summoned us
to the fire;
we sat one on each side of her,
and now a conversation followed between her and Helen,
which it was indeed a privilege
to be admitted
to hear.

Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air,
of state in her mien,
of refined propriety in her language,
which precluded deviation into the ardent,
the excited,
the eager:

something which chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened
to her,
by a controlling sense of awe;
and such was my feeling now:

but as
to Helen Burns,
I was struck
with wonder.

The refreshing meal,
the brilliant fire,
the presence and kindness of her beloved instructress,
or,
perhaps,
more than all these,
something in her own unique mind,
had roused her powers within her.

They woke,
they kindled:

first,
they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek,
which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless;
then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes,
which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple's--a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash,
nor pencilled brow,
but of meaning,
of movement,
of radiance.

Then her soul sat on her lips,
and language flowed,
from what source I cannot tell.

Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough,
vigorous enough,
to hold the swelling spring of pure,
full,
fervid eloquence?

Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that,
to me,
memorable evening;
her spirit seemed hastening
to live within a very brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence.

They conversed of things I had never heard of;
of nations and times past;
of countries far away;
of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at:

they spoke of books:

how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar
with French names and French authors:

but my amazement reached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment
to recall the Latin her father had taught her,
and taking a book from a shelf,
bade her read and construe a page of Virgil;
and Helen obeyed,
my organ of veneration expanding at every sounding line.

She had scarcely finished ere the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted;
Miss Temple embraced us both,
saying,
as she drew us
to her heart -
"God bless you,
my children!"
Helen she held a little longer than me:

she let her go more reluctantly;
it was Helen her eye followed
to the door;
it was
for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh;
for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.

On reaching the bedroom,
we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd:

she was examining drawers;
she had just pulled out Helen Burns's,
and when we entered Helen was greeted
with a sharp reprimand,
and told that to-morrow she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned
to her shoulder.

"My things were indeed in shameful disorder,"
murmured Helen
to me,
in a low voice:

"I intended
to have arranged them,
but I forgot."

Next morning,
Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard the word
"Slattern,"
and bound it like a phylactery round Helen's large,
mild,
intelligent,
and benign- looking forehead.

She wore it till evening,
patient,
unresentful,
regarding it as a deserved punishment.

The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school,
I ran
to Helen,
tore it off,
and thrust it into the fire:

the fury of which she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day,
and tears,
hot and large,
had continually been scalding my cheek;
for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the heart.

About a week subsequently
to the incidents above narrated,
Miss Temple,
who had written
to Mr. Lloyd,
received his answer:

it appeared that what he said went
to corroborate my account.

Miss Temple,
having assembled the whole school,
announced that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged against Jane Eyre,
and that she was most happy
to be able
to pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation.

The teachers then shook hands
with me and kissed me,
and a murmur of pleasure ran through the ranks of my companions.

Thus relieved of a grievous load,
I from that hour set
to work afresh,
resolved
to pioneer my way through every difficulty:

I toiled hard,
and my success was proportionate
to my efforts;
my memory,
not naturally tenacious,
improved
with practice;
exercise sharpened my wits;
in a few weeks I was promoted
to a higher class;
in less than two months I was allowed
to commence French and drawing.

I learned the first two tenses of the verb ETRE,
and sketched my first cottage
(whose walls,
by-the-bye,
outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa),
on the same day.

That night,
on going
to bed,
I forgot
to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes,
or white bread and new milk,
with which I was wont
to amuse my inward cravings:

I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings,
which I saw in the dark;
all the work of my own hands:

freely pencilled houses and trees,
picturesque rocks and ruins,
Cuyp-like groups of cattle,
sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses,
of birds picking at ripe cherries,
of wren's nests enclosing pearl-like eggs,
wreathed about
with young ivy sprays.

I examined,
too,
in thought,
the possibility of my ever being able
to translate currently a certain little French story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me;
nor was that problem solved
to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.

Well has Solomon said--"Better is a dinner of herbs where love is,
than a stalled ox and hatred therewith."

I would not now have exchanged Lowood
with all its privations
for Gateshead and its daily luxuries.

CHAPTER IX But the privations,
or rather the hardships,
of Lowood lessened.

Spring drew on:

she was indeed already come;
the frosts of winter had ceased;
its snows were melted,
its cutting winds ameliorated.

My wretched feet,
flayed and swollen
to lameness by the sharp air of January,
began
to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April;
the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins;
we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden:

sometimes on a sunny day it began even
to be pleasant and genial,
and a greenness grew over those brown beds,
which,
freshening daily,
suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night,
and left each morning brighter traces of her steps.

Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves;
snow- drops,
crocuses,
purple auriculas,
and golden-eyed pansies.

On Thursday afternoons
(half-holidays)
we now took walks,
and found still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside,
under the hedges.

I discovered,
too,
that a great pleasure,
an enjoyment which the horizon only bounded,
lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden:

this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill-hollow,
rich in verdure and shadow;
in a bright beck,
full of dark stones and sparkling eddies.

How different had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter,
stiffened in frost,
shrouded
with snow!-- when mists as chill as death wandered
to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks,
and rolled down
"ing"
and holm till they blended
with the frozen fog of the beck! That beck itself was then a torrent,
turbid and curbless:

it tore asunder the wood,
and sent a raving sound through the air,
often thickened
with wild rain or whirling sleet;
and
for the forest on its banks,
THAT showed only ranks of skeletons.

April advanced
to May:

a bright serene May it was;
days of blue sky,
placid sunshine,
and soft western or southern gales filled up its duration.

And now vegetation matured
with vigour;
Lowood shook loose its tresses;
it became all green,
all flowery;
its great elm,
ash,
and oak skeletons were restored
to majestic life;
woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses;
unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows,
and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants:

I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre.

All this I enjoyed often and fully,
free,
unwatched,
and almost alone:

for this unwonted liberty and pleasure there was a cause,
to which it now becomes my task
to advert.

Have I not described a pleasant site
for a dwelling,
when I speak of it as bosomed in hill and wood,
and rising from the verge of a stream?

Assuredly,
pleasant enough:

but whether healthy or not is another question.

That forest-dell,
where Lowood lay,
was the cradle of fog and fog- bred pestilence;
which,
quickening
with the quickening spring,
crept into the Orphan Asylum,
breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory,
and,
ere May arrived,
transformed the seminary into an hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils
to receive infection:

forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time.

Classes were broken up,
rules relaxed.

The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license;
because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise
to keep them in health:

and had it been otherwise,
no one had leisure
to watch or restrain them.

Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients:

she lived in the sick-room,
never quitting it except
to snatch a few hours'
rest at night.

The teachers were fully occupied
with packing up and making other necessary preparations
for the departure of those girls who were fortunate enough
to have friends and relations able and willing
to remove them from the seat of contagion.

Many,
already smitten,
went home only
to die:

some died at the school,
and were buried quietly and quickly,
the nature of the malady forbidding delay.

While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood,
and death its frequent visitor;
while there was gloom and fear within its walls;
while its rooms and passages steamed
with hospital smells,
the drug and the pastille striving vainly
to overcome the effluvia of mortality,
that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors.

Its garden,
too,
glowed
with flowers:

hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees,
lilies had opened,
tulips and roses were in bloom;
the borders of the little beds were gay
with pink thrift and crimson double daisies;
the sweetbriars gave out,
morning and evening,
their scent of spice and apples;
and these fragrant treasures were all useless
for most of the inmates of Lowood,
except
to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms
to put in a coffin.

But I,
and the rest who continued well,
enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season;
they let us ramble in the wood,
like gipsies,
from morning till night;
we did what we liked,
went where we liked:

we lived better too.

Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now:

household matters were not scrutinised into;
the cross housekeeper was gone,
driven away by the fear of infection;
her successor,
who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary,
unused
to the ways of her new abode,
provided
with comparative liberality.

Besides,
there were fewer
to feed;
the sick could eat little;
our breakfast-basins were better filled;
when there was no time
to prepare a regular dinner,
which often happened,
she would give us a large piece of cold pie,
or a thick slice of bread and cheese,
and this we carried away
with us
to the wood,
where we each chose the spot we liked best,
and dined sumptuously.

My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone,
rising white and dry from the very middle of the beck,
and only
to be got at by wading through the water;
a feat I accomplished barefoot.

The stone was just broad enough
to accommodate,
comfortably,
another girl and me,
at that time my chosen comrade--one Mary Ann Wilson;
a shrewd,
observant personage,
whose society I took pleasure in,
partly because she was witty and original,
and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease.

Some years older than I,
she knew more of the world,
and could tell me many things I liked
to hear:

with her my curiosity found gratification:

to my faults also she gave ample indulgence,
never imposing curb or rein on anything I said.

She had a turn
for narrative,
I
for analysis;
she liked
to inform,
I
to question;
so we got on swimmingly together,
deriving much entertainment,
if not much improvement,
from our mutual intercourse.

And where,
meantime,
was Helen Burns?

Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty
with her?

Had I forgotten her?

or was I so worthless as
to have grown tired of her pare society?

Surely the Mary Arm Wilson I have mentioned was inferior
to my first acquaintance:

she could only tell me amusing stories,
and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose
to indulge in;
while,
if I have spoken truth of Helen,
she was qualified
to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far higher things.

True,
reader;
and I knew and felt this:

and though I am a defective being,
with many faults and few redeeming points,
yet I never tired of Helen Burns;
nor ever ceased
to cherish
for her a sentiment of attachment,
as strong,
tender,
and respectful as any that ever animated my heart.

How could it be otherwise,
when Helen,
at all times and under all circumstances,
evinced
for me a quiet and faithful friendship,
which ill-humour never soured,
nor irritation never troubled?

But Helen was ill at present:

for some weeks she had been removed from my sight
to I knew not what room upstairs.

She was not,
I was told,
in the hospital portion of the house
with the fever patients;
for her complaint was consumption,
not typhus:

and by consumption I,
in my ignorance,
understood something mild,
which time and care would be sure
to alleviate.

I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons,
and being taken by Miss Temple into the garden;
but,
on these occasions,
I was not allowed
to go and speak
to her;
I only saw her from the schoolroom window,
and then not distinctly;
for she was much wrapped up,
and sat at a distance under the verandah.

One evening,
in the beginning of June,
I had stayed out very late
with Mary Ann in the wood;
we had,
as usual,
separated ourselves from the others,
and had wandered far;
so far that we lost our way,
and had
to ask it at a lonely cottage,
where a man and woman lived,
who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood.

When we got back,
it was after moonrise:

a pony,
which we knew
to be the surgeon's,
was standing at the garden door.

Mary Ann remarked that she supposed some one must be very ill,
as Mr. Bates had been sent
for at that time of the evening.

She went into the house;
I stayed behind a few minutes
to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest,
and which I feared would wither if I left them till the morning.

This done,
I lingered yet a little longer:

the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell;
it was such a pleasant evening,
so serene,
so warm;
the still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow;
the moon rose
with such majesty in the grave east.

I was noting these things and enjoying them as a child might,
when it entered my mind as it had never done before:-
"How sad
to be lying now on a sick bed,
and
to be in danger of dying! This world is pleasant--it would be dreary
to be called from it,
and
to have
to go who knows where?"
And then my mind made its first earnest effort
to comprehend what had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell;
and
for the first time it recoiled,
baffled;
and
for the first time glancing behind,
on each side,
and before it,
it saw all round an unfathomed gulf:

it felt the one point where it stood--the present;
all the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth;
and it shuddered at the thought of tottering,
and plunging amid that chaos.

While pondering this new idea,
I heard the front door open;
Mr. Bates came out,
and
with him was a nurse.

After she had seen him mount his horse and depart,
she was about
to close the door,
but I ran up
to her.

"How is Helen Burns?"
"Very poorly,"
was the answer.

"Is it her Mr. Bates has been
to see?"
"Yes."

"And what does he say about her?"
"He says she'll not be here long."

This phrase,
uttered in my hearing yesterday,
would have only conveyed the notion that she was about
to be removed
to Northumberland,
to her own home.

I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying;
but I knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this world,
and that she was going
to be taken
to the region of spirits,
if such region there were.

I experienced a shock of horror,
then a strong thrill of grief,
then a desire--a necessity
to see her;
and I asked in what room she lay.

"She is in Miss Temple's room,"
said the nurse.

"May I go up and speak
to her?"
"Oh no,
child! It is not likely;
and now it is time
for you
to come in;
you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling."

The nurse closed the front door;
I went in by the side entrance which led
to the schoolroom:

I was just in time;
it was nine o'clock,
and Miss Miller was calling the pupils
to go
to bed.

It might be two hours later,
probably near eleven,
when I--not having been able
to fall asleep,
and deeming,
from the perfect silence of the dormitory,
that my companions were all wrapt in profound repose--rose softly,
put on my frock over my night-dress,
and,
without shoes,
crept from the apartment,
and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room.

It was quite at the other end of the house;
but I knew my way;
and the light of the unclouded summer moon,
entering here and there at passage windows,
enabled me
to find it without difficulty.

An odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room:

and I passed its door quickly,
fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me.

I dreaded being discovered and sent back;
for I MUST see Helen,--I must embrace her before she died,--I must give her one last kiss,
exchange
with her one last word.

Having descended a staircase,
traversed a portion of the house below,
and succeeded in opening and shutting,
without noise,
two doors,
I reached another flight of steps;
these I mounted,
and then just opposite
to me was Miss Temple's room.

A light shone through the keyhole and from under the door;
a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity.

Coming near,
I found the door slightly ajar;
probably
to admit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness.

Indisposed
to hesitate,
and full of impatient impulses--soul and senses quivering
with keen throes--I put it back and looked in.

My eye sought Helen,
and feared
to find death.

Close by Miss Temple's bed,
and half covered
with its white curtains,
there stood a little crib.

I saw the outline of a form under the clothes,
but the face was hid by the hangings:

the nurse I had spoken
to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep;
an unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table.

Miss Temple was not
to be seen:

I knew afterwards that she had been called
to a delirious patient in the fever-room.

I advanced;
then paused by the crib side:

my hand was on the curtain,
but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it.

I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.

"Helen!"
I whispered softly,
"are you awake?"
She stirred herself,
put back the curtain,
and I saw her face,
pale,
wasted,
but quite composed:

she looked so little changed that my fear was instantly dissipated.

"Can it be you,
Jane?"
she asked,
in her own gentle voice.

"Oh!"
I thought,
"she is not going
to die;
they are mistaken:

she could not speak and look so calmly if she were."

I got on
to her crib and kissed her:

her forehead was cold,
and her cheek both cold and thin,
and so were her hand and wrist;
but she smiled as of old.

"Why are you come here,
Jane?

It is past eleven o'clock:

I heard it strike some minutes since."

"I came
to see you,
Helen:

I heard you were very ill,
and I could not sleep till I had spoken
to you."

"You came
to bid me good-bye,
then:

you are just in time probably."

"Are you going somewhere,
Helen?

Are you going home?"
"Yes;
to my long home--my last home."

"No,
no,
Helen!"
I stopped,
distressed.

While I tried
to devour my tears,
a fit of coughing seized Helen;
it did not,
however,
wake the nurse;
when it was over,
she lay some minutes exhausted;
then she whispered -
"Jane,
your little feet are bare;
lie down and cover yourself
with my quilt."

I did so:

she put her arm over me,
and I nestled close
to her.

After a long silence,
she resumed,
still whispering -
"I am very happy,
Jane;
and when you hear that I am dead,
you must be sure and not grieve:

there is nothing
to grieve about.

We all must die one day,
and the illness which is removing me is not painful;
it is gentle and gradual:

my mind is at rest.

I leave no one
to regret me much:

I have only a father;
and he is lately married,
and will not miss me.

By dying young,
I shall escape great sufferings.

I had not qualities or talents
to make my way very well in the world:

I should have been continually at fault."

"But where are you going to,
Helen?

Can you see?

Do you know?"
"I believe;
I have faith:

I am going
to God."

"Where is God?

What is God?"
"My Maker and yours,
who will never destroy what He created.

I rely implicitly on His power,
and confide wholly in His goodness:

I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me
to Him,
reveal Him
to me."

"You are sure,
then,
Helen,
that there is such a place as heaven,
and that our souls can get
to it when we die?"
"I am sure there is a future state;
I believe God is good;
I can resign my immortal part
to Him without any misgiving.

God is my father;
God is my friend:

I love Him;
I believe He loves me."

"And shall I see you again,
Helen,
when I die?"
"You will come
to the same region of happiness:

be received by the same mighty,
universal Parent,
no doubt,
dear Jane."

Again I questioned,
but this time only in thought.

"Where is that region?

Does it exist?"
And I clasped my arms closer round Helen;
she seemed dearer
to me than ever;
I felt as if I could not let her go;
I lay
with my face hidden on her neck.

Presently she said,
in the sweetest tone -
"How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little;
I feel as if I could sleep:

but don't leave me,
Jane;
I like
to have you near me."

"I'll stay
with you,
DEAR Helen:

no one shall take me way."

"Are you warm,
darling?"
"Yes."

"Good-night,
Jane."

"Good-night,
Helen."

She kissed me,
and I her,
and we both soon slumbered.

When I awoke it was day:

an unusual movement roused me;
I looked up;
I was in somebody's arms;
the nurse held me;
she was carrying me through the passage back
to the dormitory.

I was not reprimanded
for leaving my bed;
people had something else
to think about;
no explanation was afforded then
to my many questions;
but a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple,
on returning
to her own room at dawn,
had found me laid in the little crib;
my face against Helen Burns's shoulder,
my arms round her neck.

I was asleep,
and Helen was--dead.

Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard:

for fifteen years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound;
but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot,
inscribed
with her name,
and the word
"Resurgam."

CHAPTER X Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence:

to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters.

But this is not
to be a regular autobiography.

I am only bound
to invoke Memory where I know her responses will possess some degree of interest;
therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence:

a few lines only are necessary
to keep up the links of connection.

When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at Lowood,
it gradually disappeared from thence;
but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school.

Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge,
and by degrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree.

The unhealthy nature of the site;
the quantity and quality of the children's food;
the brackish,
fetid water used in its preparation;
the pupils'
wretched clothing and accommodations--all these things were discovered,
and the discovery produced a result mortifying
to Mr. Brocklehurst,
but beneficial
to the institution.

Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely
for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation;
new regulations were made;
improvements in diet and clothing introduced;
the funds of the school were intrusted
to the management of a committee.

Mr. Brocklehurst,
who,
from his wealth and family connections,
could not be overlooked,
still retained the post of treasurer;
but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds:

his office of inspector,
too,
was shared by those who knew how
to combine reason
with strictness,
comfort
with economy,
compassion
with uprightness.

The school,
thus improved,
became in time a truly useful and noble institution.

I remained an inmate of its walls,
after its regeneration,
for eight years:

six as pupil,
and two as teacher;
and in both capacities I bear my testimony
to its value and importance.

During these eight years my life was uniform:

but not unhappy,
because it was not inactive.

I had the means of an excellent education placed within my reach;
a fondness
for some of my studies,
and a desire
to excel in all,
together
with a great delight in pleasing my teachers,
especially such as I loved,
urged me on:

I availed myself fully of the advantages offered me.

In time I rose
to be the first girl of the first class;
then I was invested
with the office of teacher;
which I discharged
with zeal
for two years:

but at the end of that time I altered.

Miss Temple,
through all changes,
had thus far continued superintendent of the seminary:

to her instruction I owed the best part of my acquirements;
her friendship and society had been my continual solace;
she had stood me in the stead of mother,
governess,
and,
latterly,
companion.

At this period she married,
removed
with her husband
(a clergyman,
an excellent man,
almost worthy of such a wife)
to a distant county,
and consequently was lost
to me.

From the day she left I was no longer the same:

with her was gone every settled feeling,
every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home
to me.

I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much of her habits:

more harmonious thoughts:

what seemed better regulated feelings had become the inmates of my mind.

I had given in allegiance
to duty and order;
I was quiet;
I believed I was content:

to the eyes of others,
usually even
to my own,
I appeared a disciplined and subdued character.

But destiny,
in the shape of the Rev.

Mr. Nasmyth,
came between me and Miss Temple:

I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise,
shortly after the marriage ceremony;
I watched the chaise mount the hill and disappear beyond its brow;
and then retired
to my own room,
and there spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday granted in honour of the occasion.

I walked about the chamber most of the time.

I imagined myself only
to be regretting my loss,
and thinking how
to repair it;
but when my reflections were concluded,
and I looked up and found that the afternoon was gone,
and evening far advanced,
another discovery dawned on me,
namely,
that in the interval I had undergone a transforming process;
that my mind had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Temple--or rather that she had taken
with her the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity--and that now I was left in my natural element,
and beginning
to feel the stirring of old emotions.

It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn,
but rather as if a motive were gone:

it was not the power
to be tranquil which had failed me,
but the reason
for tranquillity was no more.

My world had
for some years been in Lowood:

my experience had been of its rules and systems;
now I remembered that the real world was wide,
and that a varied field of hopes and fears,
of sensations and excitements,
awaited those who had courage
to go forth into its expanse,
to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils.

I went
to my window,
opened it,
and looked out.

There were the two wings of the building;
there was the garden;
there were the skirts of Lowood;
there was the hilly horizon.

My eye passed all other objects
to rest on those most remote,
the blue peaks;
it was those I longed
to surmount;
all within their boundary of rock and heath seemed prison-ground,
exile limits.

I traced the white road winding round the base of one mountain,
and vanishing in a gorge between two;
how I longed
to follow it farther! I recalled the time when I had travelled that very road in a coach;
I remembered descending that hill at twilight;
an age seemed
to have elapsed since the day which brought me first
to Lowood,
and I had never quitted it since.

My vacations had all been spent at school:

Mrs. Reed had never sent
for me
to Gateshead;
neither she nor any of her family had ever been
to visit me.

I had had no communication by letter or message
with the outer world:

school-rules,
school-duties,
school-habits and notions,
and voices,
and faces,
and phrases,
and costumes,
and preferences,
and antipathies--such was what I knew of existence.

And now I felt that it was not enough;
I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon.

I desired liberty;
for liberty I gasped;
for liberty I uttered a prayer;
it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing.

I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication;
for change,
stimulus:

that petition,
too,
seemed swept off into vague space:

"Then,"
I cried,
half desperate,
"grant me at least a new servitude!"
Here a bell,
ringing the hour of supper,
called me downstairs.

I was not free
to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till bedtime:

even then a teacher who occupied the same room
with me kept me from the subject
to which I longed
to recur,
by a prolonged effusion of small talk.

How I wished sleep would silence her.

It seemed as if,
could I but go back
to the idea which had last entered my mind as I stood at the window,
some inventive suggestion would rise
for my relief.

Miss Gryce snored at last;
she was a heavy Welshwoman,
and till now her habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than as a nuisance;
to-night I hailed the first deep notes
with satisfaction;
I was debarrassed of interruption;
my half- effaced thought instantly revived.

"A new servitude! There is something in that,"
I soliloquised
(mentally,
be it understood;
I did not talk aloud),
"I know there is,
because it does not sound too sweet;
it is not like such words as Liberty,
Excitement,
Enjoyment:

delightful sounds truly;
but no more than sounds
for me;
and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time
to listen
to them.

But Servitude! That must be matter of fact.

Any one may serve:

I have served here eight years;
now all I want is
to serve elsewhere.

Can I not get so much of my own will?

Is not the thing feasible?

Yes--yes--the end is not so difficult;
if I had only a brain active enough
to ferret out the means of attaining it."

I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain:

it was a chilly night;
I covered my shoulders
with a shawl,
and then I proceeded
to THINK again
with all my might.

"What do I want?

A new place,
in a new house,
amongst new faces,
under new circumstances:

I want this because it is of no use wanting anything better.

How do people do
to get a new place?

They apply
to friends,
I suppose:

I have no friends.

There are many others who have no friends,
who must look about
for themselves and be their own helpers;
and what is their resource?"
I could not tell:

nothing answered me;
I then ordered my brain
to find a response,
and quickly.

It worked and worked faster:

I felt the pulses throb in my head and temples;
but
for nearly an hour it worked in chaos;
and no result came of its efforts.

Feverish
with vain labour,
I got up and took a turn in the room;
undrew the curtain,
noted a star or two,
shivered
with cold,
and again crept
to bed.

A kind fairy,
in my absence,
had surely dropped the required suggestion on my pillow;
for as I lay down,
it came quietly and naturally
to my mind.--"Those who want situations advertise;
you must advertise in the -shire Herald."

"How?

I know nothing about advertising."

Replies rose smooth and prompt now:-
"You must enclose the advertisement and the money
to pay
for it under a cover directed
to the editor of the Herald;
you must put it,
the first opportunity you have,
into the post at Lowton;
answers must be addressed
to J.E.,
at the post-office there;
you can go and inquire in about a week after you send your letter,
if any are come,
and act accordingly."

This scheme I went over twice,
thrice;
it was then digested in my mind;
I had it in a clear practical form:

I felt satisfied,
and fell asleep.

With earliest day,
I was up:

I had my advertisement written,
enclosed,
and directed before the bell rang
to rouse the school;
it ran thus:-
"A young lady accustomed
to tuition"
(had I not been a teacher two years?)
"is desirous of meeting
with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen
(I thought that as I was barely eighteen,
it would not do
to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age).

She is qualified
to teach the usual branches of a good English education,
together
with French,
Drawing,
and Music"
(in those days,
reader,
this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments,
would have been held tolerably comprehensive).

"Address,
J.E.,
Post-office,
Lowton,
-shire."

This document remained locked in my drawer all day:

after tea,
I asked leave of the new superintendent
to go
to Lowton,
in order
to perform some small commissions
for myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers;
permission was readily granted;
I went.

It was a walk of two miles,
and the evening was wet,
but the days were still long;
I visited a shop or two,
slipped the letter into the post- office,
and came back through heavy rain,
with streaming garments,
but
with a relieved heart.

The succeeding week seemed long:

it came
to an end at last,
however,
like all sublunary things,
and once more,
towards the close of a pleasant autumn day,
I found myself afoot on the road
to Lowton.

A picturesque track it was,
by the way;
lying along the side of the beck and through the sweetest curves of the dale:

but that day I thought more of the letters,
that might or might not be awaiting me at the little burgh whither I was bound,
than of the charms of lea and water.

My ostensible errand on this occasion was
to get measured
for a pair of shoes;
so I discharged that business first,
and when it was done,
I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker's
to the post-office:

it was kept by an old dame,
who wore horn spectacles on her nose,
and black mittens on her hands.

"Are there any letters
for J.E.?"
I asked.

She peered at me over her spectacles,
and then she opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents
for a long time,
so long that my hopes began
to falter.

At last,
having held a document before her glasses
for nearly five minutes,
she presented it across the counter,
accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance--it was
for J.E.

"Is there only one?"
I demanded.

"There are no more,"
said she;
and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward:

I could not open it then;
rules obliged me
to be back by eight,
and it was already half-past seven.

Various duties awaited me on my arrival.

I had
to sit
with the girls during their hour of study;
then it was my turn
to read prayers;
to see them
to bed:

afterwards I supped
with the other teachers.

Even when we finally retired
for the night,
the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion:

we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick,
and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out;
fortunately,
however,
the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect:

she was already snoring before I had finished undressing.

There still remained an inch of candle:

I now took out my letter;
the seal was an initial F.;
I broke it;
the contents were brief.

"If J.E.,
who advertised in the -shire Herald of last Thursday,
possesses the acquirements mentioned,
and if she is in a position
to give satisfactory references as
to character and competency,
a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil,
a little girl,
under ten years of age;
and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum.

J.E.

is requested
to send references,
name,
address,
and all particulars
to the direction:-
"Mrs. Fairfax,
Thornfield,
near Millcote,
-shire."

I examined the document long:

the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain,
like that of in elderly lady.

This circumstance was satisfactory:

a private fear had haunted me,
that in thus acting
for myself,
and by my own guidance,
I ran the risk of getting into some scrape;
and,
above all things,
I wished the result of my endeavours
to be respectable,
proper,
en regle.

I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand.

Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow's cap;
frigid,
perhaps,
but not uncivil:

a model of elderly English respectability.

Thornfield! that,
doubtless,
was the name of her house:

a neat orderly spot,
I was sure;
though I failed in my efforts
to conceive a correct plan of the premises.

Millcote,
- shire;
I brushed up my recollections of the map of England,
yes,
I saw it;
both the shire and the town.

-shire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I now resided:

that was a recommendation
to me.

I longed
to go where there was life and movement:

Millcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A-;
a busy place enough,
doubtless:

so much the better;
it would be a complete change at least.

Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke--"but,"
I argued,
"Thornfield will,
probably,
be a good way from the town."

Here the socket of the candle dropped,
and the wick went out.

Next day new steps were
to be taken;
my plans could no longer be confined
to my own breast;
I must impart them in order
to achieve their success.

Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent during the noontide recreation,
I told her I had a prospect of getting a new situation where the salary would be double what I now received
(for at Lowood I only got 15 pounds per annum);
and requested she would break the matter
for me
to Mr. Brocklehurst,
or some of the committee,
and ascertain whether they would permit me
to mention them as references.

She obligingly consented
to act as mediatrix in the matter.

The next day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst,
who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to,
as she was my natural guardian.

A note was accordingly addressed
to that lady,
who returned
for answer,
that
"I might do as I pleased:

she had long relinquished all interference in my affairs."

This note went the round of the committee,
and at last,
after what appeared
to me most tedious delay,
formal leave was given me
to better my condition if I could;
and an assurance added,
that as I had always conducted myself well,
both as teacher and pupil,
at Lowood,
a testimonial of character and capacity,
signed by the inspectors of that institution,
should forthwith be furnished me.

This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month,
forwarded a copy of it
to Mrs. Fairfax,
and got that lady's reply,
stating that she was satisfied,
and fixing that day fortnight as the period
for my assuming the post of governess in her house.

I now busied myself in preparations:

the fortnight passed rapidly.

I had not a very large wardrobe,
though it was adequate
to my wants;
and the last day sufficed
to pack my trunk,--the same I had brought
with me eight years ago from Gateshead.

The box was corded,
the card nailed on.

In half-an-hour the carrier was
to call
for it
to take it
to Lowton,
whether I myself was
to repair at an early hour the next morning
to meet the coach.

I had brushed my black stuff travelling-dress,
prepared my bonnet,
gloves,
and muff;
sought in all my drawers
to see that no article was left behind;
and now having nothing more
to do,
I sat down and tried
to rest.

I could not;
though I had been on foot all day,
I could not now repose an instant;
I was too much excited.

A phase of my life was closing to-night,
a new one opening to-morrow:

impossible
to slumber in the interval;
I must watch feverishly while the change was being accomplished.

"Miss,"
said a servant who met me in the lobby,
where I was wandering like a troubled spirit,
"a person below wishes
to see you."

"The carrier,
no doubt,"
I thought,
and ran downstairs without inquiry.

I was passing the back-parlour or teachers'
sitting-room,
the door of which was half open,
to go
to the kitchen,
when some one ran out -
"It's her,
I am sure!--I could have told her anywhere!"
cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand.

I looked:

I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant,
matronly,
yet still young;
very good-looking,
with black hair and eyes,
and lively complexion.

"Well,
who is it?"
she asked,
in a voice and
with a smile I half recognised;
"you've not quite forgotten me,
I think,
Miss Jane?"
In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously:

"Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!"
that was all I said;
whereat she half laughed,
half cried,
and we both went into the parlour.

By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old,
in plaid frock and trousers.

"That is my little boy,"
said Bessie directly.

"Then you are married,
Bessie?"
"Yes;
nearly five years since
to Robert Leaven,
the coachman;
and I've a little girl besides Bobby there,
that I've christened Jane."

"And you don't live at Gateshead?"
"I live at the lodge:

the old porter has left."

"Well,
and how do they all get on?

Tell me everything about them,
Bessie:

but sit down first;
and,
Bobby,
come and sit on my knee,
will you?"
but Bobby preferred sidling over
to his mother.

"You're not grown so very tall,
Miss Jane,
nor so very stout,"
continued Mrs. Leaven.

"I dare say they've not kept you too well at school:

Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are;
and Miss Georgiana would make two of you in breadth."

"Georgiana is handsome,
I suppose,
Bessie?"
"Very.

She went up
to London last winter
with her mama,
and there everybody admired her,
and a young lord fell in love
with her:

but his relations were against the match;
and--what do you think?--he and Miss Georgiana made it up
to run away;
but they were found out and stopped.

It was Miss Reed that found them out:

I believe she was envious;
and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together;
they are always quarrelling--"
"Well,
and what of John Reed?"
"Oh,
he is not doing so well as his mama could wish.

He went
to college,
and he got--plucked,
I think they call it:

and then his uncles wanted him
to be a barrister,
and study the law:

but he is such a dissipated young man,
they will never make much of him,
I think."

"What does he look like?"
"He is very tall:

some people call him a fine-looking young man;
but he has such thick lips."

"And Mrs. Reed?"
"Missis looks stout and well enough in the face,
but I think she's not quite easy in her mind:

Mr. John's conduct does not please her- -he spends a deal of money."

"Did she send you here,
Bessie?"
"No,
indeed:

but I have long wanted
to see you,
and when I heard that there had been a letter from you,
and that you were going
to another part of the country,
I thought I'd just set of,
and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach."

"I am afraid you are disappointed in me,
Bessie."

I said this laughing:

I perceived that Bessie's glance,
though it expressed regard,
did in no shape denote admiration.

"No,
Miss Jane,
not exactly:

you are genteel enough;
you look like a lady,
and it is as much as ever I expected of you:

you were no beauty as a child."

I smiled at Bessie's frank answer:

I felt that it was correct,
but I confess I was not quite indifferent
to its import:

at eighteen most people wish
to please,
and the conviction that they have not an exterior likely
to second that desire brings anything but gratification.

"I dare say you are clever,
though,"
continued Bessie,
by way of solace.

"What can you do?

Can you play on the piano?"
"A little."

There was one in the room;
Bessie went and opened it,
and then asked me
to sit down and give her a tune:

I played a waltz or two,
and she was charmed.

"The Miss Reeds could not play as well!"
said she exultingly.

"I always said you would surpass them in learning:

and can you draw?"
"That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece."

It was a landscape in water colours,
of which I had made a present
to the superintendent,
in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation
with the committee on my behalf,
and which she had framed and glazed.

"Well,
that is beautiful,
Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed's drawing-master could paint,
let alone the young ladies themselves,
who could not come near it:

and have you learnt French?"
"Yes,
Bessie,
I can both read it and speak it."

"And you can work on muslin and canvas?"
"I can."

"Oh,
you are quite a lady,
Miss Jane! I knew you would be:

you will get on whether your relations notice you or not.

There was something I wanted
to ask you.

Have you ever heard anything from your father's kinsfolk,
the Eyres?"
"Never in my life."

"Well,
you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable:

and they may be poor;
but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are;
for one day,
nearly seven years ago,
a Mr. Eyre came
to Gateshead and wanted
to see you;
Missis said you were it school fifty miles off;
he seemed so much disappointed,
for he could not stay:

he was going on a voyage
to a foreign country,
and the ship was
to sail from London in a day or two.

He looked quite a gentleman,
and I believe he was your father's brother."

"What foreign country was he going to,
Bessie?"
"An island thousands of miles off,
where they make wine--the butler did tell me--"
"Madeira?"
I suggested.

"Yes,
that is it--that is the very word."

"So he went?"
"Yes;
he did not stay many minutes in the house:

Missis was very high
with him;
she called him afterwards a
'sneaking tradesman.'

My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant."

"Very likely,"
I returned;
"or perhaps clerk or agent
to a wine- merchant."

Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer,
and then she was obliged
to leave me:

I saw her again
for a few minutes the next morning at Lowton,
while I was waiting
for the coach.

We parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst Arms there:

each went her separate way;
she set off
for the brow of Lowood Fell
to meet the conveyance which was
to take her back
to Gateshead,
I mounted the vehicle which was
to bear me
to new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote.

CHAPTER XI A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play;
and when I draw up the curtain this time,
reader,
you must fancy you see a room in the George Inn at Millcote,
with such large figured papering on the walls as inn rooms have;
such a carpet,
such furniture,
such ornaments on the mantelpiece,
such prints,
including a portrait of George the Third,
and another of the Prince of Wales,
and a representation of the death of Wolfe.

All this is visible
to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling,
and by that of an excellent fire,
near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet;
my muff and umbrella lie on the table,
and I am warming away the numbness and chill contracted by sixteen hours'
exposure
to the rawness of an October day:

I left Lowton at four o'clock a.m.,
and the Millcote town clock is now just striking eight.

Reader,
though I look comfortably accommodated,
I am not very tranquil in my mind.

I thought when the coach stopped here there would be some one
to meet me;
I looked anxiously round as I descended the wooden steps the
"boots"
placed
for my convenience,
expecting
to hear my name pronounced,
and
to see some description of carriage waiting
to convey me
to Thornfield.

Nothing of the sort was visible;
and when I asked a waiter if any one had been
to inquire after a Miss Eyre,
I was answered in the negative:

so I had no resource but
to request
to be shown into a private room:

and here I am waiting,
while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling my thoughts.

It is a very strange sensation
to inexperienced youth
to feel itself quite alone in the world,
cut adrift from every connection,
uncertain whether the port
to which it is bound can be reached,
and prevented by many impediments from returning
to that it has quitted.

The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation,
the glow of pride warms it;
but then the throb of fear disturbs it;
and fear
with me became predominant when half-an-hour elapsed and still I was alone.

I bethought myself
to ring the bell.

"Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?"
I asked of the waiter who answered the summons.

"Thornfield?

I don't know,
ma'am;
I'll inquire at the bar."

He vanished,
but reappeared instantly -
"Is your name Eyre,
Miss?"
"Yes."

"Person here waiting
for you."

I jumped up,
took my muff and umbrella,
and hastened into the inn- passage:

a man was standing by the open door,
and in the lamp-lit street I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance.

"This will be your luggage,
I suppose?"
said the man rather abruptly when he saw me,
pointing
to my trunk in the passage.

"Yes."

He hoisted it on
to the vehicle,
which was a sort of car,
and then I got in;
before he shut me up,
I asked him how far it was
to Thornfield.

"A matter of six miles."

"How long shall we be before we get there?"
"Happen an hour and a half."

He fastened the car door,
climbed
to his own seat outside,
and we set off.

Our progress was leisurely,
and gave me ample time
to reflect;
I was content
to be at length so near the end of my journey;
and as I leaned back in the comfortable though not elegant conveyance,
I meditated much at my ease.

"I suppose,"
thought I,
"judging from the plainness of the servant and carriage,
Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person:

so much the better;
I never lived amongst fine people but once,
and I was very miserable
with them.

I wonder if she lives alone except this little girl;
if so,
and if she is in any degree amiable,
I shall surely be able
to get on
with her;
I will do my best;
it is a pity that doing one's best does not always answer.

At Lowood,
indeed,
I took that resolution,
kept it,
and succeeded in pleasing;
but
with Mrs. Reed,
I remember my best was always spurned
with scorn.

I pray God Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed;
but if she does,
I am not bound
to stay
with her! let the worst come
to the worst,
I can advertise again.

How far are we on our road now,
I wonder?"
I let down the window and looked out;
Millcote was behind us;
judging by the number of its lights,
it seemed a place of considerable magnitude,
much larger than Lowton.

We were now,
as far as I could see,
on a sort of common;
but there were houses scattered all over the district;
I felt we were in a different region
to Lowood,
more populous,
less picturesque;
more stirring,
less romantic.

The roads were heavy,
the night misty;
my conductor let his horse walk all the way,
and the hour and a half extended,
I verify 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 dare say your own hands are almost numbed
with cold.

Leah,
make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two:

here are the keys of the storeroom."

And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys,
and delivered them
to the servant.

"Now,
then,
draw nearer
to the fire,"
she continued.

"You've brought your luggage
with you,
haven't you,
my dear?"
"Yes,
ma'am."

"I'll see it carried into your room,"
she said,
and bustled out.

"She treats me like a visitor,"
thought I.

"I little expected such a reception;
I anticipated only coldness and stiffness:

this is not like what I have heard of the treatment of governesses;
but I must not exult too soon."

She returned;
with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a book or two from the table,
to make room
for the tray which Leah now brought,
and then herself handed me the refreshments.

I felt rather confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before received,
and,
that too,
shown by my employer and superior;
but as she did not herself seem
to consider she was doing anything out of her place,
I thought it better
to take her civilities quietly.

"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?"
I asked,
when I had partaken of what she offered me.

"What did you say,
my dear?

I am a little deaf,"
returned the good lady,
approaching her ear
to my mouth.

I repeated the question more distinctly.

"Miss Fairfax?

Oh,
you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your future pupil."

"Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?"
"No,--I have no family."

I should have followed up my first inquiry,
by asking in what way Miss Varens was connected
with her;
but I recollected it was not polite
to ask too many questions:

besides,
I was sure
to hear in time.

"I am so glad,"
she continued,
as she sat down opposite
to me,
and took the cat on her knee;
"I am so glad you are come;
it will be quite pleasant living here now
with a companion.

To be sure it is pleasant at any time;
for Thornfield is a fine old hall,
rather neglected of late years perhaps,
but still it is a respectable place;
yet you know in winter-time one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters.

I say alone--Leah is a nice girl
to be sure,
and John and his wife are very decent people;
but then you see they are only servants,
and one can't converse
with them on terms of equality:

one must keep them at due distance,
for fear of losing one's authority.

I'm sure last winter
(it was a very severe one,
if you recollect,
and when it did not snow,
it rained and blew),
not a creature but the butcher and postman came
to the house,
from November till February;
and I really got quite melancholy
with sitting night after night alone;
I had Leah in
to read
to me sometimes;
but I don't think the poor girl liked the task much:

she felt it confining.

In spring and summer one got on better:

sunshine and long days make such a difference;
and then,
just at the commencement of this autumn,
little Adela Varens came and her nurse:

a child makes a house alive all at once;
and now you are here I shall be quite gay."

My heart really warmed
to the worthy lady as I heard her talk;
and I drew my chair a little nearer
to her,
and expressed my sincere wish that she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.

"But I'll not keep you sitting up late to-night,"
said she;
"it is on the stroke of twelve now,
and you have been travelling all day:

you must feel tired.

If you have got your feet well warmed,
I'll show you your bedroom.

I've had the room next
to mine prepared
for you;
it is only a small apartment,
but I thought you would like it better than one of the large front chambers:

to be sure they have finer furniture,
but they are so dreary and solitary,
I never sleep in them myself."

I thanked her
for her considerate choice,
and as I really felt fatigued
with my long journey,
expressed my readiness
to retire.

She took her candle,
and I followed her from the room.

First she went
to see if the hall-door was fastened;
having taken the key from the lock,
she led the way upstairs.

The steps and banisters were of oak;
the staircase window was high and latticed;
both it and the long gallery into which the bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged
to a church rather than a house.

A very chill and vault- like air pervaded the stairs and gallery,
suggesting cheerless ideas of space and solitude;
and I was glad,
when finally ushered into my chamber,
to find it of small dimensions,
and furnished in ordinary,
modern style.

When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night,
and I had fastened my door,
gazed leisurely round,
and in some measure effaced the eerie impression made by that wide hall,
that dark and spacious staircase,
and that long,
cold gallery,
by the livelier aspect of my little room,
I remembered that,
after a day of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety,
I was now at last in safe haven.

The impulse of gratitude swelled my heart,
and I knelt down at the bedside,
and offered up thanks where thanks were due;
not forgetting,
ere I rose,
to implore aid on my further path,
and the power of meriting the kindness which seemed so frankly offered me before it was earned.

My couch had no thorns in it that night;
my solitary room no fears.

At once weary and content,
I slept soon and soundly:

when I awoke it was broad day.

The chamber looked such a bright little place
to me as the sun shone in between the gay blue chintz window curtains,
showing papered walls and a carpeted floor,
so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of Lowood,
that my spirits rose at the view.

Externals have a great effect on the young:

I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning
for me,
one that was
to have its flowers and pleasures,
as well as its thorns and toils.

My faculties,
roused by the change of scene,
the new field offered
to hope,
seemed all astir.

I cannot precisely define what they expected,
but it was something pleasant:

not perhaps that day or that month,
but at an indefinite future period.

I rose;
I dressed myself
with care:

obliged
to be plain--for I had no article of attire that was not made
with extreme simplicity--I was still by nature solicitous
to be neat.

It was not my habit
to be disregardful of appearance or careless of the impression I made:

on the contrary,
I ever wished
to look as well as I could,
and
to please as much as my want of beauty would permit.

I sometimes regretted that I was not handsomer;
I sometimes wished
to have rosy cheeks,
a straight nose,
and small cherry mouth;
I desired
to be tall,
stately,
and finely developed in figure;
I felt it a misfortune that I was so little,
so pale,
and had features so irregular and so marked.

And why had I these aspirations and these regrets?

It would be difficult
to say:

I could not then distinctly say it
to myself;
yet I had a reason,
and a logical,
natural reason too.

However,
when I had brushed my hair very smooth,
and put on my black frock--which,
Quakerlike as it was,
at least had the merit of fitting
to a nicety--and adjusted my clean white tucker,
I thought I should do respectably enough
to appear before Mrs. Fairfax,
and that my new pupil would not at least recoil from me
with antipathy.

Having opened my chamber window,
and seen that I left all things straight and neat on the toilet table,
I ventured forth.

Traversing the long and matted gallery,
I descended the slippery steps of oak;
then I gained the hall:

I halted there a minute;
I looked at some pictures on the walls
(one,
I remember,
represented a grim man in a cuirass,
and one a lady
with powdered hair and a pearl necklace),
at a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling,
at a great clock whose case was of oak curiously carved,
and ebon black
with time and rubbing.

Everything appeared very stately and imposing
to me;
but then I was so little accustomed
to grandeur.

The hall-door,
which was half of glass,
stood open;
I stepped over the threshold.

It was a fine autumn morning;
the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields;
advancing on
to the lawn,
I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion.

It was three storeys high,
of proportions not vast,
though considerable:

a gentleman's manor-house,
not a nobleman's seat:

battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look.

Its grey front stood out well from the background of a rookery,
whose cawing tenants were now on the wing:

they flew over the lawn and grounds
to alight in a great meadow,
from which these were separated by a sunk fence,
and where an array of mighty old thorn trees,
strong,
knotty,
and broad as oaks,
at once explained the etymology of the mansion's designation.

Farther off were hills:

not so lofty as those round Lowood,
nor so craggy,
nor so like barriers of separation from the living world;
but yet quiet and lonely hills enough,
and seeming
to embrace Thornfield
with a seclusion I had not expected
to find existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote.

A little hamlet,
whose roofs were blent
with trees,
straggled up the side of one of these hills;
the church of the district stood nearer Thornfield:

its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the house and gates.

I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air,
yet listening
with delight
to the cawing of the rooks,
yet surveying the wide,
hoary front of the hall,
and thinking what a great place it was
for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax
to inhabit,
when that lady appeared at the door.

"What! out already?"
said she.

"I see you are an early riser."

I went up
to her,
and was received
with an affable kiss and shake of the hand.

"How do you like Thornfield?"
she asked.

I told her I liked it very much.

"Yes,"
she said,
"it is a pretty place;
but I fear it will be getting out of order,
unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head
to come and reside here permanently;
or,
at least,
visit it rather oftener:

great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor."

"Mr. Rochester!"
I exclaimed.

"Who is he?"
"The owner of Thornfield,"
she responded quietly.

"Did you not know he was called Rochester?"
Of course I did not--I had never heard of him before;
but the old lady seemed
to regard his existence as a universally understood fact,
with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

"I thought,"
I continued,
"Thornfield belonged
to you."

"To me?

Bless you,
child;
what an idea!
to me! I am only the housekeeper--the manager.

To be sure I am distantly related
to the Rochesters by the mother's side,
or at least my husband was;
he was a clergyman,
incumbent of Hay--that little village yonder on the hill--and that church near the gates was his.

The present Mr. Rochester's mother was a Fairfax,
and second cousin
to my husband:

but I never presume on the connection--in fact,
it is nothing
to me;
I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper:

my employer is always civil,
and I expect nothing more."

"And the little girl--my pupil!"
"She is Mr. Rochester's ward;
he commissioned me
to find a governess
for her.

He intended
to have her brought up in -shire,
I believe.

Here she comes,
with her
'bonne,'
as she calls her nurse."

The enigma then was explained:

this affable and kind little widow was no great dame;
but a dependant like myself.

I did not like her the worse
for that;
on the contrary,
I felt better pleased than ever.

The equality between her and me was real;
not the mere result of condescension on her part:

so much the better--my position was all the freer.

As I was meditating on this discovery,
a little girl,
followed by her attendant,
came running up the lawn.

I looked at my pupil,
who did not at first appear
to notice me:

she was quite a child,
perhaps seven or eight years old,
slightly built,
with a pale,
small-featured face,
and a redundancy of hair falling in curls
to her waist.

"Good morning,
Miss Adela,"
said Mrs. Fairfax.

"Come and speak
to the lady who is
to teach you,
and
to make you a clever woman some day."

She approached.

"C'est le ma gouverante!"
said she,
pointing
to me,
and addressing her nurse;
who answered -
"Mais oui,
certainement."

"Are they foreigners?"
I inquired,
amazed at hearing the French language.

"The nurse is a foreigner,
and Adela was born on the Continent;
and,
I believe,
never left it till within six months ago.

When she first came here she could speak no English;
now she can make shift
to talk it a little:

I don't understand her,
she mixes it so
with French;
but you will make out her meaning very well,
I dare say."

Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French lady;
and as I had always made a point of conversing
with Madame Pierrot as often as I could,
and had besides,
during the last seven years,
learnt a portion of French by heart daily--applying myself
to take pains
with my accent,
and imitating as closely as possible the pronunciation of my teacher,
I had acquired a certain degree of readiness and correctness in the language,
and was not likely
to be much at a loss
with Mademoiselle Adela.

She came and shook hand
with me when she heard that I was her governess;
and as I led her in
to breakfast,
I addressed some phrases
to her in her own tongue:

she replied briefly at first,
but after we were seated at the table,
and she had examined me some ten minutes
with her large hazel eyes,
she suddenly commenced chattering fluently.

"Ah!"
cried she,
in French,
"you speak my language as well as Mr. Rochester does:

I can talk
to you as I can
to him,
and so can Sophie.

She will be glad:

nobody here understands her:

Madame Fairfax is all English.

Sophie is my nurse;
she came
with me over the sea in a great ship
with a chimney that smoked--how it did smoke!--and I was sick,
and so was Sophie,
and so was Mr. Rochester.

Mr. Rochester lay down on a sofa in a pretty room called the salon,
and Sophie and I had little beds in another place.

I nearly fell out of mine;
it was like a shelf.

And Mademoiselle--what is your name?"
"Eyre--Jane Eyre."

"Aire?

Bah! I cannot say it.

Well,
our ship stopped in the morning,
before it was quite daylight,
at a great city--a huge city,
with very dark houses and all smoky;
not at all like the pretty clean town I came from;
and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank
to the land,
and Sophie came after,
and we all got into a coach,
which took us
to a beautiful large house,
larger than this and finer,
called an hotel.

We stayed there nearly a week:

I and Sophie used
to walk every day in a great green place full of trees,
called the Park;
and there were many children there besides me,
and a pond
with beautiful birds in it,
that I fed
with crumbs."

"Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?"
asked Mrs. Fairfax.

I understood her very well,
for I had been accustomed
to the fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot.

"I wish,"
continued the good lady,
"you would ask her a question or two about her parents:

I wonder if she remembers them?"
"Adele,"
I inquired,
"with whom did you live when you were in that pretty clean town you spoke of?"
"I lived long ago
with mama;
but she is gone
to the Holy Virgin.

Mama used
to teach me
to dance and sing,
and
to say verses.

A great many gentlemen and ladies came
to see mama,
and I used
to dance before them,
or
to sit on their knees and sing
to them:

I liked it.

Shall I let you hear me sing now?"
She had finished her breakfast,
so I permitted her
to give a specimen of her accomplishments.

Descending from her chair,
she came and placed herself on my knee;
then,
folding her little hands demurely before her,
shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes
to the ceiling,
she commenced singing a song from some opera.

It was the strain of a forsaken lady,
who,
after bewailing the perfidy of her lover,
calls pride
to her aid;
desires her attendant
to deck her in her brightest jewels and richest robes,
and resolves
to meet the false one that night at a ball,
and prove
to him,
by the gaiety of her demeanour,
how little his desertion has affected her.

The subject seemed strangely chosen
for an infant singer;
but I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and jealousy warbled
with the lisp of childhood;
and in very bad taste that point was:

at least I thought so.

Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough,
and
with the naivete of her age.

This achieved,
she jumped from my knee and said,
"Now,
Mademoiselle,
I will repeat you some poetry."

Assuming an attitude,
she began,
"La Ligue des Rats:

fable de La Fontaine."

She then declaimed the little piece
with an attention
to punctuation and emphasis,
a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness of gesture,
very unusual indeed at her age,
and which proved she had been carefully trained.

"Was it your mama who taught you that piece?"
I asked.

"Yes,
and she just used
to say it in this way:

'Qu'
avez vous donc?

lui dit un de ces rats;
parlez!'
She made me lift my hand--so--to remind me
to raise my voice at the question.

Now shall I dance
for you?"
"No,
that will do:

but after your mama went
to the Holy Virgin,
as you say,
with whom did you live then?"
"With Madame Frederic and her husband:

she took care of me,
but she is nothing related
to me.

I think she is poor,
for she had not so fine a house as mama.

I was not long there.

Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like
to go and live
with him in England,
and I said yes;
for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Madame Frederic,
and he was always kind
to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys:

but you see he has not kept his word,
for he has brought me
to England,
and now he is gone back again himself,
and I never see him."

After breakfast,
Adele and I withdrew
to the library,
which room,
it appears,
Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the schoolroom.

Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors;
but there was one bookcase left open containing everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works,
and several volumes of light literature,
poetry,
biography,
travels,
a few romances,
&c.

I suppose he had considered that these were all the governess would require
for her private perusal;
and,
indeed,
they contented me amply
for the present;
compared
with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able
to glean at Lowood,
they seemed
to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and information.

In this room,
too,
there was a cabinet piano,
quite new and of superior tone;
also an easel
for painting and a pair of globes.

I found my pupil sufficiently docile,
though disinclined
to apply:

she had not been used
to regular occupation of any kind.

I felt it would be injudicious
to confine her too much at first;
so,
when I had talked
to her a great deal,
and got her
to learn a little,
and when the morning had advanced
to noon,
I allowed her
to return
to her nurse.

I then proposed
to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little sketches
for her use.

As I was going upstairs
to fetch my portfolio and pencils,
Mrs. Fairfax called
to me:

"Your morning school-hours are over now,
I suppose,"
said she.

She was in a room the folding-doors of which stood open:

I went in when she addressed me.

It was a large,
stately apartment,
with purple chairs and curtains,
a Turkey carpet,
walnut-panelled walls,
one vast window rich in slanted glass,
and a lofty ceiling,
nobly moulded.

Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases of fine purple spar,
which stood on a sideboard.

"What a beautiful room!"
I exclaimed,
as I looked round;
for I had never before seen any half so imposing.

"Yes;
this is the dining-room.

I have just opened the window,
to let in a little air and sunshine;
for everything gets so damp in apartments that are seldom inhabited;
the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault."

She pointed
to a wide arch corresponding
to the window,
and hung like it
with a Tyrian-dyed curtain,
now looped up.

Mounting
to it by two broad steps,
and looking through,
I thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy place,
so bright
to my novice-eyes appeared the view beyond.

Yet it was merely a very pretty drawing-room,
and within it a boudoir,
both spread
with white carpets,
on which seemed laid brilliant garlands of flowers;
both ceiled
with snowy mouldings of white grapes and vine-leaves,
beneath which glowed in rich contrast crimson couches and ottomans;
while the ornaments on the pale Pariain mantelpiece were of sparkling Bohemian glass,
ruby red;
and between the windows large mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.

"In what order you keep these rooms,
Mrs. Fairfax!"
said I.

"No dust,
no canvas coverings:

except that the air feels chilly,
one would think they were inhabited daily."

"Why,
Miss Eyre,
though Mr. Rochester's visits here are rare,
they are always sudden and unexpected;
and as I observed that it put him out
to find everything swathed up,
and
to have a bustle of arrangement on his arrival,
I thought it best
to keep the rooms in readiness."

"Is Mr. Rochester an exacting,
fastidious sort of man?"
"Not particularly so;
but he has a gentleman's tastes and habits,
and he expects
to have things managed in conformity
to them."

"Do you like him?

Is he generally liked?"
"Oh,
yes;
the family have always been respected here.

Almost all the land in this neighbourhood,
as far as you can see,
has belonged
to the Rochesters time out of mind."

"Well,
but,
leaving his land out of the question,
do you like him?

Is he liked
for himself?"
"I have no cause
to do otherwise than like him;
and I believe he is considered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants:

but he has never lived much amongst them."

"But has he no peculiarities?

What,
in short,
is his character?"
"Oh! his character is unimpeachable,
I suppose.

He is rather peculiar,
perhaps:

he has travelled a great deal,
and seen a great deal of the world,
I should think.

I dare say he is clever,
but I never had much conversation
with him."

"In what way is he peculiar?"
"I don't know--it is not easy
to describe--nothing striking,
but you feel it when he speaks
to you;
you cannot be always sure whether he is in jest or earnest,
whether he is pleased or the contrary;
you don't thoroughly understand him,
in short--at least,
I don't:

but it is of no consequence,
he is a very good master."

This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer and mine.

There are people who seem
to have no notion of sketching a character,
or observing and describing salient points,
either in persons or things:

the good lady evidently belonged
to this class;
my queries puzzled,
but did not draw her out.

Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester in her eyes;
a gentleman,
a landed proprietor--nothing more:

she inquired and searched no further,
and evidently wondered at my wish
to gain a more definite notion of his identity.

When we left the dining-room,
she proposed
to show me over the rest of the house;
and I followed her upstairs and downstairs,
admiring as I went;
for all was well arranged and handsome.

The large front chambers I thought especially grand:

and some of the third-storey rooms,
though dark and low,
were interesting from their air of antiquity.

The furniture once appropriated
to the lower apartments had from time
to time been removed here,
as fashions changed:

and the imperfect light entering by their narrow casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years old;
chests in oak or walnut,
looking,
with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs'
heads,
like types of the Hebrew ark;
rows of venerable chairs,
high-backed and narrow;
stools still more antiquated,
on whose cushioned tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries,
wrought by fingers that
for two generations had been coffin-dust.

All these relics gave
to the third storey of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a home of the past:

a shrine of memory.

I liked the hush,
the gloom,
the quaintness of these retreats in the day;
but I by no means coveted a night's repose on one of those wide and heavy beds:

shut in,
some of them,
with doors of oak;
shaded,
others,
with wrought old English hangings crusted
with thick work,
portraying effigies of strange flowers,
and stranger birds,
and strangest human beings,-- all which would have looked strange,
indeed,
by the pallid gleam of moonlight.

"Do the servants sleep in these rooms?"
I asked.

"No;
they occupy a range of smaller apartments
to the back;
no one ever sleeps here:

one would almost say that,
if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall,
this would be its haunt."

"So I think:

you have no ghost,
then?"
"None that I ever heard of,"
returned Mrs. Fairfax,
smiling.

"Nor any traditions of one?

no legends or ghost stories?"
"I believe not.

And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a violent than a quiet race in their time:

perhaps,
though,
that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now."

"Yes--'after life's fitful fever they sleep well,'"
I muttered.

"Where are you going now,
Mrs. Fairfax?"
for she was moving away.

"On
to the leads;
will you come and see the view from thence?"
I followed still,
up a very narrow staircase
to the attics,
and thence by a ladder and through a trap-door
to the roof of the hall.

I was now on a level
with the crow colony,
and could see into their nests.

Leaning over the battlements and looking far down,
I surveyed the grounds laid out like a map:

the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey base of the mansion;
the field,
wide as a park,
dotted
with its ancient timber;
the wood,
dun and sere,
divided by a path visibly overgrown,
greener
with moss than the trees were
with foliage;
the church at the gates,
the road,
the tranquil hills,
all reposing in the autumn day's sun;
the horizon bounded by a propitious sky,
azure,
marbled
with pearly white.

No feature in the scene was extraordinary,
but all was pleasing.

When I turned from it and repassed the trap-door,
I could scarcely see my way down the ladder;
the attic seemed black as a vault compared
with that arch of blue air
to which I had been looking up,
and
to that sunlit scene of grove,
pasture,
and green hill,
of which the hall was the centre,
and over which I had been gazing
with delight.

Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment
to fasten the trap-door;
I,
by drift of groping,
found the outlet from the attic,
and proceeded
to descend the narrow garret staircase.

I lingered in the long passage
to which this led,
separating the front and back rooms of the third storey:

narrow,
low,
and dim,
with only one little window at the far end,
and looking,
with its two rows of small black doors all shut,
like a corridor in some Bluebeard's castle.

While I paced softly on,
the last sound I expected
to hear in so still a region,
a laugh,
struck my ear.

It was a curious laugh;
distinct,
formal,
mirthless.

I stopped:

the sound ceased,
only
for an instant;
it began again,
louder:

for at first,
though distinct,
it was very low.

It passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed
to wake an echo in every lonely chamber;
though it originated but in one,
and I could have pointed out the door whence the accents issued.

"Mrs. Fairfax!"
I called out:

for I now heard her descending the great stairs.

"Did you hear that loud laugh?

Who is it?"
"Some of the servants,
very likely,"
she answered:

"perhaps Grace Poole."

"Did you hear it?"
I again inquired.

"Yes,
plainly:

I often hear her:

she sews in one of these rooMs. Sometimes Leah is
with her;
they are frequently noisy together."

The laugh was repeated in its low,
syllabic tone,
and terminated in an odd murmur.

"Grace!"
exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I really did not expect any Grace
to answer;
for the laugh was as tragic,
as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard;
and,
but that it was high noon,
and that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the curious cachinnation;
but that neither scene nor season favoured fear,
I should have been superstitiously afraid.

However,
the event showed me I was a fool
for entertaining a sense even of surprise.

The door nearest me opened,
and a servant came out,--a woman of between thirty and forty;
a set,
square-made figure,
red-haired,
and
with a hard,
plain face:

any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could scarcely be conceived.

"Too much noise,
Grace,"
said Mrs. Fairfax.

"Remember directions!"
Grace curtseyed silently and went in.

"She is a person we have
to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid's work,"
continued the widow;
"not altogether unobjectionable in some points,
but she does well enough.

By-the-bye,
how have you got on
with your new pupil this morning?"
The conversation,
thus turned on Adele,
continued till we reached the light and cheerful region below.

Adele came running
to meet us in the hall,
exclaiming -
"Mesdames,
vous etes servies!"
adding,
"J'ai bien faim,
moi!"
We found dinner ready,
and waiting
for us in Mrs. Fairfax's room.

CHAPTER XII The promise of a smooth career,
which my first calm introduction
to Thornfield Hall seemed
to pledge,
was not belied on a longer acquaintance
with the place and its inmates.

Mrs. Fairfax turned out
to be what she appeared,
a placid-tempered,
kind-natured woman,
of competent education and average intelligence.

My pupil was a lively child,
who had been spoilt and indulged,
and therefore was sometimes wayward;
but as she was committed entirely
to my care,
and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans
for her improvement,
she soon forgot her little freaks,
and became obedient and teachable.

She had no great talents,
no marked traits of character,
no peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinary level of childhood;
but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk her below it.

She made reasonable progress,
entertained
for me a vivacious,
though perhaps not very profound,
affection;
and by her simplicity,
gay prattle,
and efforts
to please,
inspired me,
in return,
with a degree of attachment sufficient
to make us both content in each other's society.

This,
par parenthese,
will be thought cool language by persons who entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children,
and the duty of those charged
with their education
to conceive
for them an idolatrous devotion:

but I am not writing
to flatter parental egotism,
to echo cant,
or prop up humbug;
I am merely telling the truth.

I felt a conscientious solicitude
for Adele's welfare and progress,
and a quiet liking
for her little self:

just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness
for her kindness,
and a pleasure in her society proportionate
to the tranquil regard she had
for me,
and the moderation of her mind and character.

Anybody may blame me who likes,
when I add further,
that,
now and then,
when I took a walk by myself in the grounds;
when I went down
to the gates and looked through them along the road;
or when,
while Adele played
with her nurse,
and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom,
I climbed the three staircases,
raised the trap-door of the attic,
and having reached the leads,
looked out afar over sequestered field and hill,
and along dim sky-line--that then I longed
for a power of vision which might overpass that limit;
which might reach the busy world,
towns,
regions full of life I had heard of but never seen--that then I desired more of practical experience than I possessed;
more of intercourse
with my kind,
of acquaintance
with variety of character,
than was here within my reach.

I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax,
and what was good in Adele;
but I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness,
and what I believed in I wished
to behold.

Who blames me?

Many,
no doubt;
and I shall be called discontented.

I could not help it:

the restlessness was in my nature;
it agitated me
to pain sometimes.

Then my sole relief was
to walk along the corridor of the third storey,
backwards and forwards,
safe in the silence and solitude of the spot,
and allow my mind's eye
to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it--and,
certainly,
they were many and glowing;
to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement,
which,
while it swelled it in trouble,
expanded it
with life;
and,
best of all,
to open my inward ear
to a tale that was never ended--a tale my imagination created,
and narrated continuously;
quickened
with all of incident,
life,
fire,
feeling,
that I desired and had not in my actual existence.

It is in vain
to say human beings ought
to be satisfied
with tranquillity:

they must have action;
and they will make it if they cannot find it.

Millions are condemned
to a stiller doom than mine,
and millions are in silent revolt against their lot.

Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth.

Women are supposed
to be very calm generally:

but women feel just as men feel;
they need exercise
for their faculties,
and a field
for their efforts,
as much as their brothers do;
they suffer from too rigid a restraint,
too absolute a stagnation,
precisely as men would suffer;
and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures
to say that they ought
to confine themselves
to making puddings and knitting stockings,
to playing on the piano and embroidering bags.

It is thoughtless
to condemn them,
or laugh at them,
if they seek
to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary
for their sex.

When thus alone,
I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole's laugh:

the same peal,
the same low,
slow ha! ha! which,
when first heard,
had thrilled me:

I heard,
too,
her eccentric murmurs;
stranger than her laugh.

There were days when she was quite silent;
but there were others when I could not account
for the sounds she made.

Sometimes I saw her:

she would come out of her room
with a basin,
or a plate,
or a tray in her hand,
go down
to the kitchen and shortly return,
generally
(oh,
romantic reader,
forgive me
for telling the plain truth!)
bearing a pot of porter.

Her appearance always acted as a damper
to the curiosity raised by her oral oddities:

hard-featured and staid,
she had no point
to which interest could attach.

I made some attempts
to draw her into conversation,
but she seemed a person of few words:

a monosyllabic reply usually cut short every effort of that sort.

The other members of the household,
viz.,
John and his wife,
Leah the housemaid,
and Sophie the French nurse,
were decent people;
but in no respect remarkable;
with Sophie I used
to talk French,
and sometimes I asked her questions about her native country;
but she was not of a descriptive or narrative turn,
and generally gave such vapid and confused answers as were calculated rather
to check than encourage inquiry.

October,
November,
December passed away.

One afternoon in January,
Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday
for Adele,
because she had a cold;
and,
as Adele seconded the request
with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidays had been
to me in my own childhood,
I accorded it,
deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point.

It was a fine,
calm day,
though very cold;
I was tired of sitting still in the library through a whole long morning:

Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting
to be posted,
so I put on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered
to carry it
to Hay;
the distance,
two miles,
would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk.

Having seen Adele comfortably seated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax's parlour fireside,
and given her her best wax doll
(which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a drawer)
to play with,
and a story-book
for change of amusement;
and having replied
to her
"Revenez bientot,
ma bonne amie,
ma chere Mdlle.

Jeannette,"
with a kiss I set out.

The ground was hard,
the air was still,
my road was lonely;
I walked fast till I got warm,
and then I walked slowly
to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding
for me in the hour and situation.

It was three o'clock;
the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry:

the charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness,
in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun.

I was a mile from Thornfield,
in a lane noted
for wild roses in summer,
for nuts and blackberries in autumn,
and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws,
but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose.

If a breath of air stirred,
it made no sound here;
for there was not a holly,
not an evergreen
to rustle,
and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white,
worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path.

Far and wide,
on each side,
there were only fields,
where no cattle now browsed;
and the little brown birds,
which stirred occasionally in the hedge,
looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten
to drop.

This lane inclined up-hill all the way
to Hay;
having reached the middle,
I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field.

Gathering my mantle about me,
and sheltering my hands in my muff,
I did not feel the cold,
though it froze keenly;
as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the causeway,
where a little brooklet,
now congealed,
had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days since.

From my seat I could look down on Thornfield:

the grey and battlemented hall was the principal object in the vale below me;
its woods and dark rookery rose against the west.

I lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees,
and sank crimson and clear behind them.

I then turned eastward.

On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon;
pale yet as a cloud,
but brightening momentarily,
she looked over Hay,
which,
half lost in trees,
sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys:

it was yet a mile distant,
but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life.

My ear,
too,
felt the flow of currents;
in what dales and depths I could not tell:

but there were many hills beyond Hay,
and doubtless many becks threading their passes.

That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams,
the sough of the most remote.

A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings,
at once so far away and so clear:

a positive tramp,
tramp,
a metallic clatter,
which effaced the soft wave-wanderings;
as,
in a picture,
the solid mass of a crag,
or the rough boles of a great oak,
drawn in dark and strong on the foreground,
efface the aerial distance of azure hill,
sunny horizon,
and blended clouds where tint melts into tint.

The din was on the causeway:

a horse was coming;
the windings of the lane yet hid it,
but it approached.

I was just leaving the stile;
yet,
as the path was narrow,
I sat still
to let it go by.

In those days I was young,
and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind:

the memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish;
and when they recurred,
maturing youth added
to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give.

As this horse approached,
and as I watched
for it
to appear through the dusk,
I remembered certain of Bessie's tales,
wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a
"Gytrash,"
which,
in the form of horse,
mule,
or large dog,
haunted solitary ways,
and sometimes came upon belated travellers,
as this horse was now coming upon me.

It was very near,
but not yet in sight;
when,
in addition
to the tramp,
tramp,
I heard a rush under the hedge,
and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog,
whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the trees.

It was exactly one form of Bessie's Gytrash--a lion-like creature
with long hair and a huge head:

it passed me,
however,
quietly enough;
not staying
to look up,
with strange pretercanine eyes,
in my face,
as I half expected it would.

The horse followed,--a tall steed,
and on its back a rider.

The man,
the human being,
broke the spell at once.

Nothing ever rode the Gytrash:

it was always alone;
and goblins,
to my notions,
though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts,
could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form.

No Gytrash was this,--only a traveller taking the short cut
to Millcote.

He passed,
and I went on;
a few steps,
and I turned:

a sliding sound and an exclamation of
"What the deuce is
to do now?"
and a clattering tumble,
arrested my attention.

Man and horse were down;
they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway.

The dog came bounding back,
and seeing his master in a predicament,
and hearing the horse groan,
barked till the evening hills echoed the sound,
which was deep in proportion
to his magnitude.

He snuffed round the prostrate group,
and then he ran up
to me;
it was all he could do,--there was no other help at hand
to summon.

I obeyed him,
and walked down
to the traveller,
by this time struggling himself free of his steed.

His efforts were so vigorous,
I thought he could not be much hurt;
but I asked him the question -
"Are you injured,
sir?"
I think he was swearing,
but am not certain;
however,
he was pronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying
to me directly.

"Can I do anything?"
I asked again.

"You must just stand on one side,"
he answered as he rose,
first
to his knees,
and then
to his feet.

I did;
whereupon began a heaving,
stamping,
clattering process,
accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually some yards'
distance;
but I would not be driven quite away till I saw the event.

This was finally fortunate;
the horse was re-established,
and the dog was silenced
with a
"Down,
Pilot!"
The traveller now,
stooping,
felt his foot and leg,
as if trying whether they were sound;
apparently something ailed them,
for he halted
to the stile whence I had just risen,
and sat down.

I was in the mood
for being useful,
or at least officious,
I think,
for I now drew near him again.

"If you are hurt,
and want help,
sir,
I can fetch some one either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay."

"Thank you:

I shall do:

I have no broken bones,--only a sprain;"
and again he stood up and tried his foot,
but the result extorted an involuntary
"Ugh!"
Something of daylight still lingered,
and the moon was waxing bright:

I could see him plainly.

His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak,
fur collared and steel clasped;
its details were not apparent,
but I traced the general points of middle height and considerable breadth of chest.

He had a dark face,
with stern features and a heavy brow;
his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now;
he was past youth,
but had not reached middle-age;
perhaps he might be thirty-five.

I felt no fear of him,
and but little shyness.

Had he been a handsome,
heroic-looking young gentleman,
I should not have dared
to stand thus questioning him against his will,
and offering my services unasked.

I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth;
never in my life spoken
to one.

I had a theoretical reverence and homage
for beauty,
elegance,
gallantry,
fascination;
but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape,
I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy
with anything in me,
and should have shunned them as one would fire,
lightning,
or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.

If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured
to me when I addressed him;
if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and
with thanks,
I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation
to renew inquiries:

but the frown,
the roughness of the traveller,
set me at my ease:

I retained my station when he waved
to me
to go,
and announced -
"I cannot think of leaving you,
sir,
at so late an hour,
in this solitary lane,
till I see you are fit
to mount your horse."

He looked at me when I said this;
he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before.

"I should think you ought
to be at home yourself,"
said he,
"if you have a home in this neighbourhood:

where do you come from?"
"From just below;
and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight:

I will run over
to Hay
for you
with pleasure,
if you wish it:

indeed,
I am going there
to post a letter."

"You live just below--do you mean at that house
with the battlements?"
pointing
to Thornfield Hall,
on which the moon cast a hoary gleam,
bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods that,
by contrast
with the western sky,
now seemed one mass of shadow.

"Yes,
sir."

"Whose house is it?"
"Mr. Rochester's."

"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"
"No,
I have never seen him."

"He is not resident,
then?"
"No."

"Can you tell me where he is?"
"I cannot."

"You are not a servant at the hall,
of course.

You are--"
He stopped,
ran his eye over my dress,
which,
as usual,
was quite simple:

a black merino cloak,
a black beaver bonnet;
neither of them half fine enough
for a lady's-maid.

He seemed puzzled
to decide what I was;
I helped him.

"I am the governess."

"Ah,
the governess!"
he repeated;
"deuce take me,
if I had not forgotten! The governess!"
and again my raiment underwent scrutiny.

In two minutes he rose from the stile:

his face expressed pain when he tried
to move.

"I cannot commission you
to fetch help,"
he said;
"but you may help me a little yourself,
if you will be so kind."

"Yes,
sir."

"You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?"
"No."

"Try
to get hold of my horse's bridle and lead him
to me:

you are not afraid?"
I should have been afraid
to touch a horse when alone,
but when told
to do it,
I was disposed
to obey.

I put down my muff on the stile,
and went up
to the tall steed;
I endeavoured
to catch the bridle,
but it was a spirited thing,
and would not let me come near its head;
I made effort on effort,
though in vain:

meantime,
I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore-feet.

The traveller waited and watched
for some time,
and at last he laughed.

"I see,"
he said,
"the mountain will never be brought
to Mahomet,
so all you can do is
to aid Mahomet
to go
to the mountain;
I must beg of you
to come here."

I came.

"Excuse me,"
he continued:

"necessity compels me
to make you useful."

He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder,
and leaning on me
with some stress,
limped
to his horse.

Having once caught the bridle,
he mastered it directly and sprang
to his saddle;
grimacing grimly as he made the effort,
for it wrenched his sprain.

"Now,"
said he,
releasing his under lip from a hard bite,
"just hand me my whip;
it lies there under the hedge."

I sought it and found it.

"Thank you;
now make haste
with the letter
to Hay,
and return as fast as you can."

A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear,
and then bound away;
the dog rushed in his traces;
all three vanished,
"Like heath that,
in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away."

I took up my muff and walked on.

The incident had occurred and was gone
for me:

it WAS an incident of no moment,
no romance,
no interest in a sense;
yet it marked
with change one single hour of a monotonous life.

My help had been needed and claimed;
I had given it:

I was pleased
to have done something;
trivial,
transitory though the deed was,
it was yet an active thing,
and I was weary of an existence all passive.

The new face,
too,
was like a new picture introduced
to the gallery of memory;
and it was dissimilar
to all the others hanging there:

firstly,
because it was masculine;
and,
secondly,
because it was dark,
strong,
and stern.

I had it still before me when I entered Hay,
and slipped the letter into the post- office;
I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home.

When I came
to the stile,
I stopped a minute,
looked round and listened,
with an idea that a horse's hoofs might ring on the causeway again,
and that a rider in a cloak,
and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog,
might be again apparent:

I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me,
rising up still and straight
to meet the moonbeams;
I heard only the faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield,
a mile distant;
and when I glanced down in the direction of the murmur,
my eye,
traversing the hall-front,
caught a light kindling in a window:

it reminded me that I was late,
and I hurried on.

I did not like re-entering Thornfield.

To pass its threshold was
to return
to stagnation;
to cross the silent hall,
to ascend the darksome staircase,
to seek my own lonely little room,
and then
to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax,
and spend the long winter evening
with her,
and her only,
was
to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk,--to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too still existence;
of an existence whose very privileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciating.

What good it would have done me at that time
to have been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling life,
and
to have been taught by rough and bitter experience
to long
for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes,
just as much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a
"too easy chair"
to take a long walk:

and just as natural was the wish
to stir,
under my circumstances,
as it would be under his.

I lingered at the gates;
I lingered on the lawn;
I paced backwards and forwards on the pavement;
the shutters of the glass door were closed;
I could not see into the interior;
and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house--from the grey-hollow filled
with rayless cells,
as it appeared
to me--to that sky expanded before me,--a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud;
the moon ascending it in solemn march;
her orb seeming
to look up as she left the hill-tops,
from behind which she had come,
far and farther below her,
and aspired
to the zenith,
midnight dark in its fathomless depth and measureless distance;
and
for those trembling stars that followed her course;
they made my heart tremble,
my veins glow when I viewed them.

Little things recall us
to earth;
the clock struck in the hall;
that sufficed;
I turned from moon and stars,
opened a side-door,
and went in.

The hall was not dark,
nor yet was it lit,
only by the high-hung bronze lamp;
a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase.

This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room,
whose two-leaved door stood open,
and showed a genial fire in the grate,
glancing on marble hearth and brass fire-irons,
and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture,
in the most pleasant radiance.

It revealed,
too,
a group near the mantelpiece:

I had scarcely caught it,
and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices,
amongst which I seemed
to distinguish the tones of Adele,
when the door closed.

I hastened
to Mrs. Fairfax's room;
there was a fire there too,
but no candle,
and no Mrs. Fairfax.

Instead,
all alone,
sitting upright on the rug,
and gazing
with gravity at the blaze,
I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog,
just like the Gytrash of the lane.

It was so like it that I went forward and said--"Pilot"
and the thing got up and came
to me and snuffed me.

I caressed him,
and he wagged his great tail;
but he looked an eerie creature
to be alone with,
and I could not tell whence he had come.

I rang the bell,
for I wanted a candle;
and I wanted,
too,
to get an account of this visitant.

Leah entered.

"What dog is this?"
"He came
with master."

"With whom?"
"With master--Mr. Rochester--he is just arrived."

"Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax
with him?"
"Yes,
and Miss Adele;
they are in the dining-room,
and John is gone
for a surgeon;
for master has had an accident;
his horse fell and his ankle is sprained."

"Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?"
"Yes,
coming down-hill;
it slipped on some ice."

"Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?"
Leah brought it;
she entered,
followed by Mrs. Fairfax,
who repeated the news;
adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come,
and was now
with Mr. Rochester:

then she hurried out
to give orders about tea,
and I went upstairs
to take off my things.

CHAPTER XIII Mr. Rochester,
it seems,
by the surgeon's orders,
went
to bed early that night;
nor did he rise soon next morning.

When he did come down,
it was
to attend
to business:

his agent and some of his tenants were arrived,
and waiting
to speak
with him.

Adele and I had now
to vacate the library:

it would be in daily requisition as a reception-room
for callers.

A fire was lit in an apartment upstairs,
and there I carried our books,
and arranged it
for the future schoolroom.

I discerned in the course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed place:

no longer silent as a church,
it echoed every hour or two
to a knock at the door,
or a clang of the bell;
steps,
too,
often traversed the hall,
and new voices spoke in different keys below;
a rill from the outer world was flowing through it;
it had a master:

for my part,
I liked it better.

Adele was not easy
to teach that day;
she could not apply:

she kept running
to the door and looking over the banisters
to see if she could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester;
then she coined pretexts
to go downstairs,
in order,
as I shrewdly suspected,
to visit the library,
where I knew she was not wanted;
then,
when I got a little angry,
and made her sit still,
she continued
to talk incessantly of her
"ami,
Monsieur Edouard Fairfax DE Rochester,"
as she dubbed him
(I had not before heard his prenomens),
and
to conjecture what presents he had brought her:

for it appears he had intimated the night before,
that when his luggage came from Millcote,
there would be found amongst it a little box in whose contents she had an interest.

"Et cela doit signifier,"
said she,
"qu'il y aura le dedans un cadeau pour moi,
et peut-etre pour vous aussi,
mademoiselle.

Monsieur a parle de vous:

il m'a demande le nom de ma gouvernante,
et si elle n'etait pas une petite personne,
assez mince et un peu pale.

J'ai dit qu'oui:

car c'est vrai,
n'est-ce pas,
mademoiselle?"
I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax's parlour;
the afternoon was wild and snowy,
and we passed it in the schoolroom.

At dark I allowed Adele
to put away books and work,
and
to run downstairs;
for,
from the comparative silence below,
and from the cessation of appeals
to the door-bell,
I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at liberty.

Left alone,
I walked
to the window;
but nothing was
to be seen thence:

twilight and snowflakes together thickened the air,
and hid the very shrubs on the lawn.

I let down the curtain and went back
to the fireside.

In the clear embers I was tracing a view,
not unlike a picture I remembered
to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg,
on the Rhine,
when Mrs. Fairfax came in,
breaking up by her entrance the fiery mosaic I had been piercing together,
and scattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts that were beginning
to throng on my solitude.

"Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea
with him in the drawing-room this evening,"
said she:

"he has been so much engaged all day that he could not ask
to see you before."

"When is his tea-time?"
I inquired.

"Oh,
at six o'clock:

he keeps early hours in the country.

You had better change your frock now;
I will go
with you and fasten it.

Here is a candle."

"Is it necessary
to change my frock?"
"Yes,
you had better:

I always dress
for the evening when Mr. Rochester is here."

This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately;
however,
I repaired
to my room,
and,
with Mrs. Fairfax's aid,
replaced my black stuff dress by one of black silk;
the best and the only additional one I had,
except one of light grey,
which,
in my Lowood notions of the toilette,
I thought too fine
to be worn,
except on first-rate occasions.

"You want a brooch,"
said Mrs. Fairfax.

I had a single little pearl ornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake:

I put it on,
and then we went downstairs.

Unused as I was
to strangers,
it was rather a trial
to appear thus formally summoned in Mr. Rochester's presence.

I let Mrs. Fairfax precede me into the dining-room,
and kept in her shade as we crossed that apartment;
and,
passing the arch,
whose curtain was now dropped,
entered the elegant recess beyond.

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table,
and two on the mantelpiece;
basking in the light and heat of a superb fire,
lay Pilot--Adele knelt near him.

Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester,
his foot supported by the cushion;
he was looking at Adele and the dog:

the fire shone full on his face.

I knew my traveller
with his broad and jetty eyebrows;
his square forehead,
made squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair.

I recognised his decisive nose,
more remarkable
for character than beauty;
his full nostrils,
denoting,
I thought,
choler;
his grim mouth,
chin,
and jaw--yes,
all three were very grim,
and no mistake.

His shape,
now divested of cloak,
I perceived harmonised in squareness
with his physiognomy:

I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term--broad chested and thin flanked,
though neither tall nor graceful.

Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and myself;
but it appeared he was not in the mood
to notice us,
for he never lifted his head as we approached.

"Here is Miss Eyre,
sir,"
said Mrs. Fairfax,
in her quiet way.

He bowed,
still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child.

"Let Miss Eyre be seated,"
said he:

and there was something in the forced stiff bow,
in the impatient yet formal tone,
which seemed further
to express,
"What the deuce is it
to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not?

At this moment I am not disposed
to accost her."

I sat down quite disembarrassed.

A reception of finished politeness would probably have confused me:

I could not have returned or repaid it by answering grace and elegance on my part;
but harsh caprice laid me under no obligation;
on the contrary,
a decent quiescence,
under the freak of manner,
gave me the advantage.

Besides,
the eccentricity of the proceeding was piquant:

I felt interested
to see how he would go on.

He went on as a statue would,
that is,
he neither spoke nor moved.

Mrs. Fairfax seemed
to think it necessary that some one should be amiable,
and she began
to talk.

Kindly,
as usual--and,
as usual,
rather trite--she condoled
with him on the pressure of business he had had all day;
on the annoyance it must have been
to him
with that painful sprain:

then she commended his patience and perseverance in going through
with it.

"Madam,
I should like some tea,"
was the sole rejoinder she got.

She hastened
to ring the bell;
and when the tray came,
she proceeded
to arrange the cups,
spoons,
&c.,
with assiduous celerity.

I and Adele went
to the table;
but the master did not leave his couch.

"Will you hand Mr. Rochester's cup?"
said Mrs. Fairfax
to me;
"Adele might perhaps spill it."

I did as requested.

As he took the cup from my hand,
Adele,
thinking the moment propitious
for making a request in my favour,
cried out -
"N'est-ce pas,
monsieur,
qu'il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votre petit coffre?"
"Who talks of cadeaux?"
said he gruffly.

"Did you expect a present,
Miss Eyre?

Are you fond of presents?"
and he searched my face
with eyes that I saw were dark,
irate,
and piercing.

"I hardly know,
sir;
I have little experience of them:

they are generally thought pleasant things."

"Generally thought?

But what do YOU think?"
"I should be obliged
to take time,
sir,
before I could give you an answer worthy of your acceptance:

a present has many faces
to it,
has it not?

and one should consider all,
before pronouncing an opinion as
to its nature."

"Miss Eyre,
you are not so unsophisticated as Adele:

she demands a
'cadeau,'
clamorously,
the moment she sees me:

you beat about the bush."

"Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adele has:

she can prefer the claim of old acquaintance,
and the right too of custom;
for she says you have always been in the habit of giving her playthings;
but if I had
to make out a case I should be puzzled,
since I am a stranger,
and have done nothing
to entitle me
to an acknowledgment."

"Oh,
don't fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Adele,
and find you have taken great pains
with her:

she is not bright,
she has no talents;
yet in a short time she has made much improvement."

"Sir,
you have now given me my
'cadeau;'
I am obliged
to you:

it is the meed teachers most covet--praise of their pupils'
progress."

"Humph!"
said Mr. Rochester,
and he took his tea in silence.

"Come
to the fire,"
said the master,
when the tray was taken away,
and Mrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner
with her knitting;
while Adele was leading me by the hand round the room,
showing me the beautiful books and ornaments on the consoles and chiffonnieres.

We obeyed,
as in duty bound;
Adele wanted
to take a seat on my knee,
but she was ordered
to amuse herself
with Pilot.

"You have been resident in my house three months?"
"Yes,
sir."

"And you came from--?"
"From Lowood school,
in -shire."

"Ah! a charitable concern.

How long were you there?"
"Eight years."

"Eight years! you must be tenacious of life.

I thought half the time in such a place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the look of another world.

I marvelled where you had got that sort of face.

When you came on me in Hay Lane last night,
I thought unaccountably of fairy tales,
and had half a mind
to demand whether you had bewitched my horse:

I am not sure yet.

Who are your parents?"
"I have none."

"Nor ever had,
I suppose:

do you remember them?"
"No."

"I thought not.

And so you were waiting
for your people when you sat on that stile?"
"For whom,
sir?"
"For the men in green:

it was a proper moonlight evening
for them.

Did I break through one of your rings,
that you spread that damned ice on the causeway?"
I shook my head.

"The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago,"
said I,
speaking as seriously as he had done.

"And not even in Hay Lane,
or the fields about it,
could you find a trace of them.

I don't think either summer or harvest,
or winter moon,
will ever shine on their revels more."

Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting,
and,
with raised eyebrows,
seemed wondering what sort of talk this was.

"Well,"
resumed Mr. Rochester,
"if you disown parents,
you must have some sort of kinsfolk:

uncles and aunts?"
"No;
none that I ever saw."

"And your home?"
"I have none."

"Where do your brothers and sisters live?"
"I have no brothers or sisters."

"Who recommended you
to come here?"
"I advertised,
and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement."

"Yes,"
said the good lady,
who now knew what ground we were upon,
"and I am daily thankful
for the choice Providence led me
to make.

Miss Eyre has been an invaluable companion
to me,
and a kind and careful teacher
to Adele."

"Don't trouble yourself
to give her a character,"
returned Mr. Rochester:

"eulogiums will not bias me;
I shall judge
for myself.

She began by felling my horse."

"Sir?"
said Mrs. Fairfax.

"I have
to thank her
for this sprain."

The widow looked bewildered.

"Miss Eyre,
have you ever lived in a town?"
"No,
sir."

"Have you seen much society?"
"None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood,
and now the inmates of Thornfield."

"Have you read much?"
"Only such books as came in my way;
and they have not been numerous or very learned."

"You have lived the life of a nun:

no doubt you are well drilled in religious forms;--Brocklehurst,
who I understand directs Lowood,
is a parson,
is he not?"
"Yes,
sir."

"And you girls probably worshipped him,
as a convent full of religieuses would worship their director."

"Oh,
no."

"You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest! That sounds blasphemous."

"I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst;
and I was not alone in the feeling.

He is a harsh man;
at once pompous and meddling;
he cut off our hair;
and
for economy's sake bought us bad needles and thread,
with which we could hardly sew."

"That was very false economy,"
remarked Mrs. Fairfax,
who now again caught the drift of the dialogue.

"And was that the head and front of his offending?"
demanded Mr. Rochester.

"He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision department,
before the committee was appointed;
and he bored us
with long lectures once a week,
and
with evening readings from books of his own inditing,
about sudden deaths and judgments,
which made us afraid
to go
to bed."

"What age were you when you went
to Lowood?"
"About ten."

"And you stayed there eight years:

you are now,
then,
eighteen?"
I assented.

"Arithmetic,
you see,
is useful;
without its aid,
I should hardly have been able
to guess your age.

It is a point difficult
to fix where the features and countenance are so much at variance as in your case.

And now what did you learn at Lowood?

Can you play?"
"A little."

"Of course:

that is the established answer.

Go into the library--I mean,
if you please.--(Excuse my tone of command;
I am used
to say,
'Do this,'
and it is done:

I cannot alter my customary habits
for one new inmate.)--Go,
then,
into the library;
take a candle
with you;
leave the door open;
sit down
to the piano,
and play a tune."

I departed,
obeying his directions.

"Enough!"
he called out in a few minutes.

"You play A LITTLE,
I see;
like any other English school-girl;
perhaps rather better than some,
but not well."

I closed the piano and returned.

Mr. Rochester continued--"Adele showed me some sketches this morning,
which she said were yours.

I don't know whether they were entirely of your doing;
probably a master aided you?"
"No,
indeed!"
I interjected.

"Ah! that pricks pride.

Well,
fetch me your portfolio,
if you can vouch
for its contents being original;
but don't pass your word unless you are certain:

I can recognise patchwork."

"Then I will say nothing,
and you shall judge
for yourself,
sir."

I brought the portfolio from the library.

"Approach the table,"
said he;
and I wheeled it
to his couch.

Adele and Mrs. Fairfax drew near
to see the pictures.

"No crowding,"
said Mr. Rochester:

"take the drawings from my hand as I finish
with them;
but don't push your faces up
to mine."

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting.

Three he laid aside;
the others,
when he had examined them,
he swept from him.

"Take them off
to the other table,
Mrs. Fairfax,"
said he,
and look at them
with Adele;--you"
(glancing at me)
"resume your seat,
and answer my questions.

I perceive those pictures were done by one hand:

was that hand yours?"
"Yes."

"And when did you find time
to do them?

They have taken much time,
and some thought."

"I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood,
when I had no other occupation."

"Where did you get your copies?"
"Out of my head."

"That head I see now on your shoulders?"
"Yes,
sir."

"Has it other furniture of the same kind within?"
"I should think it may have:

I should hope--better."

He spread the pictures before him,
and again surveyed them alternately.

While he is so occupied,
I will tell you,
reader,
what they are:

and first,
I must premise that they are nothing wonderful.

The subjects had,
indeed,
risen vividly on my mind.

As I saw them
with the spiritual eye,
before I attempted
to embody them,
they were striking;
but my hand would not second my fancy,
and in each case it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.

These pictures were in water-colours.

The first represented clouds low and livid,
rolling over a swollen sea:

all the distance was in eclipse;
so,
too,
was the foreground;
or rather,
the nearest billows,
for there was no land.

One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast,
on which sat a cormorant,
dark and large,
with wings flecked
with foam;
its beak held a gold bracelet set
with gems,
that I had touched
with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield,
and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart.

Sinking below the bird and mast,
a drowned corpse glanced through the green water;
a fair arm was the only limb clearly visible,
whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.

The second picture contained
for foreground only the dim peak of a hill,
with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze.

Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky,
dark blue as at twilight:

rising into the sky was a woman's shape
to the bust,
portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine.

The dim forehead was crowned
with a star;
the lineaments below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour;
the eyes shone dark and wild;
the hair streamed shadowy,
like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail.

On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight;
the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.

The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky:

a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances,
close serried,
along the horizon.

Throwing these into distance,
rose,
in the foreground,
a head,--a colossal head,
inclined towards the iceberg,
and resting against it.

Two thin hands,
joined under the forehead,
and supporting it,
drew up before the lower features a sable veil,
a brow quite bloodless,
white as bone,
and an eye hollow and fixed,
blank of meaning but
for the glassiness of despair,
alone were visible.

Above the temples,
amidst wreathed turban folds of black drapery,
vague in its character and consistency as cloud,
gleamed a ring of white flame,
gemmed
with sparkles of a more lurid tinge.

This pale crescent was
"the likeness of a kingly crown;"
what it diademed was
"the shape which shape had none."

"Were you happy when you painted these pictures?"
asked Mr. Rochester presently.

"I was absorbed,
sir:

yes,
and I was happy.

To paint them,
in short,
was
to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known."

"That is not saying much.

Your pleasures,
by your own account,
have been few;
but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist's dreamland while you blent and arranged these strange tints.

Did you sit at them long each day?"
"I had nothing else
to do,
because it was the vacation,
and I sat at them from morning till noon,
and from noon till night:

the length of the midsummer days favoured my inclination
to apply."

"And you felt self-satisfied
with the result of your ardent labours?"
"Far from it.

I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork:

in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless
to realise."

"Not quite:

you have secured the shadow of your thought;
but no more,
probably.

You had not enough of the artist's skill and science
to give it full being:

yet the drawings are,
for a school- girl,
peculiar.

As
to the thoughts,
they are elfish.

These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream.

How could you make them look so clear,
and yet not at all brilliant?

for the planet above quells their rays.

And what meaning is that in their solemn depth?

And who taught you
to paint wind.

There is a high gale in that sky,
and on this hill-top.

Where did you see Latmos?

For that is Latmos.

There! put the drawings away!"
I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio,
when,
looking at his watch,
he said abruptly -
"It is nine o'clock:

what are you about,
Miss Eyre,
to let Adele sit up so long?

Take her
to bed."

Adele went
to kiss him before quitting the room:

he endured the caress,
but scarcely seemed
to relish it more than Pilot would have done,
nor so much.

"I wish you all good-night,
now,"
said he,
making a movement of the hand towards the door,
in token that he was tired of our company,
and wished
to dismiss us.

Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting:

I took my portfolio:

we curtseyed
to him,
received a frigid bow in return,
and so withdrew.

"You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar,
Mrs. Fairfax,"
I observed,
when I rejoined her in her room,
after putting Adele
to bed.

"Well,
is he?"
"I think so:

he is very changeful and abrupt."

"True:

no doubt he may appear so
to a stranger,
but I am so accustomed
to his manner,
I never think of it;
and then,
if he has peculiarities of temper,
allowance should be made."

"Why?"
"Partly because it is his nature--and we can none of us help our nature;
and partly because he has painful thoughts,
no doubt,
to harass him,
and make his spirits unequal."

"What about?"
"Family troubles,
for one thing."

"But he has no family."

"Not now,
but he has had--or,
at least,
relatives.

He lost his elder brother a few years since."

"His ELDER brother?"
"Yes.

The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of the property;
only about nine years."

"Nine years is a tolerable time.

Was he so very fond of his brother as
to be still inconsolable
for his loss?"
"Why,
no--perhaps not.

I believe there were some misunderstandings between them.

Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just
to Mr. Edward;
and perhaps he prejudiced his father against him.

The old gentleman was fond of money,
and anxious
to keep the family estate together.

He did not like
to diminish the property by division,
and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth,
too,
to keep up the consequence of the name;
and,
soon after he was of age,
some steps were taken that were not quite fair,
and made a great deal of mischief.

Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined
to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position,
for the sake of making his fortune:

what the precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew,
but his spirit could not brook what he had
to suffer in it.

He is not very forgiving:

he broke
with his family,
and now
for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life.

I don't think he has ever been resident at Thornfield
for a fortnight together,
since the death of his brother without a will left him master of the estate;
and,
indeed,
no wonder he shuns the old place."

"Why should he shun it?"
"Perhaps he thinks it gloomy."

The answer was evasive.

I should have liked something clearer;
but Mrs. Fairfax either could not,
or would not,
give me more explicit information of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester's trials.

She averred they were a mystery
to herself,
and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture.

It was evident,
indeed,
that she wished me
to drop the subject,
which I did accordingly.

CHAPTER XIV
for several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester.

In the mornings he seemed much engaged
with business,
and,
in the afternoon,
gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called,
and sometimes stayed
to dine
with him.

When his sprain was well enough
to admit of horse exercise,
he rode out a good deal;
probably
to return these visits,
as he generally did not come back till late at night.

During this interval,
even Adele was seldom sent for
to his presence,
and all my acquaintance
with him was confined
to an occasional rencontre in the hall,
on the stairs,
or in the gallery,
when he would sometimes pass me haughtily and coldly,
just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance,
and sometimes bow and smile
with gentlemanlike affability.

His changes of mood did not offend me,
because I saw that I had nothing
to do
with their alternation;
the ebb and flow depended on causes quite disconnected
with me.

One day he had had company
to dinner,
and had sent
for my portfolio;
in order,
doubtless,
to exhibit its contents:

the gentlemen went away early,
to attend a public meeting at Millcote,
as Mrs. Fairfax informed me;
but the night being wet and inclement,
Mr. Rochester did not accompany them.

Soon after they were gone he rang the bell:

a message came that I and Adele were
to go downstairs.

I brushed Adele's hair and made her neat,
and having ascertained that I was myself in my usual Quaker trim,
where there was nothing
to retouch-- all being too close and plain,
braided locks included,
to admit of disarrangement--we descended,
Adele wondering whether the petit coffre was at length come;
for,
owing
to some mistake,
its arrival had hitherto been delayed.

She was gratified:

there it stood,
a little carton,
on the table when we entered the dining-room.

She appeared
to know it by instinct.

"Ma boite! ma boite!"
exclaimed she,
running towards it.

"Yes,
there is your
'boite'
at last:

take it into a corner,
you genuine daughter of Paris,
and amuse yourself
with disembowelling it,"
said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester,
proceeding from the depths of an immense easy-chair at the fireside.

"And mind,"
he continued,
"don't bother me
with any details of the anatomical process,
or any notice of the condition of the entrails:

let your operation be conducted in silence:

tiens-toi tranquille,
enfant;
comprends-tu?"
Adele seemed scarcely
to need the warning--she had already retired
to a sofa
with her treasure,
and was busy untying the cord which secured the lid.

Having removed this impediment,
and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper,
she merely exclaimed -
"Oh ciel! Que c'est beau!"
and then remained absorbed in ecstatic contemplation.

"Is Miss Eyre there?"
now demanded the master,
half rising from his seat
to look round
to the door,
near which I still stood.

"Ah! well,
come forward;
be seated here."

He drew a chair near his own.

"I am not fond of the prattle of children,"
he continued;
"for,
old bachelor as I am,
I have no pleasant associations connected
with their lisp.

It would be intolerable
to me
to pass a whole evening tete-e-tete
with a brat.

Don't draw that chair farther off,
Miss Eyre;
sit down exactly where I placed it--if you please,
that is.

Confound these civilities! I continually forget them.

Nor do I particularly affect simple-minded old ladies.

By- the-bye,
I must have mine in mind;
it won't do
to neglect her;
she is a Fairfax,
or wed
to one;
and blood is said
to be thicker than water."

He rang,
and despatched an invitation
to Mrs. Fairfax,
who soon arrived,
knitting-basket in hand.

"Good evening,
madam;
I sent
to you
for a charitable purpose.

I have forbidden Adele
to talk
to me about her presents,
and she is bursting
with repletion:

have the goodness
to serve her as auditress and interlocutrice;
it will be one of the most benevolent acts you ever performed."

Adele,
indeed,
no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax,
than she summoned her
to her sofa,
and there quickly filled her lap
with the porcelain,
the ivory,
the waxen contents of her
"boite;"
pouring out,
meantime,
explanations and raptures in such broken English as she was mistress of.

"Now I have performed the part of a good host,"
pursued Mr. Rochester,
"put my guests into the way of amusing each other,
I ought
to be at liberty
to attend
to my own pleasure.

Miss Eyre,
draw your chair still a little farther forward:

you are yet too far back;
I cannot see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair,
which I have no mind
to do."

I did as I was bid,
though I would much rather have remained somewhat in the shade;
but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders,
it seemed a matter of course
to obey him promptly.

We were,
as I have said,
in the dining-room:

the lustre,
which had been lit
for dinner,
filled the room
with a festal breadth of light;
the large fire was all red and clear;
the purple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch;
everything was still,
save the subdued chat of Adele
(she dared not speak loud),
and,
filling up each pause,
the beating of winter rain against the panes.

Mr. Rochester,
as he sat in his damask-covered chair,
looked different
to what I had seen him look before;
not quite so stern-- much less gloomy.

There was a smile on his lips,
and his eyes sparkled,
whether
with wine or not,
I am not sure;
but I think it very probable.

He was,
in short,
in his after-dinner mood;
more expanded and genial,
and also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning;
still he looked preciously grim,
cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair,
and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features,
and in his great,
dark eyes;
for he had great,
dark eyes,
and very fine eyes,
too--not without a certain change in their depths sometimes,
which,
if it was not softness,
reminded you,
at least,
of that feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire,
and I had been looking the same length of time at him,
when,
turning suddenly,
he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

"You examine me,
Miss Eyre,"
said he:

"do you think me handsome?"
I should,
if I had deliberated,
have replied
to this question by something conventionally vague and polite;
but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware--"No,
sir."

"Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you,"
said he:

"you have the air of a little nonnette;
quaint,
quiet,
grave,
and simple,
as you sit
with your hands before you,
and your eyes generally bent on the carpet
(except,
by-the-bye,
when they are directed piercingly
to my face;
as just now,
for instance);
and when one asks you a question,
or makes a remark
to which you are obliged
to reply,
you rap out a round rejoinder,
which,
if not blunt,
is at least brusque.

What do you mean by it?"
"Sir,
I was too plain;
I beg your pardon.

I ought
to have replied that it was not easy
to give an impromptu answer
to a question about appearances;
that tastes mostly differ;
and that beauty is of little consequence,
or something of that sort."

"You ought
to have replied no such thing.

Beauty of little consequence,
indeed! And so,
under pretence of softening the previous outrage,
of stroking and soothing me into placidity,
you stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on:

what fault do you find
with me,
pray?

I suppose I have all my limbs and all my features like any other man?"
"Mr. Rochester,
allow me
to disown my first answer:

I intended no pointed repartee:

it was only a blunder."

"Just so:

I think so:

and you shall be answerable
for it.

Criticise me:

does my forehead not please you?"
He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his brow,
and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs,
but an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should have risen.

"Now,
ma'am,
am I a fool?"
"Far from it,
sir.

You would,
perhaps,
think me rude if I inquired in return whether you are a philanthropist?"
"There again! Another stick of the penknife,
when she pretended
to pat my head:

and that is because I said I did not like the society of children and old women
(low be it spoken!).

No,
young lady,
I am not a general philanthropist;
but I bear a conscience;"
and he pointed
to the prominences which are said
to indicate that faculty,
and which,
fortunately
for him,
were sufficiently conspicuous;
giving,
indeed,
a marked breadth
to the upper part of his head:

"and,
besides,
I once had a kind of rude tenderness of heart.

When I was as old as you,
I was a feeling fellow enough,
partial
to the unfledged,
unfostered,
and unlucky;
but Fortune has knocked me about since:

she has even kneaded me
with her knuckles,
and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-rubber ball;
pervious,
though,
through a chink or two still,
and
with one sentient point in the middle of the lump.

Yes:

does that leave hope
for me?"
"Hope of what,
sir?"
"Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back
to flesh?"
"Decidedly he has had too much wine,"
I thought;
and I did not know what answer
to make
to his queer question:

how could I tell whether he was capable of being re-transformed?

"You looked very much puzzled,
Miss Eyre;
and though you are not pretty any more than I am handsome,
yet a puzzled air becomes you;
besides,
it is convenient,
for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from my physiognomy,
and busies them
with the worsted flowers of the rug;
so puzzle on.

Young lady,
I am disposed
to be gregarious and communicative to-night."

With this announcement he rose from his chair,
and stood,
leaning his arm on the marble mantelpiece:

in that attitude his shape was seen plainly as well as his face;
his unusual breadth of chest,
disproportionate almost
to his length of limb.

I am sure most people would have thought him an ugly man;
yet there was so much unconscious pride in his port;
so much ease in his demeanour;
such a look of complete indifference
to his own external appearance;
so haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities,
intrinsic or adventitious,
to atone
for the lack of mere personal attractiveness,
that,
in looking at him,
one inevitably shared the indifference,
and,
even in a blind,
imperfect sense,
put faith in the confidence.

"I am disposed
to be gregarious and communicative to-night,"
he repeated,
"and that is why I sent
for you:

the fire and the chandelier were not sufficient company
for me;
nor would Pilot have been,
for none of these can talk.

Adele is a degree better,
but still far below the mark;
Mrs. Fairfax ditto;
you,
I am persuaded,
can suit me if you will:

you puzzled me the first evening I invited you down here.

I have almost forgotten you since:

other ideas have driven yours from my head;
but to-night I am resolved
to be at ease;
to dismiss what importunes,
and recall what pleases.

It would please me now
to draw you out--to learn more of you--therefore speak."

Instead of speaking,
I smiled;
and not a very complacent or submissive smile either.

"Speak,"
he urged.

"What about,
sir?"
"Whatever you like.

I leave both the choice of subject and the manner of treating it entirely
to yourself."

Accordingly I sat and said nothing:

"If he expects me
to talk
for the mere sake of talking and showing off,
he will find he has addressed himself
to the wrong person,"
I thought.

"You are dumb,
Miss Eyre."

I was dumb still.

He bent his head a little towards me,
and
with a single hasty glance seemed
to dive into my eyes.

"Stubborn?"
he said,
"and annoyed.

Ah! it is consistent.

I put my request in an absurd,
almost insolent form.

Miss Eyre,
I beg your pardon.

The fact is,
once
for all,
I don't wish
to treat you like an inferior:

that is"
(correcting himself),
"I claim only such superiority as must result from twenty years'
difference in age and a century's advance in experience.

This is legitimate,
et j'y tiens,
as Adele would say;
and it is by virtue of this superiority,
and this alone,
that I desire you
to have the goodness
to talk
to me a little now,
and divert my thoughts,
which are galled
with dwelling on one point--cankering as a rusty nail."

He had deigned an explanation,
almost an apology,
and I did not feel insensible
to his condescension,
and would not seem so.

"I am willing
to amuse you,
if I can,
sir--quite willing;
but I cannot introduce a topic,
because how do I know what will interest you?

Ask me questions,
and I will do my best
to answer them."

"Then,
in the first place,
do you agree
with me that I have a right
to be a little masterful,
abrupt,
perhaps exacting,
sometimes,
on the grounds I stated,
namely,
that I am old enough
to be your father,
and that I have battled through a varied experience
with many men of many nations,
and roamed over half the globe,
while you have lived quietly
with one set of people in one house?"
"Do as you please,
sir."

"That is no answer;
or rather it is a very irritating,
because a very evasive one.

Reply clearly."

"I don't think,
sir,
you have a right
to command me,
merely because you are older than I,
or because you have seen more of the world than I have;
your claim
to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time and experience."

"Humph! Promptly spoken.

But I won't allow that,
seeing that it would never suit my case,
as I have made an indifferent,
not
to say a bad,
use of both advantages.

Leaving superiority out of the question,
then,
you must still agree
to receive my orders now and then,
without being piqued or hurt by the tone of command.

Will you?"
I smiled:

I thought
to myself Mr. Rochester IS peculiar--he seems
to forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum
for receiving his orders.

"The smile is very well,"
said he,
catching instantly the passing expression;
"but speak too."

"I was thinking,
sir,
that very few masters would trouble themselves
to inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and hurt by their orders."

"Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate,
are you?

Oh yes,
I had forgotten the salary! Well then,
on that mercenary ground,
will you agree
to let me hector a little?"
"No,
sir,
not on that ground;
but,
on the ground that you did forget it,
and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in his dependency,
I agree heartily."

"And will you consent
to dispense
with a great many conventional forms and phrases,
without thinking that the omission arises from insolence?"
"I am sure,
sir,
I should never mistake informality
for insolence:

one I rather like,
the other nothing free-born would submit to,
even
for a salary."

"Humbug! Most things free-born will submit
to anything
for a salary;
therefore,
keep
to yourself,
and don't venture on generalities of which you are intensely ignorant.

However,
I mentally shake hands
with you
for your answer,
despite its inaccuracy;
and as much
for the manner in which it was said,
as
for the substance of the speech;
the manner was frank and sincere;
one does not often see such a manner:

no,
on the contrary,
affectation,
or coldness,
or stupid,
coarse-minded misapprehension of one's meaning are the usual rewards of candour.

Not three in three thousand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me as you have just done.

But I don't mean
to flatter you:

if you are cast in a different mould
to the majority,
it is no merit of yours:

Nature did it.

And then,
after all,
I go too fast in my conclusions:

for what I yet know,
you may be no better than the rest;
you may have intolerable defects
to counterbalance your few good points."

"And so may you,"
I thought.

My eye met his as the idea crossed my mind:

he seemed
to read the glance,
answering as if its import had been spoken as well as imagined -
"Yes,
yes,
you are right,"
said he;
"I have plenty of faults of my own:

I know it,
and I don't wish
to palliate them,
I assure you.

God wot I need not be too severe about others;
I have a past existence,
a series of deeds,
a colour of life
to contemplate within my own breast,
which might well call my sneers and censures from my neighbours
to myself.

I started,
or rather
(for like other defaulters,
I like
to lay half the blame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances)
was thrust on
to a wrong tack at the age of one-and- twenty,
and have never recovered the right course since:

but I might have been very different;
I might have been as good as you-- wiser--almost as stainless.

I envy you your peace of mind,
your clean conscience,
your unpolluted memory.

Little girl,
a memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure--an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment:

is it not?"
"How was your memory when you were eighteen,
sir?"
"All right then;
limpid,
salubrious:

no gush of bilge water had turned it
to fetid puddle.

I was your equal at eighteen--quite your equal.

Nature meant me
to be,
on the whole,
a good man,
Miss Eyre;
one of the better kind,
and you see I am not so.

You would say you don't see it;
at least I flatter myself I read as much in your eye
(beware,
by-the-bye,
what you express
with that organ;
I am quick at interpreting its language).

Then take my word
for it,--I am not a villain:

you are not
to suppose that--not
to attribute
to me any such bad eminence;
but,
owing,
I verily believe,
rather
to circumstances than
to my natural bent,
I am a trite commonplace sinner,
hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations
with which the rich and worthless try
to put on life.

Do you wonder that I avow this
to you?

Know,
that in the course of your future life you will often find yourself elected the involuntary confidant of your acquaintances'
secrets:

people will instinctively find out,
as I have done,
that it is not your forte
to tell of yourself,
but
to listen while others talk of themselves;
they will feel,
too,
that you listen
with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion,
but
with a kind of innate sympathy;
not the less comforting and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations."

"How do you know?--how can you guess all this,
sir?"
"I know it well;
therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were writing my thoughts in a diary.

You would say,
I should have been superior
to circumstances;
so I should--so I should;
but you see I was not.

When fate wronged me,
I had not the wisdom
to remain cool:

I turned desperate;
then I degenerated.

Now,
when any vicious simpleton excites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry,
I cannot flatter myself that I am better than he:

I am forced
to confess that he and I are on a level.

I wish I had stood firm--God knows I do! Dread remorse when you are tempted
to err,
Miss Eyre;
remorse is the poison of life."

"Repentance is said
to be its cure,
sir."

"It is not its cure.

Reformation may be its cure;
and I could reform--I have strength yet
for that--if--but where is the use of thinking of it,
hampered,
burdened,
cursed as I am?

Besides,
since happiness is irrevocably denied me,
I have a right
to get pleasure out of life:

and I WILL get it,
cost what it may."

"Then you will degenerate still more,
sir."

"Possibly:

yet why should I,
if I can get sweet,
fresh pleasure?

And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor."

"It will sting--it will taste bitter,
sir."

"How do you know?--you never tried it.

How very serious--how very solemn you look:

and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head"
(taking one from the mantelpiece).

"You have no right
to preach
to me,
you neophyte,
that have not passed the porch of life,
and are absolutely unacquainted
with its mysteries."

"I only remind you of your own words,
sir:

you said error brought remorse,
and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence."

"And who talks of error now?

I scarcely think the notion that flittered across my brain was an error.

I believe it was an inspiration rather than a temptation:

it was very genial,
very soothing--I know that.

Here it comes again! It is no devil,
I assure you;
or if it be,
it has put on the robes of an angel of light.

I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance
to my heart."

"Distrust it,
sir;
it is not a true angel."

"Once more,
how do you know?

By what instinct do you pretend
to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal throne--between a guide and a seducer?"
"I judged by your countenance,
sir,
which was troubled when you said the suggestion had returned upon you.

I feel sure it will work you more misery if you listen
to it."

"Not at all--it bears the most gracious message in the world:

for the rest,
you are not my conscience-keeper,
so don't make yourself uneasy.

Here,
come in,
bonny wanderer!"
He said this as if he spoke
to a vision,
viewless
to any eye but his own;
then,
folding his arms,
which he had half extended,
on his chest,
he seemed
to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.

"Now,"
he continued,
again addressing me,
"I have received the pilgrim--a disguised deity,
as I verify believe.

Already it has done me good:

my heart was a sort of charnel;
it will now be a shrine."

"To speak truth,
sir,
I don't understand you at all:

I cannot keep up the conversation,
because it has got out of my depth.

Only one thing,
I know:

you said you were not as good as you should like
to be,
and that you regretted your own imperfection;--one thing I can comprehend:

you intimated that
to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane.

It seems
to me,
that if you tried hard,
you would in time find it possible
to become what you yourself would approve;
and that if from this day you began
with resolution
to correct your thoughts and actions,
you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections,
to which you might revert
with pleasure."

"Justly thought;
rightly said,
Miss Eyre;
and,
at this moment,
I am paving hell
with energy."

"Sir?"
"I am laying down good intentions,
which I believe durable as flint.

Certainly,
my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have been."

"And better?"
"And better--so much better as pure ore is than foul dross.

You seem
to doubt me;
I don't doubt myself:

I know what my aim is,
what my motives are;
and at this moment I pass a law,
unalterable as that of the Medes and Persians,
that both are right."

"They cannot be,
sir,
if they require a new statute
to legalise them."

"They are,
Miss Eyre,
though they absolutely require a new statute:

unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules."

"That sounds a dangerous maxim,
sir;
because one can see at once that it is liable
to abuse."

"Sententious sage! so it is:

but I swear by my household gods not
to abuse it."

"You are human and fallible."

"I am:

so are you--what then?"
"The human and fallible should not arrogate a power
with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted."

"What power?"
"That of saying of any strange,
unsanctioned line of action,--'Let it be right.'
"
"'Let it be right'--the very words:

you have pronounced them."

"MAY it be right then,"
I said,
as I rose,
deeming it useless
to continue a discourse which was all darkness
to me;
and,
besides,
sensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration;
at least,
beyond its present reach;
and feeling the uncertainty,
the vague sense of insecurity,
which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.

"Where are you going?"
"To put Adele
to bed:

it is past her bedtime."

"You are afraid of me,
because I talk like a Sphynx."

"Your language is enigmatical,
sir:

but though I am bewildered,
I am certainly not afraid."

"You ARE afraid--your self-love dreads a blunder."

"In that sense I do feel apprehensive--I have no wish
to talk nonsense."

"If you did,
it would be in such a grave,
quiet manner,
I should mistake it
for sense.

Do you never laugh,
Miss Eyre?

Don't trouble yourself
to answer--I see you laugh rarely;
but you can laugh very merrily:

believe me,
you are not naturally austere,
any more than I am naturally vicious.

The Lowood constraint still clings
to you somewhat;
controlling your features,
muffling your voice,
and restricting your limbs;
and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother--or father,
or master,
or what you will--to smile too gaily,
speak too freely,
or move too quickly:

but,
in time,
I think you will learn
to be natural
with me,
as I find it impossible
to be conventional
with you;
and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now.

I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage:

a vivid,
restless,
resolute captive is there;
were it but free,
it would soar cloud-high.

You are still bent on going?"
"It has struck nine,
sir."

"Never mind,--wait a minute:

Adele is not ready
to go
to bed yet.

My position,
Miss Eyre,
with my back
to the fire,
and my face
to the room,
favours observation.

While talking
to you,
I have also occasionally watched Adele
(I have my own reasons
for thinking her a curious study,--reasons that I may,
nay,
that I shall,
impart
to you some day).

She pulled out of her box,
about ten minutes ago,
a little pink silk frock;
rapture lit her face as she unfolded it;
coquetry runs in her blood,
blends
with her brains,
and seasons the marrow of her bones.

'Il faut que je l'essaie!'
cried she,
'et e l'instant meme!'
and she rushed out of the room.

She is now
with Sophie,
undergoing a robing process:

in a few minutes she will re- enter;
and I know what I shall see,--a miniature of Celine Varens,
as she used
to appear on the boards at the rising of-- But never mind that.

However,
my tenderest feelings are about
to receive a shock:

such is my presentiment;
stay now,
to see whether it will be realised."

Ere long,
Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall.

She entered,
transformed as her guardian had predicted.

A dress of rose-coloured satin,
very short,
and as full in the skirt as it could be gathered,
replaced the brown frock she had previously worn;
a wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead;
her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals.

"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?"
cried she,
bounding forwards;
"et mes souliers?

et mes bas?

Tenez,
je crois que je vais danser!"
And spreading out her dress,
she chasseed across the room till,
having reached Mr. Rochester,
she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe,
then dropped on one knee at his feet,
exclaiming -
"Monsieur,
je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;"
then rising,
she added,
"C'est comme cela que maman faisait,
n'est-ce pas,
monsieur?"
"Pre-cise-ly!"
was the answer;
"and,
'comme cela,'
she charmed my English gold out of my British breeches'
pocket.

I have been green,
too,
Miss Eyre,--ay,
grass green:

not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me.

My Spring is gone,
however,
but it has left me that French floweret on my hands,
which,
in some moods,
I would fain be rid of.

Not valuing now the root whence it sprang;
having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure,
I have but half a liking
to the blossom,
especially when it looks so artificial as just now.

I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins,
great or small,
by one good work.

I'll explain all this some day.

Good- night."

CHAPTER XV Mr. Rochester did,
on a future occasion,
explain it.

It was one afternoon,
when he chanced
to meet me and Adele in the grounds:

and while she played
with Pilot and her shuttlecock,
he asked me
to walk up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.

He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer,
Celine Varens,
towards whom he had once cherished what he called a
"grande passion."

This passion Celine had professed
to return
with even superior ardour.

He thought himself her idol,
ugly as he was:

he believed,
as he said,
that she preferred his
"taille d'athlete"
to the elegance of the Apollo Belvidere.

"And,
Miss Eyre,
so much was I flattered by this preference of the Gallic sylph
for her British gnome,
that I installed her in an hotel;
gave her a complete establishment of servants,
a carriage,
cashmeres,
diamonds,
dentelles,
&c.

In short,
I began the process of ruining myself in the received style,
like any other spoony.

I had not,
it seems,
the originality
to chalk out a new road
to shame and destruction,
but trode the old track
with stupid exactness not
to deviate an inch from the beaten centre.

I had--as I deserved
to have--the fate of all other spoonies.

Happening
to call one evening when Celine did not expect me,
I found her out;
but it was a warm night,
and I was tired
with strolling through Paris,
so I sat down in her boudoir;
happy
to breathe the air consecrated so lately by her presence.

No,--I exaggerate;
I never thought there was any consecrating virtue about her:

it was rather a sort of pastille perfume she had left;
a scent of musk and amber,
than an odour of sanctity.

I was just beginning
to stifle
with the fumes of conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences,
when I bethought myself
to open the window and step out on
to the balcony.

It was moonlight and gaslight besides,
and very still and serene.

The balcony was furnished
with a chair or two;
I sat down,
and took out a cigar,--I will take one now,
if you will excuse me."

Here ensued a pause,
filled up by the producing and lighting of a cigar;
having placed it
to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah incense on the freezing and sunless air,
he went on -
"I liked bonbons too in those days,
Miss Eyre,
and I was croquant--
(overlook the barbarism)--croquant chocolate comfits,
and smoking alternately,
watching meantime the equipages that rolled along the fashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house,
when in an elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses,
and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night,
I recognised the
'voiture'
I had given Celine.

She was returning:

of course my heart thumped
with impatience against the iron rails I leant upon.

The carriage stopped,
as I had expected,
at the hotel door;
my flame
(that is the very word
for an opera inamorata)
alighted:

though muffed in a cloak--an unnecessary encumbrance,
by-the-bye,
on so warm a June evening--I knew her instantly by her little foot,
seen peeping from the skirt of her dress,
as she skipped from the carriage-step.

Bending over the balcony,
I was about
to murmur
'Mon ange'--in a tone,
of course,
which should be audible
to the ear of love alone--when a figure jumped from the carriage after her;
cloaked also;
but that was a spurred heel which had rung on the pavement,
and that was a hatted head which now passed under the arched porte cochere of the hotel.

"You never felt jealousy,
did you,
Miss Eyre?

Of course not:

I need not ask you;
because you never felt love.

You have both sentiments yet
to experience:

your soul sleeps;
the shock is yet
to be given which shall waken it.

You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hitherto slid away.

Floating on
with closed eyes and muffled ears,
you neither see the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood,
nor hear the breakers boil at their base.

But I tell you--and you may mark my words--you will come some day
to a craggy pass in the channel,
where the whole of life's stream will be broken up into whirl and tumult,
foam and noise:

either you will be dashed
to atoms on crag points,
or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave into a calmer current- -as I am now.

"I like this day;
I like that sky of steel;
I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost.

I like Thornfield,
its antiquity,
its retirement,
its old crow-trees and thorn-trees,
its grey facade,
and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin:

and yet how long have I abhorred the very thought of it,
shunned it like a great plague-house?

How I do still abhor -"
He ground his teeth and was silent:

he arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground.

Some hated thought seemed
to have him in its grip,
and
to hold him so tightly that he could not advance.

We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused;
the hall was before us.

Lifting his eye
to its battlements,
he cast over them a glare such as I never saw before or since.

Pain,
shame,
ire,
impatience,
disgust,
detestation,
seemed momentarily
to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow.

Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount;
but another feeling rose and triumphed:

something hard and cynical:

self-willed and resolute:

it settled his passion and petrified his countenance:

he went on -
"During the moment I was silent,
Miss Eyre,
I was arranging a point
with my destiny.

She stood there,
by that beech-trunk--a hag like one of those who appeared
to Macbeth on the heath of Forres.

'You like Thornfield?'
she said,
lifting her finger;
and then she wrote in the air a memento,
which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front,
between the upper and lower row of windows,
'Like it if you can! Like it if you dare!'
"'I will like it,'
said I;
'I dare like it;'
and"
(he subjoined moodily)
"I will keep my word;
I will break obstacles
to happiness,
to goodness--yes,
goodness.

I wish
to be a better man than I have been,
than I am;
as Job's leviathan broke the spear,
the dart,
and the habergeon,
hindrances which others count as iron and brass,
I will esteem but straw and rotten wood."

Adele here ran before him
with her shuttlecock.

"Away!"
he cried harshly;
"keep at a distance,
child;
or go in
to Sophie!"
Continuing then
to pursue his walk in silence,
I ventured
to recall him
to the point whence he had abruptly diverged -
"Did you leave the balcony,
sir,"
I asked,
"when Mdlle.

Varens entered?"
I almost expected a rebuff
for this hardly well-timed question,
but,
on the contrary,
waking out of his scowling abstraction,
he turned his eyes towards me,
and the shade seemed
to clear off his brow.

"Oh,
I had forgotten Celine! Well,
to resume.

When I saw my charmer thus come in accompanied by a cavalier,
I seemed
to hear a hiss,
and the green snake of jealousy,
rising on undulating coils from the moonlit balcony,
glided within my waistcoat,
and ate its way in two minutes
to my heart's core.

Strange!"
he exclaimed,
suddenly starting again from the point.

"Strange that I should choose you
for the confidant of all this,
young lady;
passing strange that you should listen
to me quietly,
as if it were the most usual thing in the world
for a man like me
to tell stories of his opera-mistresses
to a quaint,
inexperienced girl like you! But the last singularity explains the first,
as I intimated once before:

you,
with your gravity,
considerateness,
and caution were made
to be the recipient of secrets.

Besides,
I know what sort of a mind I have placed in communication
with my own:

I know it is one not liable
to take infection:

it is a peculiar mind:

it is a unique one.

Happily I do not mean
to harm it:

but,
if I did,
it would not take harm from me.

The more you and I converse,
the better;
for while I cannot blight you,
you may refresh me."

After this digression he proceeded -
"I remained in the balcony.

'They will come
to her boudoir,
no doubt,'
thought I:

'let me prepare an ambush.'

So putting my hand in through the open window,
I drew the curtain over it,
leaving only an opening through which I could take observations;
then I closed the casement,
all but a chink just wide enough
to furnish an outlet
to lovers'
whispered vows:

then I stole back
to my chair;
and as I resumed it the pair came in.

My eye was quickly at the aperture.

Celine's chamber-maid entered,
lit a lamp,
left it on the table,
and withdrew.

The couple were thus revealed
to me clearly:

both removed their cloaks,
and there was
'the Varens,'
shining in satin and jewels,--my gifts of course,--and there was her companion in an officer's uniform;
and I knew him
for a young roue of a vicomte--a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society,
and had never thought of hating because I despised him so absolutely.

On recognising him,
the fang of the snake Jealousy was instantly broken;
because at the same moment my love
for Celine sank under an extinguisher.

A woman who could betray me
for such a rival was not worth contending for;
she deserved only scorn;
less,
however,
than I,
who had been her dupe.

"They began
to talk;
their conversation eased me completely:

frivolous,
mercenary,
heartless,
and senseless,
it was rather calculated
to weary than enrage a listener.

A card of mine lay on the table;
this being perceived,
brought my name under discussion.

Neither of them possessed energy or wit
to belabour me soundly,
but they insulted me as coarsely as they could in their little way:

especially Celine,
who even waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects--deformities she termed them.

Now it had been her custom
to launch out into fervent admiration of what she called my
'beaute male:'
wherein she differed diametrically from you,
who told me point-blank,
at the second interview,
that you did not think me handsome.

The contrast struck me at the time and--"
Adele here came running up again.

"Monsieur,
John has just been
to say that your agent has called and wishes
to see you."

"Ah! in that case I must abridge.

Opening the window,
I walked in upon them;
liberated Celine from my protection;
gave her notice
to vacate her hotel;
offered her a purse
for immediate exigencies;
disregarded screams,
hysterics,
prayers,
protestations,
convulsions;
made an appointment
with the vicomte
for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne.

Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him;
left a bullet in one of his poor etiolated arms,
feeble as the wing of a chicken in the pip,
and then thought I had done
with the whole crew.

But unluckily the Varens,
six months before,
had given me this filette Adele,
who,
she affirmed,
was my daughter;
and perhaps she may be,
though I see no proofs of such grim paternity written in her countenance:

Pilot is more like me than she.

Some years after I had broken
with the mother,
she abandoned her child,
and ran away
to Italy
with a musician or singer.

I acknowledged no natural claim on Adele's part
to be supported by me,
nor do I now acknowledge any,
for I am not her father;
but hearing that she was quite destitute,
I e'en took the poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris,
and transplanted it here,
to grow up clean in the wholesome soil of an English country garden.

Mrs. Fairfax found you
to train it;
but now you know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera- girl,
you will perhaps think differently of your post and protegee:

you will be coming
to me some day
with notice that you have found another place--that you beg me
to look out
for a new governess,
&c.- -Eh?"
"No:

Adele is not answerable
for either her mother's faults or yours:

I have a regard
for her;
and now that I know she is,
in a sense,
parentless--forsaken by her mother and disowned by you,
sir-- I shall cling closer
to her than before.

How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family,
who would hate her governess as a nuisance,
to a lonely little orphan,
who leans towards her as a friend?"
"Oh,
that is the light in which you view it! Well,
I must go in now;
and you too:

it darkens."

But I stayed out a few minutes longer
with Adele and Pilot--ran a race
with her,
and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock.

When we went in,
and I had removed her bonnet and coat,
I took her on my knee;
kept her there an hour,
allowing her
to prattle as she liked:

not rebuking even some little freedoms and trivialities into which she was apt
to stray when much noticed,
and which betrayed in her a superficiality of character,
inherited probably from her mother,
hardly congenial
to an English mind.

Still she had her merits;
and I was disposed
to appreciate all that was good in her
to the utmost.

I sought in her countenance and features a likeness
to Mr. Rochester,
but found none:

no trait,
no turn of expression announced relationship.

It was a pity:

if she could but have been proved
to resemble him,
he would have thought more of her.

It was not till after I had withdrawn
to my own chamber
for the night,
that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me.

As he had said,
there was probably nothing at all extraordinary in the substance of the narrative itself:

a wealthy Englishman's passion
for a French dancer,
and her treachery
to him,
were every- day matters enough,
no doubt,
in society;
but there was something decidedly strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him when he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of his mood,
and his newly revived pleasure in the old hall and its environs.

I meditated wonderingly on this incident;
but gradually quitting it,
as I found it
for the present inexplicable,
I turned
to the consideration of my master's manner
to myself.

The confidence he had thought fit
to repose in me seemed a tribute
to my discretion:

I regarded and accepted it as such.

His deportment had now
for some weeks been more uniform towards me than at the first.

I never seemed in his way;
he did not take fits of chilling hauteur:

when he met me unexpectedly,
the encounter seemed welcome;
he had always a word and sometimes a smile
for me:

when summoned by formal invitation
to his presence,
I was honoured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power
to amuse him,
and that these evening conferences were sought as much
for his pleasure as
for my benefit.

I,
indeed,
talked comparatively little,
but I heard him talk
with relish.

It was his nature
to be communicative;
he liked
to open
to a mind unacquainted
with the world glimpses of its scenes and ways
(I do not mean its corrupt scenes and wicked ways,
but such as derived their interest from the great scale on which they were acted,
the strange novelty by which they were characterised);
and I had a keen delight in receiving the new ideas he offered,
in imagining the new pictures he portrayed,
and following him in thought through the new regions he disclosed,
never startled or troubled by one noxious allusion.

The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint:

the friendly frankness,
as correct as cordial,
with which he treated me,
drew me
to him.

I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than my master:

yet he was imperious sometimes still;
but I did not mind that;
I saw it was his way.

So happy,
so gratified did I become
with this new interest added
to life,
that I ceased
to pine after kindred:

my thin crescent-destiny seemed
to enlarge;
the blanks of existence were filled up;
my bodily health improved;
I gathered flesh and strength.

And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes?

No,
reader:

gratitude,
and many associations,
all pleasurable and genial,
made his face the object I best liked
to see;
his presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire.

Yet I had not forgotten his faults;
indeed,
I could not,
for he brought them frequently before me.

He was proud,
sardonic,
harsh
to inferiority of every description:

in my secret soul I knew that his great kindness
to me was balanced by unjust severity
to many others.

He was moody,
too;
unaccountably so;
I more than once,
when sent for
to read
to him,
found him sitting in his library alone,
with his head bent on his folded arms;
and,
when he looked up,
a morose,
almost a malignant,
scowl blackened his features.

But I believed that his moodiness,
his harshness,
and his former faults of morality
(I say FORMER,
for now he seemed corrected of them)
had their source in some cruel cross of fate.

I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies,
higher principles,
and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed,
education instilled,
or destiny encouraged.

I thought there were excellent materials in him;
though
for the present they hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled.

I cannot deny that I grieved
for his grief,
whatever that was,
and would have given much
to assuage it.

Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed,
I could not sleep
for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue,
and told how his destiny had risen up before him,
and dared him
to be happy at Thornfield.

"Why not?"
I asked myself.

"What alienates him from the house?

Will he leave it again soon?

Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer than a fortnight at a time;
and he has now been resident eight weeks.

If he does go,
the change will be doleful.

Suppose he should be absent spring,
summer,
and autumn:

how joyless sunshine and fine days will seem!"
I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing;
at any rate,
I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur,
peculiar and lugubrious,
which sounded,
I thought,
just above me.

I wished I had kept my candle burning:

the night was drearily dark;
my spirits were depressed.

I rose and sat up in bed,
listening.

The sound was hushed.

I tried again
to sleep;
but my heart beat anxiously:

my inward tranquillity was broken.

The clock,
far down in the hall,
struck two.

Just then it seemed my chamber-door was touched;
as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside.

I said,
"Who is there?"
Nothing answered.

I was chilled
with fear.

All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot,
who,
when the 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,
them in both his own.

"You have saved my life:

I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt.

I cannot say more.

Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable
to me in the character of creditor
for such an obligation:

but you:

it is different;--I feel your benefits no burden,
Jane."

He paused;
gazed at me:

words almost visible trembled on his lips,- -but his voice was checked.

"Good-night again,
sir.

There is no debt,
benefit,
burden,
obligation,
in the case."

"I knew,"
he continued,
"you would do me good in some way,
at some time;--I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you:

their expression and smile did not"--(again he stopped)--"did not"
(he proceeded hastily)
"strike delight
to my very inmost heart so
for nothing.

People talk of natural sympathies;
I have heard of good genii:

there are grains of truth in the wildest fable.

My cherished preserver,
goodnight!"
Strange energy was in his voice,
strange fire in his look.

"I am glad I happened
to be awake,"
I said:

and then I was going.

"What! you WILL go?"
"I am cold,
sir."

"Cold?

Yes,--and standing in a pool! Go,
then,
Jane;
go!"
But he still retained my hand,
and I could not free it.

I bethought myself of an expedient.

"I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move,
sir,"
said I.

"Well,
leave me:"
he relaxed his fingers,
and I was gone.

I regained my couch,
but never thought of sleep.

Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea,
where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy.

I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore,
sweet as the hills of Beulah;
and now and then a freshening gale,
wakened by hope,
bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne:

but I could not reach it,
even in fancy--a counteracting breeze blew off land,
and continually drove me back.

Sense would resist delirium:

judgment would warn passion.

Too feverish
to rest,
I rose as soon as day dawned.

CHAPTER XVI I both wished and feared
to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night:

I wanted
to hear his voice again,
yet feared
to meet his eye.

During the early part of the morning,
I momentarily expected his coming;
he was not in the frequent habit of entering the schoolroom,
but he did step in
for a few minutes sometimes,
and I had the impression that he was sure
to visit it that day.

But the morning passed just as usual:

nothing happened
to interrupt the quiet course of Adele's studies;
only soon after breakfast,
I heard some bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester's chamber,
Mrs. Fairfax's voice,
and Leah's,
and the cook's--that is,
John's wife--and even John's own gruff tones.

There were exclamations of
"What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!"
"It is always dangerous
to keep a candle lit at night."

"How providential that he had presence of mind
to think of the water-jug!"
"I wonder he waked nobody!"
"It is
to be hoped he will not take cold
with sleeping on the library sofa,"
&c.

To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting
to rights;
and when I passed the room,
in going downstairs
to dinner,
I saw through the open door that all was again restored
to complete order;
only the bed was stripped of its hangings.

Leah stood up in the 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 bed-clothes or the wood-work caught,
and contrived
to quench the flames
with the water in the ewer.

"A strange affair!"
I said,
in a low voice:

then,
looking at her fixedly--"Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody?

Did no one hear him move?"
She again raised her eyes
to me,
and this time there was something of consciousness in their expression.

She seemed
to examine me warily;
then she answered -
"The servants sleep so far off,
you know,
Miss,
they would not be likely
to hear.

Mrs. Fairfax's room and yours are the nearest
to master's;
but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing:

when people get elderly,
they often sleep heavy."

She paused,
and then added,
with a sort of assumed indifference,
but still in a marked and significant tone--"But you are young,
Miss;
and I should say a light sleeper:

perhaps you may have heard a noise?"
"I did,"
said I,
dropping my voice,
so that Leah,
who was still polishing the panes,
could not hear me,
"and at first I thought it was Pilot:

but Pilot cannot laugh;
and I am certain I heard a laugh,
and a strange one."

She took a new needleful of thread,
waxed it carefully,
threaded her needle
with a steady hand,
and then observed,
with perfect composure -
"It is hardly likely master would laugh,
I should think,
Miss,
when he was in such danger:

You must have been dreaming."

"I was not dreaming,"
I said,
with some warmth,
for her brazen coolness provoked me.

Again she looked at me;
and
with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.

"Have you told master that you heard a laugh?"
she inquired.

"I have not had the opportunity of speaking
to him this morning."

"You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?"
she further asked.

She appeared
to be cross-questioning me,
attempting
to draw from me information unawares.

The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew or suspected her guilt,
she would be playing of some of her malignant pranks on me;
I thought it advisable
to be on my guard.

"On the contrary,"
said I,
"I bolted my door."

"Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before you get into bed?"
"Fiend! she wants
to know my habits,
that she may lay her plans accordingly!"
Indignation again prevailed over prudence:

I replied sharply,
"Hitherto I have often omitted
to fasten the bolt:

I did not think it necessary.

I was not aware any danger or annoyance was
to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall:

but in future"
(and I laid marked stress on the words)
"I shall take good care
to make all secure before I venture
to lie down."

"It will be wise so
to do,"
was her answer:

"this neighbourhood is as quiet as any I know,
and I never heard of the hall being attempted by robbers since it was a house;
though there are hundreds of pounds'
worth of plate in the plate-closet,
as is well known.

And you see,
for such a large house,
there are very few servants,
because master has never lived here much;
and when he does come,
being a bachelor,
he needs little waiting on:

but I always think it best
to err on the safe side;
a door is soon fastened,
and it is as well
to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that may be about.

A deal of people,
Miss,
are
for trusting all
to Providence;
but I say Providence will not dispense
with the means,
though He often blesses them when they are used discreetly."

And here she closed her harangue:

a long one
for her,
and uttered
with the demureness of a Quakeress.

I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared
to me her miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy,
when the cook entered.

"Mrs. Poole,"
said she,
addressing Grace,
"the servants'
dinner will soon be ready:

will you come down?"
"No;
just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray,
and I'll carry it upstairs."

"You'll have some meat?"
"Just a morsel,
and a taste of cheese,
that's all."

"And the sago?"
"Never mind it at present:

I shall be coming down before teatime:

I'll make it myself."

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

so I departed.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration during dinner,
so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole,
and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning,
or,
at the very least,
dismissed from her master's service.

He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night:

what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her?

Why had he enjoined me,
too,
to secrecy?

It was strange:

a bold,
vindictive,
and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependants;
so much in her power,
that even when she lifted her hand against his life,
he dared not openly charge her
with the attempt,
much less punish her
for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome,
I should have been tempted
to think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf;
but,
hard-favoured and matronly as she was,
the idea could not be admitted.

"Yet,"
I reflected,
"she has been young once;
her youth would be contemporary
with her master's:

Mrs. Fairfax told me once,
she had lived here many years.

I don't think she can ever have been pretty;
but,
for aught I know,
she may possess originality and strength of character
to compensate
for the want of personal advantages.

Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric:

Grace is eccentric at least.

What if a former caprice
(a freak very possible
to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his)
has delivered him into her power,
and she now exercises over his actions a secret influence,
the result of his own indiscretion,
which he cannot shake off,
and dare not disregard?"
But,
having reached this point of conjecture,
Mrs. Poole's square,
flat figure,
and uncomely,
dry,
even coarse face,
recurred so distinctly
to my mind's eye,
that I thought,
"No;
impossible! my supposition cannot be correct.

Yet,"
suggested the secret voice which talks
to us in our own hearts,
"you are not beautiful either,
and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you:

at any rate,
you have often felt as if he did;
and last night--remember his words;
remember his look;
remember his voice!"
I well remembered all;
language,
glance,
and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed.

I was now in the schoolroom;
Adele was drawing;
I bent over her and directed her pencil.

She looked up
with a sort of start.

"Qu'
avez-vous,
mademoiselle?"
said she.

"Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille,
et vos joues sont rouges:

mais,
rouges comme des cerises!"
"I am hot,
Adele,
with stooping!"
She went on sketching;
I went on thinking.

I hastened
to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole;
it disgusted me.

I compared myself
with her,
and found we were different.

Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady;
and she spoke truth--I was a lady.

And now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me;
I had more colour and more flesh,
more life,
more vivacity,
because I had brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.

"Evening approaches,"
said I,
as I looked towards the window.

"I have never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step in the house to-day;
but surely I shall see him before night:

I feared the meeting in the morning;
now I desire it,
because expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impatient."

When dusk actually closed,
and when Adele left me
to go and play in the nursery
with Sophie,
I did most keenly desire it.

I listened
for the bell
to ring below;
I listened
for Leah coming up
with a message;
I fancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester's own tread,
and I turned
to the door,
expecting it
to open and admit him.

The door remained shut;
darkness only came in through the window.

Still it was not late;
he often sent
for me at seven and eight o'clock,
and it was yet but six.

Surely I should not be wholly disappointed to- night,
when I had so many things
to say
to him! I wanted again
to introduce the subject of Grace Poole,
and
to hear what he would answer;
I wanted
to ask him plainly if he really believed it was she who had made last night's hideous attempt;
and if so,
why he kept her wickedness a secret.

It little mattered whether my curiosity irritated him;
I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns;
it was one I chiefly delighted in,
and a sure instinct always prevented me from going too far;
beyond the verge of provocation I never ventured;
on the extreme brink I liked well
to try my skill.

Retaining every minute form of respect,
every propriety of my station,
I could still meet him in argument without fear or uneasy restraint;
this suited both him and me.

A tread creaked on the stairs at last.

Leah made her appearance;
but it was only
to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax's room.

Thither I repaired,
glad at least
to go downstairs;
for that brought me,
I imagined,
nearer
to Mr. Rochester's presence.

"You must want your tea,"
said the good lady,
as I joined her;
"you ate so little at dinner.

I am afraid,"
she continued,
"you are not well 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 of the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone
to the Leas,
Mr. Eshton's place,
ten miles on the other side Millcote.

I believe there is quite a party assembled there;
Lord Ingram,
Sir George Lynn,
Colonel Dent,
and others."

"Do you expect him back to-night?"
"No--nor to-morrow either;
I should think he is very likely
to stay a week or more:

when these fine,
fashionable people get together,
they are so surrounded by elegance and gaiety,
so well provided
with all that can please and entertain,
they are in no hurry
to separate.

Gentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions;
and Mr. Rochester is so talented and so lively in society,
that I believe he is a general favourite:

the ladies are very fond of him;
though you would not think his appearance calculated
to recommend him particularly in their eyes:

but I suppose his acquirements and abilities,
perhaps his wealth and good blood,
make amends
for any little fault of look."

"Are there ladies at the Leas?"
"There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters--very elegant young ladies indeed;
and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram,
most beautiful women,
I suppose:

indeed I have seen Blanche,
six or seven years since,
when she was a girl of eighteen.

She came here
to a Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave.

You should have seen the dining-room that day--how richly it was decorated,
how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present--all of the first county families;
and Miss Ingram was considered the belle of the evening."

"You saw her,
you say,
Mrs. Fairfax:

what was she like?"
"Yes,
I saw her.

The dining-room doors were thrown open;
and,
as it was Christmas-time,
the servants were allowed
to assemble in the hall,
to hear some of the ladies sing and play.

Mr. Rochester would have me
to come in,
and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them.

I never saw a more splendid scene:

the ladies were magnificently dressed;
most of them--at least most of the younger ones--looked handsome;
but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen."

"And what was she like?"
"Tall,
fine bust,
sloping shoulders;
long,
graceful neck:

olive complexion,
dark and clear;
noble features;
eyes rather like Mr. Rochester's:

large and black,
and as brilliant as her jewels.

And then she had such a fine head of hair;
raven-black and so becomingly arranged:

a crown of thick plaits behind,
and in front the longest,
the glossiest curls I ever saw.

She was dressed in pure white;
an amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her breast,
tied at the side,
and descending in long,
fringed ends below her knee.

She wore an amber-coloured flower,
too,
in her hair:

it contrasted well
with the jetty mass of her curls."

"She was greatly admired,
of course?"
"Yes,
indeed:

and not only
for her beauty,
but
for her accomplishments.

She was one of the ladies who sang:

a gentleman accompanied her on the piano.

She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet."

"Mr. Rochester?

I was not aware he could sing."

"Oh! he has a fine bass voice,
and an excellent taste
for music."

"And Miss Ingram:

what sort of a voice had she?"
"A very rich and powerful one:

she sang delightfully;
it was a treat
to listen
to her;--and she played afterwards.

I am no judge of music,
but Mr. Rochester is;
and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good."

"And this beautiful and accomplished lady,
she is not yet married?"
"It appears not:

I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large fortunes.

Old Lord Ingram's estates were chiefly entailed,
and the eldest son came in
for everything almost."

"But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy
to her:

Mr. Rochester,
for instance.

He is rich,
is he not?"
"Oh! yes.

But you see there is a considerable difference in age:

Mr. Rochester is nearly forty;
she is but twenty-five."

"What of that?

More unequal matches are made every day."

"True:

yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an idea of the sort.

But you eat nothing:

you have scarcely tasted since you began tea."

"No:

I am too thirsty
to eat.

Will you let me have another cup?"
I was about again
to revert
to the probability of a union between Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche;
but Adele came in,
and the conversation was turned into another channel.

When once more alone,
I reviewed the information I had got;
looked into my heart,
examined its thoughts and feelings,
and endeavoured
to bring back
with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination's boundless and trackless waste,
into the safe fold of common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar,
Memory having given her evidence of the hopes,
wishes,
sentiments I had been cherishing since last night--of the general state of mind in which I had indulged
for nearly a fortnight past;
Reason having come forward and told,
in her own quiet way a plain,
unvarnished tale,
showing how I had rejected the real,
and rabidly devoured the ideal;--I pronounced judgment
to this effect:- That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life;
that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies,
and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

"YOU,"
I said,
"a favourite
with Mr. Rochester?

YOU gifted
with the power of pleasing him?

YOU of importance
to him in any way?

Go! your folly sickens me.

And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference--equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the world
to a dependent and a novice.

How dared you?

Poor stupid dupe!--Could not even self- interest make you wiser?

You repeated
to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night?--Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes,
did he?

Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good
to no woman
to be flattered by her superior,
who cannot possibly intend
to marry her;
and it is madness in all women
to let a secret love kindle within them,
which,
if unreturned and unknown,
must devour the life that feeds it;
and,
if discovered and responded to,
must lead,
ignis-fatus-like,
into miry wilds whence there is no extrication.

"Listen,
then,
Jane Eyre,
to your sentence:

tomorrow,
place the glass before you,
and draw in chalk your own picture,
faithfully,
without softening one defect;
omit no harsh line,
smooth away no displeasing irregularity;
write under it,
'Portrait of a Governess,
disconnected,
poor,
and plain.'
"Afterwards,
take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in your drawing-box:

take your palette,
mix your freshest,
finest,
clearest tints;
choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils;
delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine;
paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines,
according
to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram;
remember the raven ringlets,
the oriental eye;--What! you revert
to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!--no sentiment!--no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution.

Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments,
the Grecian neck and bust;
let the round and dazzling arm be visible,
and the delicate hand;
omit neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet;
portray faithfully the attire,
aerial lace and glistening satin,
graceful scarf and golden rose;
call it
'Blanche,
an accomplished lady of rank.'
"Whenever,
in future,
you should chance
to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you,
take out these two pictures and compare them:

say,
'Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love,
if he chose
to strive
for it;
is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?'
"
"I'll do it,"
I resolved:

and having framed this determination,
I grew calm,
and fell asleep.

I kept my word.

An hour or two sufficed
to sketch my own portrait in crayons;
and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram.

It looked a lovely face enough,
and when compared
with the real head in chalk,
the contrast was as great as self-control could desire.

I derived benefit from the task:

it had kept my head and hands employed,
and had given force and fixedness
to the new impressions I wished
to stamp indelibly on my heart.

Ere long,
I had reason
to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome discipline
to which I had thus forced my feelings
to submit.

Thanks
to it,
I was able
to meet subsequent occurrences
with a decent calm,
which,
had they found me unprepared,
I should probably have been unequal
to maintain,
even externally.

CHAPTER XVII A week passed,
and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester:

ten days,
and still he did not come.

Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were
to go straight from the Leas
to London,
and thence
to the Continent,
and not show his face again at Thornfield
for a year
to come;
he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as abrupt and unexpected.

When I heard this,
I was beginning
to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart.

I was actually permitting myself
to experience a sickening sense of disappointment;
but rallying my wits,
and recollecting my principles,
I at once called my sensations
to order;
and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder--how I cleared up the mistake of supposing Mr. Rochester's movements a matter in which I had any cause
to take a vital interest.

Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of inferiority:

on the contrary,
I just said -
"You have nothing
to do
with the master of Thornfield,
further than
to receive the salary he gives you
for teaching his protegee,
and
to be grateful
for such respectful and kind treatment as,
if you do your duty,
you have a right
to expect at his hands.

Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledges between you and him;
so don't make him the object of your fine feelings,
your raptures,
agonies,
and so forth.

He is not of your order:

keep
to your caste,
and be too self-respecting
to lavish the love of the whole heart,
soul,
and strength,
where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised."

I went on
with my day's business tranquilly;
but ever and anon vague suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit Thornfield;
and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and pondering conjectures about new situations:

these thoughts I did not think check;
they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.

Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight,
when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.

"It is from the master,"
said she,
as she looked at the direction.

"Now I suppose we shall know whether we are
to expect his return or not."

And while she broke the seal and perused the document,
I went on taking my coffee
(we were at breakfast):

it was hot,
and I attributed
to that circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose
to my face.

Why my hand shook,
and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into my saucer,
I did not choose
to consider.

"Well,
I sometimes think we are too quiet;
but we run a chance of being busy enough now:

for a little while at least,"
said Mrs. Fairfax,
still holding the note before her spectacles.

Ere I permitted myself
to request an explanation,
I tied the string of Adele's pinafore,
which happened
to be loose:

having helped her also
to another bun and refilled her mug
with milk,
I said,
nonchalantly -
"Mr. Rochester is not likely
to return soon,
I suppose?"
"Indeed he is--in three days,
he says:

that will be next Thursday;
and not alone either.

I don't know how many of the fine people at the Leas are coming
with him:

he sends directions
for all the best bedrooms
to be prepared;
and the library and drawing-rooms are
to be cleaned out;
I am
to get more kitchen hands from the George Inn,
at Millcote,
and from wherever else I can;
and the ladies will bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets:

so we shall have a full house of it."

And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away
to commence operations.

The three days were,
as she had foretold,
busy enough.

I had thought all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged;
but it appears I was mistaken.

Three women were got
to help;
and such scrubbing,
such brushing,
such washing of paint and beating of carpets,
such taking down and putting up of pictures,
such polishing of mirrors and lustres,
such lighting of fires in bedrooms,
such airing of sheets and feather-beds on hearths,
I never beheld,
either before or since.

Adele ran quite wild in the midst of it:

the preparations
for company and the prospect of their arrival,
seemed
to throw her into ecstasies.

She would have Sophie
to look over all her
"toilettes,"
as she called frocks;
to furbish up any that were
"passees,"
and
to air and arrange the new.

For herself,
she did nothing but caper about in the front chambers,
jump on and off the bedsteads,
and lie on the mattresses and piled-up bolsters and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys.

From school duties she was exonerated:

Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into her service,
and I was all day in the storeroom,
helping
(or hindering)
her and the cook;
learning
to make custards and cheese-cakes and French pastry,
to truss game and garnish desert-dishes.

The party were expected
to arrive on Thursday afternoon,
in time
for dinner at six.

During the intervening period I had no time
to nurse chimeras;
and I believe I was as active and gay as anybody--Adele excepted.

Still,
now and then,
I received a damping check
to my cheerfulness;
and was,
in spite of myself,
thrown back on the region of doubts and portents,
and dark conjectures.

This was when I chanced
to see the third-storey staircase door
(which of late had always been kept locked)
open slowly,
and give passage
to the form of Grace Poole,
in prim cap,
white apron,
and handkerchief;
when I watched her glide along the gallery,
her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper;
when I saw her look into the bustling,
topsy-turvy bedrooms,--just say a word,
perhaps,
to the charwoman about the proper way
to polish a grate,
or clean a marble mantelpiece,
or take stains from papered walls,
and then pass on.

She would thus descend
to the kitchen once a day,
eat her dinner,
smoke a moderate pipe on the hearth,
and go back,
carrying her pot of porter
with her,
for her private solace,
in her own gloomy,
upper haunt.

Only one hour in the twenty-four did she pass
with her fellow-servants below;
all the rest of her time was spent in some low-ceiled,
oaken chamber of the second storey:

there she sat and sewed--and probably laughed drearily
to herself,--as companionless as a prisoner in his dungeon.

The strangest thing of all was,
that not a soul in the house,
except me,
noticed her habits,
or seemed
to marvel at them:

no one discussed her position or employment;
no one pitied her solitude or isolation.

I once,
indeed,
overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen,
of which Grace formed the subject.

Leah had been saying something I had not caught,
and the charwoman remarked -
"She gets good wages,
I guess?"
"Yes,"
said Leah;
"I wish I had as good;
not that mine are
to complain of,--there's no stinginess at Thornfield;
but they're not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives.

And she is laying by:

she goes every quarter
to the bank at Millcote.

I should not wonder but she has saved enough
to keep her independent if she liked
to leave;
but I suppose she's got used
to the place;
and then she's not forty yet,
and strong and able
for anything.

It is too soon
for her
to give up business."

"She is a good hand,
I daresay,"
said the charwoman.

"Ah!--she understands what she has
to do,--nobody better,"
rejoined Leah significantly;
"and it is not every one could fill her shoes-- not
for all the money she gets."

"That it is not!"
was the reply.

"I wonder whether the master--"
The charwoman was going on;
but here Leah turned and perceived me,
and she instantly gave her companion a nudge.

"Doesn't she know?"
I heard the woman whisper.

Leah shook her head,
and the conversation was of course dropped.

All I had gathered from it amounted
to this,--that there was a mystery at Thornfield;
and that from participation in that mystery I was purposely excluded.

Thursday came:

all work had been completed the previous evening;
carpets were laid down,
bed-hangings festooned,
radiant white counterpanes spread,
toilet tables arranged,
furniture rubbed,
flowers piled in vases:

both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make them.

The hall,
too,
was scoured;
and the great carved clock,
as well as the steps and banisters of the staircase,
were polished
to the brightness of glass;
in the dining-room,
the sideboard flashed resplendent
with plate;
in the drawing-room and boudoir,
vases of exotics bloomed on all sides.

Afternoon arrived:

Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown,
her gloves,
and her gold watch;
for it was her part
to receive the company,--to conduct the ladies
to their rooms,
&c.

Adele,
too,
would be dressed:

though I thought she had little chance of being introduced
to the party that day at least.

However,
to please her,
I allowed Sophie
to apparel her in one of her short,
full muslin frocks.

For myself,
I had no need
to make any change;
I should not be called upon
to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom;
for a sanctum it was now become
to me,--"a very pleasant refuge in time of trouble."

It had been a mild,
serene spring day--one of those days which,
towards the end of March or the beginning of April,
rise shining over the earth as heralds of summer.

It was drawing
to an end now;
but the evening was even warm,
and I sat at work in the schoolroom
with the window open.

"It gets late,"
said Mrs. Fairfax,
entering in rustling state.

"I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned;
for it is past six now.

I have sent John down
to the gates
to see if there is anything on the road:

one can see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote."

She went
to the window.

"Here he is!"
said she.

"Well,
John"
(leaning out),
"any news?"
"They're coming,
ma'am,"
was the answer.

"They'll be here in ten minutes."

Adele flew
to the window.

I followed,
taking care
to stand on one side,
so that,
screened by the curtain,
I could see without being seen.

The ten minutes John had given seemed very long,
but at last wheels were heard;
four equestrians galloped up the drive,
and after them came two open carriages.

Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles;
two of the cavaliers were young,
dashing-looking gentlemen;
the third was Mr. Rochester,
on his black horse,
Mesrour,
Pilot bounding before him;
at his side rode a lady,
and he and she were the first of the party.

Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground,
her veil streamed long on the breeze;
mingling
with its transparent folds,
and gleaming through them,
shone rich raven ringlets.

"Miss Ingram!"
exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax,
and away she hurried
to her post below.

The cavalcade,
following the sweep of the drive,
quickly turned the angle of the house,
and I lost sight of it.

Adele now petitioned
to go down;
but I took her on my knee,
and gave her
to understand that she must not on any account think of venturing in sight of the ladies,
either now or at any other time,
unless expressly sent for:

that Mr. Rochester would be very angry,
&c.

"Some natural tears she shed"
on being told this;
but as I began
to look very grave,
she consented at last
to wipe them.

A joyous stir was now audible in the hall:

gentlemen's deep tones and ladies'
silvery accents blent harmoniously together,
and distinguishable above all,
though not loud,
was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall,
welcoming his fair and gallant guests under its roof.

Then light steps ascended the stairs;
and there was a tripping through the gallery,
and soft cheerful laughs,
and opening and closing doors,
and,
for a time,
a hush.

"Elles changent de toilettes,"
said Adele;
who,
listening attentively,
had followed every movement;
and she sighed.

"Chez maman,"
said she,
"quand il y avait du monde,
je le suivais partout,
au salon et e leurs chambres;
souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller les dames,
et c'etait si amusant:

comme cela on apprend."

"Don't you feel hungry,
Adele?"
"Mais oui,
mademoiselle:

voile cinq ou six heures que nous n'avons pas mange."

"Well now,
while the ladies are in their rooms,
I will venture down and get you something
to eat."

And issuing from my asylum
with precaution,
I sought a back-stairs which conducted directly
to the kitchen.

All in that region was fire and commotion;
the soup and fish were in the last stage of projection,
and the cook hung over her crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening spontaneous combustion.

In the servants'
hall two coachmen and three gentlemen's gentlemen stood or sat round the fire;
the abigails,
I suppose,
were upstairs
with their mistresses;
the new servants,
that had been hired from Millcote,
were bustling about everywhere.

Threading this chaos,
I at last reached the larder;
there I took possession of a cold chicken,
a roll of bread,
some tarts,
a plate or two and a knife and fork:

with this booty I made a hasty retreat.

I had regained the gallery,
and was just shutting the back-door behind me,
when an accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were about
to issue from their chambers.

I could not proceed
to the schoolroom without passing some of their doors,
and running the risk of being surprised
with my cargo of victualage;
so I stood still at this end,
which,
being windowless,
was dark:

quite dark now,
for the sun was set and twilight gathering.

Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another:

each came out gaily and airily,
with dress that gleamed lustrous through the dusk.

For a moment they stood grouped together at the other extremity of the gallery,
conversing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity:

they then descended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill.

Their collective appearance had left on me an impression of high-born elegance,
such as I had never before received.

I found Adele peeping through the schoolroom door,
which she held ajar.

"What beautiful ladies!"
cried she in English.

"Oh,
I wish I might go
to them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send
for us by- and-bye,
after dinner?"
"No,
indeed,
I don't;
Mr. Rochester has something else
to think about.

Never mind the ladies to-night;
perhaps you will see them to-morrow:

here is your dinner."

She was really hungry,
so the chicken and tarts served
to divert her attention
for a time.

It was well I secured this forage,
or both she,
I,
and Sophie,
to whom I conveyed a share of our repast,
would have run a chance of getting no dinner at all:

every one downstairs was too much engaged
to think of us.

The dessert was not carried out till after nine and at ten footmen were still running
to and fro
with trays and coffee-cups.

I allowed Adele
to sit up much later than usual;
for she declared she could not possibly go
to sleep while the doors kept opening and shutting below,
and people bustling about.

Besides,
she added,
a message might possibly come from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed;
"et alors quel dommage!"
I told her stories as long as she would listen
to them;
and then
for a change I took her out into the gallery.

The hall lamp was now lit,
and it amused her
to look over the balustrade and watch the servants passing backwards and forwards.

When the evening was far advanced,
a sound of music issued from the drawing-room,
whither the piano had been removed;
Adele and I sat down on the top step of the stairs
to listen.

Presently a voice blent
with the rich tones of the instrument;
it was a lady who sang,
and very sweet her notes were.

The solo over,
a duet followed,
and then a glee:

a joyous conversational murmur filled up the intervals.

I listened long:

suddenly I discovered that my ear was wholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds,
and trying
to discriminate amidst the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester;
and when it caught them,
which it soon did,
it found a further task in framing the tones,
rendered by distance inarticulate,
into words.

The clock struck eleven.

I looked at Adele,
whose head leant against my shoulder;
her eyes were waxing heavy,
so I took her up in my arms and carried her off
to bed.

It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their chambers.

The next day was as fine as its predecessor:

it was devoted by the party
to an excursion
to some site in the neighbourhood.

They set out early in the forenoon,
some on horseback,
the rest in carriages;
I witnessed both the departure and the return.

Miss Ingram,
as before,
was the only lady equestrian;
and,
as before,
Mr. Rochester galloped at her side;
the two rode a little apart from the rest.

I pointed out this circumstance
to Mrs. Fairfax,
who was standing at the window
with me -
"You said it was not likely they should think of being married,"
said I,
"but you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her
to any of the other ladies."

"Yes,
I daresay:

no doubt he admires her."

"And she him,"
I added;
"look how she leans her head towards him as if she were conversing confidentially;
I wish I could see her face;
I have never had a glimpse of it yet."

"You will see her this evening,"
answered Mrs. Fairfax.

"I happened
to remark
to Mr. Rochester how much Adele wished
to be introduced
to the ladies,
and he said:

'Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after dinner;
and request Miss Eyre
to accompany her.'
"
"Yes;
he said that from mere politeness:

I need not go,
I am sure,"
I answered.

"Well,
I observed
to him that as you were unused
to company,
I did not think you would like appearing before so gay a party--all strangers;
and he replied,
in his quick way--'Nonsense! If she objects,
tell her it is my particular wish;
and if she resists,
say I shall come and fetch her in case of contumacy.'
"
"I will not give him that trouble,"
I answered.

"I will go,
if no better may be;
but I don't like it.

Shall you be there,
Mrs. Fairfax?"
"No;
I pleaded off,
and he admitted my plea.

I'll tell you how
to manage so as
to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance,
which is the most disagreeable part of the business.

You must go into the drawing-room while it is empty,
before the ladies leave the dinner-table;
choose your seat in any quiet nook you like;
you need not stay long after the gentlemen come in,
unless you please:

just let Mr. Rochester see you are there and then slip away--nobody will notice you."

"Will these people remain long,
do you think?"
"Perhaps two or three weeks,
certainly not more.

After the Easter recess,
Sir George Lynn,
who was lately elected member
for Millcote,
will have
to go up
to town and take his seat;
I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him:

it surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay at Thornfield."

It was
with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I was
to repair
with my charge
to the drawing-room.

Adele had been in a state of ecstasy all day,
after hearing she was
to be presented
to the ladies in the evening;
and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of dressing her that she sobered down.

Then the importance of the process quickly steadied her,
and by the time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed,
drooping clusters,
her pink satin frock put on,
her long sash tied,
and her lace mittens adjusted,
she looked as grave as any judge.

No need
to warn her not
to disarrange her attire:

when she was dressed,
she sat demurely down in her little chair,
taking care previously
to lift up the satin skirt
for fear she should crease it,
and assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready.

This I quickly was:

my best dress
(the silver-grey one,
purchased
for Miss Temple's wedding,
and never worn since)
was soon put on;
my hair was soon smoothed;
my sole ornament,
the pearl brooch,
soon assumed.

We descended.

Fortunately there was another entrance
to the drawing-room than that through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner.

We found the apartment vacant;
a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth,
and wax candles shining in bright solitude,
amid the exquisite flowers
with which the tables were adorned.

The crimson curtain hung before the arch:

slight as was the separation this drapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon,
they spoke in so low a key that nothing of their conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.

Adele,
who appeared
to be still under the influence of a most solemnising impression,
sat down,
without a word,
on the footstool I pointed out
to her.

I retired
to a window-seat,
and taking a book from a table near,
endeavoured
to read.

Adele brought her stool
to my feet;
ere long she touched my knee.

"What is it,
Adele?"
"Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques,
mademoiselle?

Seulement pour completer ma toilette."

"You think too much of your
'toilette,'
Adele:

but you may have a flower."

And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash.

She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction,
as if her cup of happiness were now full.

I turned my face away
to conceal a smile I could not suppress:

there was something ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne's earnest and innate devotion
to matters of dress.

A soft sound of rising now became audible;
the curtain was swept back from the arch;
through it appeared the dining-room,
with its lit lustre pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a long table;
a band of ladies stood in the opening;
they entered,
and the curtain fell behind them.

There were but eight;
yet,
somehow,
as they flocked in,
they gave the impression of a much larger number.

Some of them were very tall;
many were dressed in white;
and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed
to magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the moon.

I rose and curtseyed
to them:

one or two bent their heads in return,
the others only stared at me.

They dispersed about the room,
reminding me,
by the lightness and buoyancy of their movements,
of a flock of white plumy birds.

Some of them threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans:

some bent over the tables and examined the flowers and books:

the rest gathered in a group round the fire:

all talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual
to them.

I knew their names afterwards,
and may as well mention them now.

First,
there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters.

She had evidently been a handsome woman,
and was well preserved still.

Of her daughters,
the eldest,
Amy,
was rather little:

naive,
and child-like in face and manner,
and piquant in form;
her white muslin dress and blue sash became her well.

The second,
Louisa,
was taller and more elegant in figure;
with a very pretty face,
of that order the French term minois chiffone:

both sisters were fair as lilies.

Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty,
very erect,
very haughty-looking,
richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful sheen:

her dark hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume,
and within the circlet of a band of geMs. Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy;
but,
I thought,
more lady-like.

She had a slight figure,
a pale,
gentle face,
and fair hair.

Her black satin dress,
her scarf of rich foreign lace,
and her pearl ornaments,
pleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame.

But the three most distinguished--partly,
perhaps,
because the tallest figures of the band--were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters,
Blanche and Mary.

They were all three of the loftiest stature of women.

The Dowager might be between forty and fifty:

her shape was still fine;
her hair
(by candle-light at least)
still black;
her teeth,
too,
were still apparently perfect.

Most people would have termed her a splendid woman of her age:

and so she was,
no doubt,
physically speaking;
but then there was an expression of almost insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance.

She had Roman features and a double chin,
disappearing into a throat like a pillar:

these features appeared
to me not only inflated and darkened,
but even furrowed
with pride;
and the chin was sustained by the same principle,
in a position of almost preternatural erectness.

She had,
likewise,
a fierce and a hard eye:

it reminded me of Mrs. Reed's;
she mouthed her words in speaking;
her voice was deep,
its inflections very pompous,
very dogmatical,--very intolerable,
in short.

A crimson velvet robe,
and a shawl turban of some gold-wrought Indian fabric,
invested her
(I suppose she thought)
with a truly imperial dignity.

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

Mary was too slim
for her height,
but Blanche was moulded like a Dian.

I regarded her,
of course,
with special interest.

First,
I wished
to see whether her appearance accorded
with Mrs. Fairfax's description;
secondly,
whether it at all resembled the fancy miniature I had painted of her;
and thirdly--it will out!-- whether it were such as I should fancy likely
to suit Mr. Rochester's taste.

As far as person went,
she answered point
for point,
both
to my picture and Mrs. Fairfax's description.

The noble bust,
the sloping shoulders,
the graceful neck,
the dark eyes and black ringlets were all there;--but her face?

Her face was like her mother's;
a youthful unfurrowed likeness:

the same low brow,
the same high features,
the same pride.

It was not,
however,
so saturnine a pride! she laughed continually;
her laugh was satirical,
and so was the habitual expression of her arched and haughty lip.

Genius is said
to be self-conscious.

I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius,
but she was self-conscious--remarkably self- conscious indeed.

She entered into a discourse on botany
with the gentle Mrs. Dent.

It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that science:

though,
as she said,
she liked flowers,
"especially wild ones;"
Miss Ingram had,
and she ran over its vocabulary
with an air.

I presently perceived she was
(what is vernacularly termed)
TRAILING Mrs. Dent;
that is,
playing on her ignorance--her TRAIL might be clever,
but it was decidedly not good-natured.

She played:

her execution was brilliant;
she sang:

her voice was fine;
she talked French apart
to her mamma;
and she talked it well,
with fluency and
with a good accent.

Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche;
softer features too,
and a skin some shades fairer
(Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)--but Mary was deficient in life:

her face lacked expression,
her eye lustre;
she had nothing
to say,
and having once taken her seat,
remained fixed like a statue in its niche.

The sisters were both attired in spotless white.

And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be likely
to make?

I could not tell--I did not know his taste in female beauty.

If he liked the majestic,
she was the very type of majesty:

then she was accomplished,
sprightly.

Most gentlemen would admire her,
I thought;
and that he DID admire her,
I already seemed
to have obtained proof:

to remove the last shade of doubt,
it remained but
to see them together.

You are not
to suppose,
reader,
that Adele has all this time been sitting motionless on the stool at my feet:

no;
when the ladies entered,
she rose,
advanced
to meet them,
made a stately reverence,
and said
with gravity -
"Bon jour,
mesdames."

And Miss Ingram had looked down at her
with a mocking air,
and exclaimed,
"Oh,
what a little puppet!"
Lady Lynn had remarked,
"It is Mr. Rochester's ward,
I suppose--the little French girl he was speaking of."

Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand,
and given her a kiss.

Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously--"What a love of a child!"
And then they had called her
to a sofa,
where she now sat,
ensconced between them,
chattering alternately in French and broken English;
absorbing not only the young ladies'
attention,
but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn,
and getting spoilt
to her heart's content.

At last coffee is brought in,
and the gentlemen are summoned.

I sit in the shade--if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment;
the window-curtain half hides me.

Again the arch yawns;
they come.

The collective appearance of the gentlemen,
like that of the ladies,
is very imposing:

they are all costumed in black;
most of them are tall,
some young.

Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed;
and Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man.

Mr. Eshton,
the magistrate of the district,
is gentleman-like:

his hair is quite white,
his eyebrows and whiskers still dark,
which gives him something of the appearance of a
"pere noble de theatre."

Lord Ingram,
like his sisters,
is very tall;
like them,
also,
he is handsome;
but he shares Mary's apathetic and listless look:

he seems
to have more length of limb than vivacity of blood or vigour of brain.

And where is Mr. Rochester?

He comes in last:

I am not looking at the arch,
yet I see him enter.

I try
to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles,
on the meshes of the purse I am forming--I wish
to think only of the work I have in my hands,
to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap;
whereas,
I distinctly behold his figure,
and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it;
just after I had rendered him,
what he deemed,
an essential service,
and he,
holding my hand,
and looking down on my face,
surveyed me
with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager
to overflow;
in whose emotions I had a part.

How near had I approached him at that moment! What had occurred since,
calculated
to change his and my relative positions?

Yet now,
how distant,
how far estranged we were! So far estranged,
that I did not expect him
to come and speak
to me.

I did not wonder,
when,
without looking at me,
he took a seat at the other side of the room,
and began conversing
with some of the ladies.

No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them,
and that I might gaze without being observed,
than my eyes were drawn involuntarily
to his face;
I could not keep their lids under control:

they would rise,
and the irids would fix on him.

I looked,
and had an acute pleasure in looking,--a precious yet poignant pleasure;
pure gold,
with a steely point of agony:

a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well
to which he has crept is poisoned,
yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.

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

My master's colourless,
olive face,
square,
massive brow,
broad and jetty eyebrows,
deep eyes,
strong features,
firm,
grim mouth,--all energy,
decision,
will,--were not beautiful,
according
to rule;
but they were more than beautiful
to me;
they were full of an interest,
an influence that quite mastered me,--that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his.

I had not intended
to love him;
the reader knows I had wrought hard
to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected;
and now,
at the first renewed view of him,
they spontaneously arrived,
green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.

I compared him
with his guests.

What was the gallant grace of the Lynns,
the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,--even the military distinction of Colonel Dent,
contrasted
with his look of native pith and genuine power?

I had no sympathy in their appearance,
their expression:

yet I could imagine that most observers would call them attractive,
handsome,
imposing;
while they would pronounce Mr. Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking.

I saw them smile,
laugh--it was nothing;
the light of the candles had as much soul in it as their smile;
the tinkle of the bell as much significance as their laugh.

I saw Mr. Rochester smile:- his stern features softened;
his eye grew both brilliant and gentle,
its ray both searching and sweet.

He was talking,
at the moment,
to Louisa and Amy Eshton.

I wondered
to see them receive
with calm that look which seemed
to me so penetrating:

I expected their eyes
to fall,
their colour
to rise under it;
yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved.

"He is not
to them what he is
to me,"
I thought:

"he is not of their kind.

I believe he is of mine;--I am sure he is--I feel akin
to him--I understand the language of his countenance and movements:

though rank and wealth sever us widely,
I have something in my brain and heart,
in my blood and nerves,
that assimilates me mentally
to him.

Did I say,
a few days since,
that I had nothing
to do
with him but
to receive my salary at his hands?

Did I forbid myself
to think of him in any other light than as a paymaster?

Blasphemy against nature! Every good,
true,
vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him.

I know I must conceal my sentiments:

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

For when I say that I am of his kind,
I do not mean that I have his force
to influence,
and his spell
to attract;
I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common
with him.

I must,
then,
repeat continually that we are
for ever sundered:- and yet,
while I breathe and think,
I must love him."

Coffee is handed.

The ladies,
since the gentlemen entered,
have become lively as larks;
conversation waxes brisk and merry.

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

The two proud dowagers,
Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram,
confabulate together.

Sir George--whom,
by-the-bye,
I have forgotten
to describe,--a very big,
and very fresh-looking country gentleman,
stands before their sofa,
coffee-cup in hand,
and occasionally puts in a word.

Mr. Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram,
and is showing her the engravings of a splendid volume:

she looks,
smiles now and then,
but apparently says little.

The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans
with folded arms on the chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton;
she glances up at him,
and chatters like a wren:

she likes him better than she does Mr. Rochester.

Henry Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa:

Adele shares it
with him:

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

With whom will Blanche Ingram pair?

She is standing alone at the table,
bending gracefully over an album.

She seems waiting
to be sought;
but she will not wait too long:

she herself selects a mate.

Mr. Rochester,
having quitted the Eshtons,
stands on the hearth as solitary as she stands by the table:

she confronts him,
taking her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.

"Mr. Rochester,
I thought you were not fond of children?"
"Nor am I."

"Then,
what induced you
to take charge of such a little doll as that?"
(pointing
to Adele).

"Where did you pick her up?"
"I did not pick her up;
she was left on my hands."

"You should have sent her
to school."

"I could not afford it:

schools are so dear."

"Why,
I suppose you have a governess
for her:

I saw a person
with her just now--is she gone?

Oh,
no! there she is still,
behind the window-curtain.

You pay her,
of course;
I should think it quite as expensive,--more so;
for you have them both
to keep in addition."

I feared--or should I say,
hoped?--the allusion
to me would make Mr. Rochester glance my way;
and I involuntarily shrank farther into the shade:

but he never turned his eyes.

"I have not considered the subject,"
said he indifferently,
looking straight before him.

"No,
you men never do consider economy and common sense.

You should hear mama on the chapter of governesses:

Mary and I have had,
I should think,
a dozen at least in our day;
half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous,
and all incubi--were they not,
mama?"
"Did you speak,
my own?"
The young lady thus claimed as the dowager's special property,
reiterated her question
with an explanation.

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

I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice.

I thank Heaven I have now done
with them!"
Mrs. Dent here bent over
to the pious lady and whispered something in her ear;
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 blow-up.

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 as anything we asked for."

"I suppose,
now,"
said Miss Ingram,
curling her lip sarcastically,
"we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses extant:

in order
to avert such a visitation,
I again move the introduction of a new topic.

Mr. Rochester,
do you second my motion?"
"Madam,
I support you on this point,
as on every other."

"Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward.

Signior Eduardo,
are you in voice to-night?"
"Donna Bianca,
if you command it,
I will be."

"Then,
signior,
I lay on you my sovereign behest
to furbish up your lungs and other vocal organs,
as they will be wanted on my royal service."

"Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?"
"A fig
for Rizzio!"
cried she,
tossing her head
with all its curls,
as she moved
to the piano.

"It is my opinion the fiddler David must have been an insipid sort of fellow;
I like black Bothwell better:

to my mind a man is nothing without a spice of the devil in him;
and history may say what it will of James Hepburn,
but I have a notion,
he was just the sort of wild,
fierce,
bandit hero whom I could have consented
to gift
with my hand."

"Gentlemen,
you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?"
cried Mr. Rochester.

"I should say the preference lies
with you,"
responded Colonel Dent.

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

Miss Ingram,
who had now seated herself
with proud grace at the piano,
spreading out her snowy robes in queenly amplitude,
commenced a brilliant prelude;
talking meantime.

She appeared
to be on her high horse to-night;
both her words and her air seemed intended
to excite not only the admiration,
but the amazement of her auditors:

she was evidently bent on striking them as something very dashing and daring indeed.

"Oh,
I am so sick of the young men of the present day!"
exclaimed she,
rattling away at the instrument.

"Poor,
puny things,
not fit
to stir a step beyond papa's park gates:

nor
to go even so far without mama's permission and guardianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty faces,
and their white hands,
and their small feet;
as if a man had anything
to do
with beauty! As if loveliness were not the special prerogative of woman--her legitimate appanage and heritage! I grant an ugly WOMAN is a blot on the fair face of creation;
but as
to the GENTLEMEN,
let them be solicitous
to possess only strength and valour:

let their motto be:- Hunt,
shoot,
and fight:

the rest is not worth a fillip.

Such should be my device,
were I a man."

"Whenever I marry,"
she continued after a pause which none interrupted,
"I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival,
but a foil
to me.

I will suffer no competitor near the throne;
I shall exact an undivided homage:

his devotions shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his mirror.

Mr. Rochester,
now sing,
and I will play
for you."

"I am all obedience,"
was the response.

"Here then is a Corsair-song.

Know that I doat on Corsairs;
and
for that reason,
sing it con spirito."

"Commands from Miss Ingram's lips would put spirit into a mug of milk and water."

"Take care,
then:

if you don't please me,
I will shame you by showing how such things SHOULD be done."

"That is offering a premium on incapacity:

I shall now endeavour
to fail."

"Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully,
I shall devise a proportionate punishment."

"Miss Ingram ought
to be clement,
for she has it in her power
to inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance."

"Ha! explain!"
commanded the lady.

"Pardon me,
madam:

no need of explanation;
your own fine sense must inform you that one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute
for capital punishment."

"Sing!"
said she,
and again touching the piano,
she commenced an accompaniment in spirited style.

"Now is my time
to slip away,"
thought I:

but the tones that then severed the air arrested me.

Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice:

he did--a mellow,
powerful bass,
into which he threw his own feeling,
his own force;
finding a way through the ear
to the heart,
and there waking sensation strangely.

I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired--till the tide of talk,
checked an instant,
had resumed its flow;
I then quitted my sheltered corner and made my exit by the side-door,
which was fortunately near.

Thence a narrow passage led into the hall:

in crossing it,
I perceived my sandal was loose;
I stopped
to tie it,
kneeling down
for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the staircase.

I heard the dining-room door unclose;
a gentleman came out;
rising hastily,
I stood face
to face
with him:

it was Mr. Rochester.

"How do you do?"
he asked.

"I am very well,
sir."

"Why did you not come and speak
to me in the room?"
I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it:

but I would not take that freedom.

I answered -
"I did not wish
to disturb you,
as you seemed engaged,
sir."

"What have you been doing during my absence?"
"Nothing particular;
teaching Adele as usual."

"And getting a good deal paler than you were--as I saw at first sight.

What is the matter?"
"Nothing at all,
sir."

"Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?"
"Not she least."

"Return
to the drawing-room:

you are deserting too early."

"I am tired,
sir."

He looked at me
for a minute.

"And a little depressed,"
he said.

"What about?

Tell me."

"Nothing--nothing,
sir.

I am not depressed."

"But I affirm that you are:

so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears
to your eyes--indeed,
they are there now,
shining and swimming;
and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on
to the flag.

If I had time,
and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing,
I would know what all this means.

Well,
to-night I excuse you;
but understand that so long as my visitors stay,
I expect you
to appear in the drawing-room every evening;
it is my wish;
don't neglect it.

Now go,
and send Sophie
for Adele.

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

CHAPTER XVIII Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall;
and busy days too:

how different from the first three months of stillness,
monotony,
and solitude I had passed beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house,
all gloomy associations forgotten:

there was life everywhere,
movement all day long.

You could not now traverse the gallery,
once so hushed,
nor enter the front chambers,
once so tenantless,
without encountering a smart lady's-maid or a dandy valet.

The kitchen,
the butler's pantry,
the servants'
hall,
the entrance hall,
were equally alive;
and the saloons were only left void and still when the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather called their occupants out into the grounds.

Even when that weather was broken,
and continuous rain set in
for some days,
no damp seemed cast over enjoyment:

indoor amusements only became more lively and varied,
in consequence of the stop put
to outdoor gaiety.

I wondered what they were going
to do the first evening a change of entertainment was proposed:

they spoke of
"playing charades,"
but in my ignorance I did not understand the term.

The servants were called in,
the dining-room tables wheeled away,
the lights otherwise disposed,
the chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch.

While Mr. Rochester and the other gentlemen directed these alterations,
the ladies were running up and down stairs ringing
for their maids.

Mrs. Fairfax was summoned
to give information respecting the resources of the house in shawls,
dresses,
draperies of any kind;
and certain wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked,
and their contents,
in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats,
satin sacques,
black modes,
lace lappets,
&c.,
were brought down in armfuls by the abigails;
then a selection was made,
and such things as were chosen were carried
to the boudoir within the drawing-room.

Meantime,
Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him,
and was selecting certain of their number
to be of his party.

"Miss Ingram is mine,
of course,"
said he:

afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton,
and Mrs. Dent.

He looked at me:

I happened
to be near him,
as I had been fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent's bracelet,
which had got loose.

"Will you play?"
he asked.

I shook my head.

He did not insist,
which I rather feared he would have done;
he allowed me
to return quietly
to my usual seat.

He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain:

the other party,
which was headed by Colonel Dent,
sat down on the crescent of chairs.

One of the gentlemen,
Mr. Eshton,
observing me,
seemed
to propose that I should be asked
to join them;
but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion.

"No,"
I heard her say:

"she looks too stupid
for any game of the sort."

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

Within the arch,
the bulky figure of Sir George Lynn,
whom Mr. Rochester had likewise chosen,
was seen enveloped in a white sheet:

before him,
on a table,
lay open a large book;
and at his side stood Amy Eshton,
draped in Mr. Rochester's cloak,
and holding a book in her hand.

Somebody,
unseen,
rang the bell merrily;
then Adele
(who had insisted on being one of her guardian's party),
bounded forward,
scattering round her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm.

Then appeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram,
clad in white,
a long veil on her head,
and a wreath of roses round her brow;
by her side walked Mr. Rochester,
and together they drew near the table.

They knelt;
while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton,
dressed also in white,
took up their stations behind them.

A ceremony followed,
in dumb show,
in which it was easy
to recognise the pantomime of a marriage.

At its termination,
Colonel Dent and his party consulted in whispers
for two minutes,
then the Colonel called out -
"Bride!"
Mr. Rochester bowed,
and the curtain fell.

A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose.

Its second rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last.

The drawing-room,
as I have before observed,
was raised two steps above the dining-room,
and on the top of the upper step,
placed a yard or two back within the room,
appeared a large marble basin-- which I recognised as an ornament of the conservatory--where it usually stood,
surrounded by exotics,
and tenanted by gold fish--and whence it must have been transported
with some trouble,
on account of its size and weight.

Seated on the carpet,
by the side of this basin,
was seen Mr. Rochester,
costumed in shawls,
with a turban on his head.

His dark eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features suited the costume exactly:

he looked the very model of an Eastern emir,
an agent or a victim of the bowstring.

Presently advanced into view Miss Ingram.

She,
too,
was attired in oriental fashion:

a crimson scarf tied sash-like round the waist:

an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her temples;
her beautifully-moulded arms bare,
one of them upraised in the act of supporting a pitcher,
poised gracefully on her head.

Both her cast of form and feature,
her complexion and her general air,
suggested the idea of some Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days;
and such was doubtless the character she intended
to represent.

She approached the basin,
and bent over it as if
to fill her pitcher;
she again lifted it
to her head.

The personage on the well-brink now seemed
to accost her;
to make some request:-
"She hasted,
let down her pitcher on her hand,
and gave him
to drink."

From the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket,
opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and earrings;
she acted astonishment and admiration;
kneeling,
he laid the treasure at her feet;
incredulity and delight were expressed by her looks and gestures;
the stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears.

It was Eliezer and Rebecca:

the camels only were wanting.

The divining party again laid their heads together:

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

Colonel Dent,
their spokesman,
demanded
"the tableau of the whole;"
whereupon the curtain again descended.

On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed;
the rest being concealed by a screen,
hung
with some sort of dark and coarse drapery.

The marble basin was removed;
in its place,
stood a deal table and a kitchen chair:

these objects were visible by a very dim light proceeding from a horn lantern,
the wax candles being all extinguished.

Amidst this sordid scene,
sat a man
with his clenched hands resting on his knees,
and his eyes bent on the ground.

I knew Mr. Rochester;
though the begrimed face,
the disordered dress
(his coat hanging loose from one arm,
as if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle),
the desperate and scowling countenance,
the rough,
bristling hair might well have disguised him.

As he moved,
a chain clanked;
to his wrists were attached fetters.

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

A sufficient interval having elapsed
for the performers
to resume their ordinary costume,
they re-entered the dining-room.

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

"Do you know,"
said she,
"that,
of the three characters,
I liked you in the last best?

Oh,
had you but lived a few years earlier,
what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made!"
"Is all the soot washed from my face?"
he asked,
turning it towards her.

"Alas! yes:

the more's the pity! Nothing could be more becoming
to your complexion than that ruffian's rouge."

"You would like a hero of the road then?"
"An English hero of the road would be the next best thing
to an Italian bandit;
and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate."

"Well,
whatever I am,
remember you are my wife;
we were married an hour since,
in the presence of all these witnesses."

She giggled,
and her colour rose.

"Now,
Dent,"
continued Mr. Rochester,
"it is your turn."

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

Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader's right hand;
the other diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and her.

I did not now watch the actors;
I no longer waited
with interest
for the curtain
to rise;
my attention was absorbed by the spectators;
my eyes,
erewhile fixed on the arch,
were now irresistibly attracted
to the semicircle of chairs.

What charade Colonel Dent and his party played,
what word they chose,
how they acquitted themselves,
I no longer remember;
but I still see the consultation which followed each scene:

I see Mr. Rochester turn
to Miss Ingram,
and Miss Ingram
to him;
I see her incline her head towards him,
till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek;
I hear their mutual whisperings;
I recall their interchanged glances;
and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this moment.

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

I could not unlove him now,
merely because I found that he had ceased
to notice me--because I might pass hours in his presence,
and he would never once turn his eyes in my direction--because I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady,
who scorned
to touch me
with the hem of her robes as she passed;
who,
if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance,
would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean
to merit observation.

I could not unlove him,
because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady--because I read daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting her--because I witnessed hourly in him a style of courtship which,
if careless and choosing rather
to be sought than
to seek,
was yet,
in its very carelessness,
captivating,
and in its very pride,
irresistible.

There was nothing
to cool or banish love in these circumstances,
though much
to create despair.

Much too,
you will think,
reader,
to engender jealousy:

if a woman,
in my position,
could presume
to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram's.

But I was not jealous:

or very rarely;--the nature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that word.

Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy:

she was too inferior
to excite the feeling.

Pardon the seeming paradox;
I mean what I say.

She was very showy,
but she was not genuine:

she had a fine person,
many brilliant attainments;
but her mind was poor,
her heart barren by nature:

nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil;
no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness.

She was not good;
she was not original:

she used
to repeat sounding phrases from books:

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

She advocated a high tone of sentiment;
but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity;
tenderness and truth were not in her.

Too often she betrayed this,
by the undue vent she gave
to a spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Adele:

pushing her away
with some contumelious epithet if she happened
to approach her;
sometimes ordering her from the room,
and always treating her
with coldness and acrimony.

Other eyes besides mine watched these manifestations of character--watched them closely,
keenly,
shrewdly.

Yes;
the future bridegroom,
Mr. Rochester himself,
exercised over his intended a ceaseless surveillance;
and it was from this sagacity--this guardedness of his--this perfect,
clear consciousness of his fair one's defects-- this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her,
that my ever-torturing pain arose.

I saw he was going
to marry her,
for family,
perhaps political reasons,
because her rank and connections suited him;
I felt he had not given her his love,
and that her qualifications were ill adapted
to win from him that treasure.

This was the point--this was where the nerve was touched and teased--this was where the fever was sustained and fed:

SHE COULD NOT CHARM HIM.

If she had managed the victory at once,
and he had yielded and sincerely laid his heart at her feet,
I should have covered my face,
turned
to the wall,
and
(figuratively)
have died
to them.

If Miss Ingram had been a good and noble woman,
endowed
with force,
fervour,
kindness,
sense,
I should have had one vital struggle
with two tigers--jealousy and despair:

then,
my heart torn out and devoured,
I should have admired her--acknowledged her excellence,
and been quiet
for the rest of my days:

and the more absolute her superiority,
the deeper would have been my admiration--the more truly tranquil my quiescence.

But as matters really stood,
to watch Miss Ingram's efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester,
to witness their repeated failure--herself unconscious that they did fail;
vainly fancying that each shaft launched hit the mark,
and infatuatedly pluming herself on success,
when her pride and self-complacency repelled further and further what she wished
to allure--to witness THIS,
was
to be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.

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

Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and fell harmless at his feet,
might,
I knew,
if shot by a surer hand,
have quivered keen in his proud heart--have called love into his stern eye,
and softness into his sardonic face;
or,
better still,
without weapons a silent conquest might have been won.

"Why can she not influence him more,
when she is privileged
to draw so near
to him?"
I asked myself.

"Surely she cannot truly like him,
or not like him
with true affection! If she did,
she need not coin her smiles so lavishly,
flash her glances so unremittingly,
manufacture airs so elaborate,
graces so multitudinous.

It seems
to me that she might,
by merely sitting quietly at his side,
saying little and looking less,
get nigher his heart.

I have seen in his face a far different expression from that which hardens it now while she is so vivaciously accosting him;
but then it came of itself:

it was not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres;
and one had but
to accept it--to answer what he asked without pretension,
to address him when needful without grimace--and it increased and grew kinder and more genial,
and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam.

How will she manage
to please him when they are married?

I do not think she will manage it;
and yet it might be managed;
and his wife might,
I verily believe,
be the very happiest woman the sun shines on."

I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester's project of marrying
for interest and connections.

It surprised me when I first discovered that such was his intention:

I had thought him a man unlikely
to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife;
but the longer I considered the position,
education,
&c.,
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 clock had already given warning of the hour
to dress
for dinner,
when little Adele,
who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat,
suddenly exclaimed -
"Voile,
Monsieur Rochester,
qui revient!"
I turned,
and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa:

the others,
too,
looked up from their several occupations;
for at the same time a crunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel.

A post-chaise was approaching.

"What can possess him
to come home in that style?"
said Miss Ingram.

"He rode Mesrour
(the black horse),
did he not,
when he went out?

and Pilot was
with him:- what has he done
with the animals?"
As she said this,
she approached her tall person and ample garments so near the window,
that I was obliged
to bend back almost
to the breaking of my spine:

in her eagerness she did not observe me at first,
but when she did,
she curled her lip and moved
to another casement.

The post-chaise stopped;
the driver rang the door-bell,
and a gentleman alighted attired in travelling garb;
but it was not Mr. Rochester;
it was a tall,
fashionable-looking man,
a stranger.

"How provoking!"
exclaimed Miss Ingram:

"you tiresome monkey!"
(apostrophising Adele),
"who perched you up in the window
to give false intelligence?"
and she cast on me an angry glance,
as if I were in fault.

Some parleying was audible in the hall,
and soon the new-comer 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 mo