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Jane Eyre
By
Charlotte Brontё
Cont=
ents
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, din=
ed
early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rai=
n so
penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.
I was glad of it: I never liked lo=
ng
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 physi=
cal
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 o=
n 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 caviller=
s 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, li=
ke 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, protecti=
ng,
but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turn=
ing
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 a=
nd
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, gener=
ally
speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I wa=
s, 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 Zembl=
a,
Iceland, Greenland, with ‘the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those
forlorn regions of dreary space,- that reservoir of frost and snow, where f=
irm
fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine
heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigo=
urs
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 signific=
ance
to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken b=
oat
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 haunt=
ed
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 cresc=
ent,
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 seat=
ed
aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.
Each picture told a story; mysteri=
ous
often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever
profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrat=
ed
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) f=
rom
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!’ cri=
ed
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) Jo=
an
is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain - bad animal!’
‘It is well I drew the curta= in,’ 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 visio= n or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once -<= o:p>
‘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, Mas=
ter
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 fourt=
een
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 visa=
ge,
heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, w=
hich
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 mon=
th
or two, ‘on account of his delicate health.’ Mr. Miles, the mas=
ter,
affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats se=
nt
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 taki=
ng
my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she n=
ever
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 cam=
e 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 h=
im
who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; fo=
r,
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 w=
ay
of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minut=
es
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 whi=
ch
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 fetch=
ed
it thence.
‘You have no business to take
our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father l=
eft
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. N=
ow,
I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they are mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few year=
s.
Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows.R=
17;
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 agai=
nst
the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had pa=
ssed
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 mam=
a?
but first- ’
He ran headlong at me: I felt him
grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I real=
ly
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 frant=
ic
sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me =
216;Rat!
Rat!’ and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana h=
ad
run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, foll=
owed
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-ro=
om,
and lock her in there.’ Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and=
I
was borne upstairs.
I resisted all the way: a new thing
for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie
and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle
beside myself; or rather out of
myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had
already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel
slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths.
‘Hold her arms, Miss Abbot:
she's like a mad cat.’
‘For shame! for shame!’
cried the lady's-maid. ‘What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a
young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master.’
‘Master! How is he my master=
? Am
I a servant?’
‘No; you are less than a
servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over =
your
wickedness.’
They had got me by this time into =
the
apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse
was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me
instantly.
‘If you don't sit still, you
must be tied down,’ said Bessie. ‘Miss Abbot, lend me your gart=
ers;
she would break mine directly.’
Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout
leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the addition=
al
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 loose=
ned
her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking dar=
kly
and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity.
‘She never did so before,=
217;
at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail.
‘But it was always in her,=
8217;
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 u=
nder
obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you w=
ould
have to go to the poorhouse.’
I had nothing to say to these word=
s:
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 c=
ome
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 influ=
x 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, hu=
ng
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 shrou=
ded
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 chai=
rs
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, sp=
read
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 se=
ldom
had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; sol=
emn,
because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came her=
e 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 wo=
rds
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 wheth=
er
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 t=
he
looking- glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it re=
vealed.
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 specki=
ng
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 quaile=
d to
the dismal present.
All John Reed's violent tyrannies,=
all
his sisters' proud indifference, all his mother's aversion, all the servant=
s'
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 ev=
er
condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any o=
ne'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 neck=
s of
the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, strip=
ped
the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plan=
ts
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 stro=
ve
to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and
sneaking, from morning to noon, and from
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 violen=
ce,
I was loaded with general opprobrium.
‘Unjust!- unjust!’ sai=
d 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 m=
ine
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 ba=
ttle
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 child=
ren,
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 germ=
s 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 cordia=
lity
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 j=
ust
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 invit=
ing
bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by t=
his
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- tha=
t 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 main=
tain
me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept t=
his
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 irk=
some
to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a par=
ent
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 overshado=
wed
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 m=
e 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 fr=
om
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 mi=
ght
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 he=
ad.
I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likeliho=
od,
a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then, prepa=
red
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?R=
17;
said Bessie.
‘What a dreadful noise! it w=
ent
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 bel=
ieve
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 ou=
t 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 tha=
t 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 a=
ll
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 thru=
st
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: unconsciousn=
ess
closed the scene.
The next thing I remember is, waki=
ng
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 tab=
le;
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 rel=
ated
to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxio=
us
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, sometim=
es
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 hi=
m at
the same time my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, ‘We shall do v=
ery
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 t=
he
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.̵=
7;
‘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 embold=
ened
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-nigh=
t:
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 t=
oo
distinctly to infer the main subject discussed.
‘Something passed her, all
dressed in white, and vanished’- ’A great black dog behind him&=
#8217;-
’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 t=
he
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 illn=
ess
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 so=
me
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 g=
one
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. Th=
is
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 ra=
cked
nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure
excite them agreeably.
Bessie had been down into the kitc=
hen,
and she brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plat=
e,
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 su=
ch a
privilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordia=
lly
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 cou=
ld
not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, se=
emed
strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would ha=
ve 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 w=
hat
I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain amo=
ng
foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantl=
ing 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 be=
ing,
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, house=
s,
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 ca=
ts,
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 t=
he
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 thou=
ght
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 chi=
ld.
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 ch=
ild.
Yet distant and soft the night bre=
eze
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 wi=
ll
my Father, with promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan chi=
ld.
There is a thought that for streng=
th
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, ̵=
6;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!’ sa=
id
he, as he entered the nursery. ‘Well, nurse, how is she?’
Bessie answered that I was doing v=
ery
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-este=
em
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 becaus=
e I
am miserable.’
‘Oh fie, Miss!’ said
Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared a lit=
tle
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 th=
em
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 b=
aby
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, b=
ut
she was obliged to go, because punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at
Gateshead Hall.
‘The fall did not make you i=
ll;
what did, then?’ pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone.
‘I was shut up in a room whe=
re
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 al=
one
without a candle,- so cruel that I think I shall never forget it.’
‘Nonsense! And is it that ma=
kes
you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?’
‘No: but night will come aga=
in
before long: and besides,- I am unhappy,- very unhappy, for other things.=
8217;
‘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 effect=
ed
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 mea=
gre,
though, as far as it went, true response.
‘For one thing, I have no fa=
ther
or mother, brothers or sisters.’
‘You have a kind aunt and
cousins.’
Again I paused; then bunglingly
enounced-
‘But John Reed knocked me do=
wn,
and my aunt shut me up in the red-room.’
Mr. Lloyd a second time produced h=
is
snuff-box.
‘Don't you think Gateshead H=
all
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 en=
ough
to wish to leave such a splendid place?’
‘If I had anywhere else to g=
o, 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 fath=
er?’
‘I don't know. I asked Aunt =
Reed
once, and she said possibly I might have some poor, low relations called Ey=
re,
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 be=
long
to poor people,’ was my reply.
‘Not even if they were kind =
to
you?’
I shook my head: I could not see h=
ow
poor people had the means of being kind; and then to learn to speak like th=
em,
to adopt their manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor w=
omen
I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cott=
age
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 v=
ery
poor? Are they working people?’
‘I cannot tell; Aunt Reed sa=
ys
if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: I should not like to go a beggi=
ng.’
‘Would you like to go to sch=
ool?’
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 comi= ng to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain accomplishmen= ts 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.<= o:p>
‘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, nurs=
e?’
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, a=
nd,
as they thought, asleep, ‘Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to g=
et
rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she =
were
watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand.’ Abbot, I think, ga=
ve
me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.
On that same occasion I learned, f=
or
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 afte=
r my
mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fev=
er
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 narrat= ive, sighed and said, ‘Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot.’<= o:p>
‘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 sur=
e,’
agreed Bessie: ‘at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be mo=
re
moving in the same condition.’
‘Yes, I doat on Miss Georgia=
na!’
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 on=
ion.
Come, we'll go down.’ They went.
From my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, =
and
from the above reported conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered eno=
ugh
of hope to suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed nea=
r,- I
desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks passe=
d: 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 und=
er
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 act=
ing
according to orders, spoke to me as little as possible: John thrust his ton=
gue
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 bett=
er
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 associa=
te
with me.’
Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman;
but, on hearing this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up t=
he
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 scarc=
ely
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 re=
ally
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 s=
hut
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 feelin=
gs
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, din=
ners
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 t=
he
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 s=
he
had dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the lively region=
s 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 rou=
nd
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 darknes=
s in
my crib. To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love somethi=
ng,
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 miniatu=
re
scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I doate=
d on
this little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could n=
ot
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 wa=
ited
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 th=
at
she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or sc=
old,
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 idea=
s of
principle or justice: still, such as she was, I preferred her to any one el=
se
at Gateshead Hall.
It was the fifteenth of January, a=
bout
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 wa=
rm
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 slip=
s of
plants; that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young l=
ady
all the products of her parterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would have s=
old
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 housemai=
d,
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.; wh=
ich
interest she exacted every quarter, keeping her accounts in a little book w=
ith
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 t=
he
attic. I was making my bed, having received strict orders from Bessie to ge=
t it
arranged before she returned (for Bessie now frequently employed me as a so=
rt
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 pu=
t in
order some picture-books and doll's house furniture scattered there; an abr=
upt
command from Georgiana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs and
mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property) stopped my proceedin=
gs;
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 d=
rive
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 t=
o me,
my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a li=
ttle
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 b=
read
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 c=
ame
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 t=
he
stone sill, some on the cherry-tree bough, then, closing the window, I repl=
ied-
‘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 so=
me
mischief: what were you opening the window for?’
I was spared the trouble of answer=
ing,
for Bessie seemed in too great a hurry to listen to explanations; she haule=
d 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 bris=
tly
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 aw=
ful
regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude.
I now stood in the empty hall; bef=
ore
me was the breakfast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. W=
hat
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 forwa=
rd
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, f=
or a
second or two, resisted my efforts. ‘What should I see besides Aunt R=
eed
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, narr=
ow,
sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was li=
ke 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 introd=
uced
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, s=
aid
solemnly, and in a bass voice, ‘Her size is small: what is her age?=
8217;
‘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 u=
p:
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 yo=
u a good
child?’
Impossible to reply to this in the
affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Re=
ed
answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, ‘Per=
haps
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 her=
e,’
he said.
I stepped across the rug; he place=
d 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 promin=
ent
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 t=
ell
me that?’
‘A pit full of fire.’<= o:p>
‘And should you like to fall
into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What must you do to avoid i=
t?’
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, a=
nd
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 nig=
ht
and morning?’ continued my interrogator.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you read your Bible?R=
17;
‘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 a=
sk
him which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Ps=
alm
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 wick=
ed
heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean o=
ne:
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 lit=
tle
girl has not quite the character and disposition I could wish: should you a=
dmit
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 h=
appy
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? ‘Not=
hing,
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 fa=
ult
in a child,’ said Mr. Brocklehurst; ‘it is akin to falsehood, a=
nd
all liars will have their portion in the lake burning with fire and brimsto=
ne;
she shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and =
the
teachers.’
‘I should wish her to be bro=
ught
up in a manner suiting her prospects,’ continued my benefactress; =
216;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 sentim=
ent
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 o=
ver,
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 s=
oon
as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I assure you, I feel anxious to be reli=
eved
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 cou=
rse
of a week or two: my good friend, the Archdeacon, will not permit me to lea=
ve
him sooner. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new gir=
l,
so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst;
remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and
Master Broughton Brocklehurst.’
‘I will, madam. Little girl,
here is a book entitled the 'Child's Guide,' read it with prayer, especially
that part containing 'An account of the awfully sudden death of Martha G- -=
, a
naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.'‘
With these words Mr. Brocklehurst =
put
into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having rung for his carri=
age,
he departed.
Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: s=
ome
minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed mi=
ght
be at that time some six or seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust fra=
me,
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 r=
uth;
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 mana=
ger;
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 yard=
s 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 pass=
ed;
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 ev=
ery
word as acutely as I had heard it plainly, and a passion of resentment fome=
nted
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 st=
ruck
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, acro=
ss
the room, then close up to her.
Speak<=
/i> I must: I had been trodden on
severely, and must turn: but ho=
w?
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 we=
re,
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 lia=
r,
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?&=
#8217;
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 stirr=
ed
every antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable
excitement, I continued-
‘I am glad you are no relati=
on
of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never c=
ome
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, J=
ane
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 tal=
e.
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 sentime=
nt:
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 fac=
e as
if she would cry.
‘Jane, you are under a mista=
ke:
what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you lik=
e 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!R=
17;
I cried out in a savage, high voice.
‘But you are passionate, Jan=
e,
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 s=
chool
soon,’ murmured Mrs. Reed sot=
to
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 experienci=
ng
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 aft=
er
the flames are dead, would have represented as meetly my subsequent conditi=
on,
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 rac=
y:
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 impul=
se
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 Arabi=
an
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 shrub=
bery
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 wa=
s a
very grey day; a most opaque sky, ‘onding on snaw,’ canopied al=
l;
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!=
8217;
she said. ‘Why don't you come when you are called?’
Bessie's presence, compared with t=
he
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 vict=
ory
over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid's transit=
ory
anger; and I was disposed to ba=
sk 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 fear=
less
than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her.
‘You are a strange child, Mi=
ss
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 l=
eave
poor Bessie?’
‘What does Bessie care for m=
e?
She is always scolding me.’
‘Because you're such a queer,
frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder.’
‘What! to get more knocks?=
8217;
‘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, Bes=
sie.’
‘Child! what do you mean? Wh=
at
sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Mas=
ter
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 no=
t 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 s=
peak
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 so=
on
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?=
217;
‘Why, I shall soon be away f=
rom
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 ki=
ss
you wouldn't give it me: you'd say you'd rather
not.’
‘I'll kiss you and welcome: =
bend
your head down.’ Bessie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed=
her
into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony;=
and
in the evening Bessie told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang=
me
some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.
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 g=
ates
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 b=
ag;
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 sa=
id, ‘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 h=
er
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?R=
17;
‘Nothing: I covered my face =
with
the bedclothes, and turned from her to the wall.’
‘That was wrong, Miss Jane.&=
#8217;
‘It was quite right, Bessie.
Your Missis has not been my friend: she has been my foe.’
‘O Miss Jane! don't say so!&=
#8217;
‘Good-bye to Gateshead!̵=
7;
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 fir=
e:
my trunk, which had been carried down the evening before, stood corded at t=
he
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?=
217;
asked the porter's wife.
‘Yes.’
‘And how far is it?’
‘Fifty miles.’
‘What a long way! I wonder M=
rs.
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 Bess=
ie'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 answ=
er:
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 journ=
ey;
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 tak=
en
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 musi=
cal
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 believ=
ed
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 some=
what
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 dro=
pped
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 call=
ed
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 d=
imly
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 w=
ith
a fire, where she left me alone.
I stood and warmed my numbed finge=
rs
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 ma=
ke
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 envel=
oped
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: l=
et
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; ru=
ddy
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, wha=
t 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 irregul=
ar
building; till, emerging from the total and somewhat dreary silence pervadi=
ng
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, tw=
o 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 fro=
cks
of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It was the hour of study; th=
ey
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 differe=
nt
tables, and going round, gathered the books and removed them. Miss Miller a=
gain
gave the word of command-
‘Monitors, fetch the
supper-trays!’
The tall girls went out and return=
ed
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 shar=
ed
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 bedro=
om
was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw it was very long. To-night I w=
as
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 sil=
ence
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 gus=
ts,
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 ringin=
g;
the girls were up and dressing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushli=
ght
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 c=
old
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!R=
17;
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. Mi=
ss
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 Coll=
ect
was repeated, then certain texts of Scripture were said, and to these succe=
eded
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 in=
to
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 lit=
tle
the day before.
The refectory was a great, low-cei=
led,
gloomy room; on two long tables smoked basins of something hot, which, howe=
ver,
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 girl=
s 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 install=
ed
herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady presided at the ot=
her.
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 stra=
nge,
foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards found, t=
ook
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 beg=
an.
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 sick=
ens
over it. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and t=
ry
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 n=
ot 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 th=
eir
countenances expressed displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whisper=
ed-
‘Abominable stuff! How shame=
ful!’
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, whi=
ch
one and all abused roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they h=
ad.
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 he=
ad
disapprovingly; but she made no great effort to check the general wrath;
doubtless she shared in it.
A clock in the schoolroom struck n=
ine;
Miss Miller left her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried-=
‘Silence! To your seats!R=
17;
Discipline prevailed: in five minu=
tes
the confused throng was resolved into order, and comparative silence quelled
the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper teachers now punctually resumed the=
ir
posts: but still, all seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of t=
he
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 b=
rass
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 t=
he
prettiest.
I was still looking at them, and a=
lso
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 foreig=
ner
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 ag=
ain
seated: but as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine followed the gen=
eral
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 Mil=
ler
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 b=
ands
nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of the day, wa=
s 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 pal=
e,
clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will have, at least, as clear=
ly
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 less=
on
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 lesso=
ns
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 w=
ould
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 gam=
es,
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 feeli=
ng
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 fut=
ure
I could form no conjecture. I looked round the convent-like garden, and the=
n 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 st=
one
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 ‘I=
nstitution,’
and endeavouring to make out a connection between the first words and the v=
erse
of Scripture, when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my hea=
d. 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 titl=
e- it
was ‘Rasselas;’ a name that struck me as strange, and consequen=
tly
attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look up, and I said to her
directly-
‘Is your book interesting?=
8217;
I had already formed the intention of asking her to lend it to me some day.=
‘I like it,’ she answe=
red,
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: ‘Rass=
elas’
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 dis=
turb
her-
‘Can you tell me what the
writing on that stone over the door means? What is Lowood Institution?̵=
7;
‘This house where you are co=
me
to live.’
‘And why do they call it
Institution? Is it in any way different from other schools?’
‘It is partly a charity-scho=
ol: 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 ha=
ve
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 n=
ot
enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscripti=
on.’
‘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 be=
long
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 w=
ish
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 lar=
ge
hall.’
‘Is he a good man?’
‘He is a clergyman, and is s=
aid
to do a great deal of good.’
‘Did you say that tall lady =
was
called Miss Temple?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what are the other teac=
hers
called?’
‘The one with red cheeks is
called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, and cuts out- for we make our o=
wn
clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little one with black
hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and hears the seco=
nd
class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerc=
hief
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?=
8217;
‘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 perso=
n.’
‘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?=
217;
‘Two years.’
‘Are you an orphan?’
‘My mother is dead.’
‘Are you happy here?’<= o:p>
‘You ask rather too many
questions. I have given you answers enough for the present: now I want to r=
ead.’
But at that moment the summons sou=
nded
for dinner; all re-entered the house. The odour which now filled the refect=
ory
was scarcely more appetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at
breakfast: the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence ros=
e a
strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of indiffe=
rent
potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked together. Of th=
is
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 adjou=
rned
to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced, and were continued till five o'cloc=
k.
The only marked event of the after=
noon
was, that I saw the girl with whom I had conversed in the verandah dismisse=
d 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 surpri=
se
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 t=
he
earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were thinking of somet=
hing
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 g=
lad
of as much more- I was still hungry. Half-an-hour's recreation succeeded, t=
hen
study; then the glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed.
Such was my first day at Lowood.
The next day commenced as before,
getting up and dressing by rushlight; but this morning we were obliged to
dispense with the ceremony of washing; the water in the pitchers was frozen=
. A
change had taken place in the weather the preceding evening, and a keen
north-east wind, whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all
night long, had made us shiver in our beds, and turned the contents of the
ewers to ice.
Before the long hour and a half of
prayers and Bible-reading was over, I felt ready to perish with cold.
Breakfast-time came at last, and this morning the porridge was not burnt; t=
he
quality was eatable, the quantity small. How small my portion seemed! I wis=
hed
it had been doubled.
In the course of the day I was
enrolled a member of the fourth class, and regular tasks and occupations we=
re
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 accust=
omed
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 Scatcher=
d 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 y=
our
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. &am=
p;c.
A chapter having been read through
twice, the books were closed and the girls examined. The lesson had compris=
ed
part of the reign of Charles I., and there were sundry questions about tonn=
age
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 w=
as
ready with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd wou=
ld praise
her attention; but, instead of that, she suddenly cried out-
‘You dirty, disagreeable gir=
l!
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?=
8217;
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 be=
fore,
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 bei=
ng
told, unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicte=
d 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!’ excla=
imed
Miss Scatcherd; ‘nothing can correct you of your slatternly habits: c=
arry
the rod away.’
Burns obeyed: I looked at her narr=
owly
as she emerged from the book-closet; she was just putting back her handkerc=
hief
into her pocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek.
The play-hour in the evening I tho=
ught
the pleasantest fraction of the day at Lowood: the bit of bread, the draugh=
t of
coffee swallowed at five o'clock had revived vitality, if it had not satisf=
ied
hunger: the long restraint of the day was slackened; the schoolroom felt wa=
rmer
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 welc=
ome
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 tu=
mult
within, the disconsolate moan of the wind outside.
Probably, if I had lately left a g=
ood
home and kind parents, this would have been the hour when I should most kee=
nly
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 u=
nder
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'?R=
17;
I asked, coming behind her.
‘Yes,’ she said, ̵=
6;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?̵=
7;
‘I hope so; but nobody can be
sure of the future.’
‘You must wish to leave Lowo=
od?’
‘No! why should I? I was sen=
t to
Lowood to get an education; and it would be of no use going away until I ha=
ve
attained that object.’
‘But that teacher, Miss Scat=
cherd,
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 nothi=
ng
of the sort: but if you did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the scho=
ol;
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 disgracef=
ul
to be flogged, and to be sent to stand in the middle of a room full of peop=
le;
and you are such a great girl: I am far younger than you, and I could not b=
ear
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 t=
o be
required to bear.’
I heard her with wonder: I could n=
ot
comprehend this doctrine of endurance; and still less could I understand or
sympathise with the forbearance she expressed for her chastiser. Still I fe=
lt
that Helen Burns considered things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspe=
cted
she might be right and I wrong; but I would not ponder the matter deeply; l=
ike
Felix, I put it off to a more convenient season.
‘You say you have faults, He=
len:
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 pu=
t,
and never keep, things, in order; I am careless; I forget rules; I read whe=
n 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 schoo=
l:
she sees my errors, and tells me of them gently; and, if I do anything wort=
hy
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, ha=
ve
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,’ sai=
d 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 Northumberlan=
d,
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 re=
ply,
I have to be awakened; and having heard nothing of what was read for listen=
ing
to the visionary brook, I have no answer ready.’
‘Yet how well you replied th=
is
afternoon.’
‘It was mere chance; the sub=
ject
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 o=
wn
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 ma=
ke
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 al=
ways
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 m=
ust
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.=
217;
‘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 th=
em
that curse you; do good to them that hate you and despitefully use you.R=
17;
‘Then I should love Mrs. Ree=
d,
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 en=
d: 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 Scatch=
erd
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 exci=
ted?
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 worl=
d:
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 gradati=
ons
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, loo=
king
to the end.’
Helen's head, always drooping, san=
k a
little lower as she finished this sentence. I saw by her look she wished no
longer to talk to me, but rather to converse with her own thoughts. She was=
not
allowed much time for meditation: a monitor, a great rough girl, presently =
came
up, exclaiming in a strong Cumberland accent-
‘Helen Burns, if you don't go
and put your drawer in order, and fold up your work this minute, I'll tell =
Miss
Scatcherd to come and look at it!’
Helen sighed as her reverie fled, =
and
getting up, obeyed the monitor without reply as without delay.
My first quarter at Lowood seemed =
an
age; and not the golden age either; it comprised an irksome struggle with
difficulties in habituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fea=
r 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 road=
s,
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 c=
lothing
was insufficient to protect us from the severe cold: we had no boots, the s=
now
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, wh=
ich
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 din=
ner,
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 serv=
ice
we returned by an exposed and hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blo=
wing
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 fro=
sty 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 he=
at
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- w=
ith
the delicious addition of a thin scrape of butter: it was the hebdomadal tr=
eat
to which we all looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally contriv=
ed
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 re=
peating,
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 t=
he
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 visi=
ts
of Mr. Brocklehurst; and indeed that gentleman was from home during the gre=
ater
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 thr=
ee
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 sigh=
t 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 stri=
de
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 giv=
en
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 looki=
ng
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 the=
re
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 momen=
t 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 accoun=
t,
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 w=
ith
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 th=
ing
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 gir=
ls
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 t=
he
circumstance, sir,’ replied Miss Temple: ‘the breakfast was so =
ill
prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it; and I dared not allow t=
hem
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 t=
he
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 consolati=
ons,
‘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 th=
ink
how you starve their immortal souls!’
Mr. Brocklehurst again paused- per=
haps
overcome by his feelings. Miss Temple had looked down when he first began t=
o 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 materi=
al;
especially her mouth, closed as if it would have required a sculptor's chis=
el
to open it, and her brow settled gradually into petrified severity.
Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standi=
ng
on the hearth with his hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the who=
le
school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if it had met something that eith=
er
dazzled or shocked its pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents than he
had hitherto used-
‘Miss Temple, Miss Temple, w=
hat-
what is that girl with curled h=
air?
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 curl=
s?’
‘Julia's hair curls naturall=
y,’
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 w=
hy
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 t=
he
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 s=
ee
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 th=
at,
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, &=
#8216;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 cos=
tly
apparel; and each of the young persons before us has a string of hair twist=
ed
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 interrup=
ted:
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 envelope=
d 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 carri=
age
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 proceed=
ed
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 attenti=
on.
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 ba=
ck
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 a=
n obtrusive
crash, directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all over now, and, a=
s 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 m=
e,
set me on my legs and pushed me towards the dread judge, and then Miss Temp=
le
gently assisted me to his very feet, and I caught her whispered counsel-
‘Don't be afraid, Jane, I sa=
w 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,’ sa=
id
Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one from which a monitor had just
risen: it was brought.
‘Place the child upon it.=
217;
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 pelis=
ses
and a cloud of silvery plumage extended and waved below me.
Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed. ‘La=
dies,’
said he, turning to his family, ‘Miss Temple, teachers, and children,=
you
all see this girl?’
Of course they did; for I felt the=
ir
eyes directed like burning-glasses against my scorched skin.
‘You see she is yet young; y= ou observe she possesses the ordinary form of childhood; God has graciously gi= ven 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 fo= und a servant and agent in her? Yet such, I grieve to say, is the case.’<= o:p>
A pause- in which I began to steady
the palsy of my nerves, and to feel that the Rubicon was passed; and that t=
he
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, t=
his
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 li=
ar!’
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 t=
heir
optics, while the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two young=
er
ones whispered, ‘How shocking!’ Mr. Brocklehurst resumed.
‘This I learned from her
benefactress; from the pious and charitable lady who adopted her in her orp=
han
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 s=
ent
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 saile=
d 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 t=
he
day.’
There was I, then, mounted aloft; =
I,
who had said I could not bear the shame of standing on my natural feet in t=
he
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 impart=
ed
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, retu=
rned
to her place, and smiled at me as she again went by. What a smile! I rememb=
er
it now, and I know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true cou=
rage;
it lit up her marked lineaments, her thin face, her sunken grey eye, like a
reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore=
on
her arm ‘the untidy badge;’ scarcely an hour ago I had heard her
condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow
because she had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such is the imperfect
nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and
eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects, and are blind=
to
the full brightness of the orb.
Ere the half-hour ended, five o'cl=
ock
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 disso=
lve;
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, h=
ere
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, so=
me
one approached: I started up- again Helen Burns was near me; the fading fir=
es
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 ha=
ve
choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded me, probably with surpris=
e: 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 g=
od:
nor is he even a great and admired man: he is little liked here; he never t=
ook
steps to make himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, y=
ou
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 l=
ong
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 w=
ent
on-
‘If all the world hated you,=
and
believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved y=
ou
from guilt, you would not be without friends.’
‘No; I know I should think w=
ell
of myself; but that is not enough: if others don't love me I would rather d=
ie
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 lov=
e, 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 ches=
t- ’
‘Hush, Jane! you think too m=
uch
of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement; the sover=
eign
hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with o=
ther
resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides t=
his
earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingd=
om
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 pa=
in
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 fles=
h 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 sadnes=
s. I
felt the impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it cam=
e;
and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a sh=
ort
cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for =
her.
Resting my head on Helen's shoulde=
r, 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, strea=
ming
in through a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figu=
re,
which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.
‘I came on purpose to find y=
ou,
Jane Eyre,’ said she; ‘I want you in my room; and as Helen Burn=
s is
with you, she may come too.’
We went; following the
superintendent's guidance, we had to thread some intricate passages, and mo=
unt
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-cha=
ir
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?̵=
7;
‘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.̵=
7;
‘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 yo=
u 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 he=
r to
promise before he died that she would always keep me.’
‘Well now, Jane, you know, o=
r at
least I will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, he is always allowe=
d to
speak in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood; defend your=
self
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 hea=
rt,
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 subdu=
ed
than it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Hele=
n'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 for=
got
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 sof=
ten
in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Ree=
d spurned
my wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and
haunted chamber.
I had finished: Miss Temple regard=
ed
me a few minutes in silence; she then said-
‘I know something of Mr. Llo=
yd;
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.R=
17;
She kissed me, and still keeping m=
e at
her side (where I was well contented to stand, for I derived a child's plea=
sure
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.̵=
7;
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 beverag=
e,
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, &=
#8216;can
you not bring a little more bread and butter? There is not enough for three=
.’
Barbara went out: she returned soo=
n-
‘Madam, Mrs. Harden says she=
has
sent up the usual quantity.’
Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was t=
he
housekeeper: a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal p=
arts
of whalebone and iron.
‘Oh, very well!’ retur=
ned
Miss Temple; ‘we must make it do, Barbara, I suppose.’ And as t=
he
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 taki=
ng
from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-s=
ized
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 nect=
ar
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 famis=
hed
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 privileg=
e 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 liste=
ned
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, m=
ore
than all these, something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers wit=
hin
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 t=
hey
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 n=
or
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 cann=
ot
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 characteristi=
c 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 nev=
er
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 rea=
d!
What stores of knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with
French names and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when M=
iss
Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin h=
er
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 expandi=
ng
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 d=
oor;
it was for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a t=
ear
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,=
8217;
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 a=
fter
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 te=
ars,
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, receiv=
ed
his answer: it appeared that what he said went to corroborate my account. M=
iss
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 mon=
ths
I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tense=
s 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 n=
ests
enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I examined,
too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to translate current=
ly 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- ’Bett=
er
is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.=
’
I would not now have exchanged Low=
ood
with all its privations for Gateshead and its daily luxuries.
But the privations, or rather the
hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring drew on: she was indeed already come;=
the
frosts of winter had ceased; its snows were melted, its cutting winds
ameliorated. My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp =
air
of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April;
the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the v=
ery
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 th=
is
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 wande=
red
to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down R=
16;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 sl=
eet;
and for the forest on its banks, th=
at
showed only ranks of skeletons.
April advanced to May: a bright se=
rene
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, a=
sh,
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, fre=
e,
unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty and pleasure there w=
as a
cause, to which it now becomes my task to advert.
Have I not described a pleasant si=
te
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 n=
ot
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 cold=
s 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 th=
em
in health: and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restra=
in
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 nigh=
t.
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 t=
he
wood, like gipsies, from morning till night; we did what we liked, went whe=
re
we liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came n=
ear
Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross housekee=
per
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, provi=
ded
with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick co=
uld
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 p=
iece
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 onl=
y 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 m=
e,
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 a=
nd
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 thin=
gs 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; s=
o we
got on swimmingly together, deriving much entertainment, if not much
improvement, from our mutual intercourse.
And where, meantime, was Helen Bur=
ns?
Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten h=
er?
or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the
Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she
could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent go=
ssip
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 he=
r 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, wh=
ich
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 wh=
at
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 c=
are
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 und=
er
the verandah.
One evening, in the beginning of J=
une,
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 l=
ost
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 supp=
osed
some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of t=
he
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 wo=
uld
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 anot=
her
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 ti=
me
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 totteri=
ng,
and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the fr=
ont
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?’<= o:p>
‘Very poorly,’ was the
answer.
‘Is it her Mr. Bates has bee=
n 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 rem=
oved
to Northumberland, to her own home. I should not have suspected that it mea=
nt
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 roo=
m,’
said the nurse.
‘May I go up and speak to he=
r?’
‘Oh no, child! It is not lik=
ely;
and now it is time for you to come in; you'll catch the fever if you stop o=
ut
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 tim=
e;
it was nine o'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.
It might be two hours later, proba=
bly
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 prof=
ound
repose- rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoe=
s,
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 a=
nd
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 shutti=
ng,
without noise, two doors, I reached another flight of steps; these I mounte=
d,
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 a=
ir
into the close abode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impat=
ient
impulses- soul and senses quivering with keen throes- I put it back and loo=
ked
in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.
Close by Miss Temple's bed, and ha=
lf
covered with its white curtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the outli=
ne
of a form under the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurs=
e 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 advanc=
ed;
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, ̵=
6;she
is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could not speak and look so cal=
mly
if she were.’
I got on to her crib and kissed he=
r:
her forehead was cold, and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her ha=
nd 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.=
217;
‘You came to bid me good-bye,
then: you are just in time probably.’
‘Are you going somewhere, He=
len?
Are you going home?’
‘Yes; to my long home- my la=
st
home.’
‘No, no, Helen!’ I
stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my tears, a fit of coughing se=
ized
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 qualiti=
es
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?&=
#8217;
‘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 wh=
ich
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 d=
ie?’
‘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 lov=
es
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 claspe=
d 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 yo=
u, dear Helen: no one shall take me a=
way.’
‘Are you warm, darling?̵=
7;
‘Yes.’
‘Good-night, Jane.’
‘Good-night, Helen.’
She kissed me, and I her, and we b=
oth
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 m=
e;
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 afterw=
ards
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 ro=
und
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 gras=
sy
mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name,
and the word ‘Resurgam.’
Hitherto I have recorded in detail=
the
events of my insignificant existence: to the first ten years of my life I h=
ave
given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiograph=
y. 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 atten=
tion
on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and by degr=
ees
various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree. T=
he
unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality of the children's fo=
od;
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, af=
ter
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 w=
as
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 studi=
es,
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 w=
ith
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 cou=
nty,
and consequently was lost to me.
From the day she left I was no lon=
ger
the same: with her was gone every settled feeling, every association that h=
ad
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 be=
tter
regulated feelings had become the inmates of my mind. I had given in allegi=
ance
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 charac=
ter.
But destiny, in the shape of the R=
ev.
Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and Miss Temple: I saw her in her travelling d=
ress
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 gra=
nted
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 foun=
d 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; th=
at
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 stirri=
ng
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 be=
en
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 m=
e. I
had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world:
school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and notions, and voices, and fac=
es,
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 chan=
ge,
stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: ‘The=
n,’
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 inter= rupted 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 min= d as I stood at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise for my relief.<= o:p>
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; i=
t is
not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds tr=
uly;
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 fe=
rret
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 a=
gain
with all my might.
‘What do I want? A new place=
, in
a new house, amongst new faces, under new circumstances: I want this becaus=
e 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 h=
ave
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 work=
ed
faster: I felt the pulses throb in my head and temples; but for nearly an h=
our
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 s=
tar
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 adverti=
se;
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 edi=
tor
of the Herald; you must put it,=
the
first opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers must be addres=
sed
to J.E., at the post-office there; you can go and inquire in about a week a=
fter
you send your letter, if any are come, and act accordingly.’
This scheme I went over twice, thr=
ice;
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 under=
take
the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). She is qualified to teach the us=
ual
branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Mu=
sic’
(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 tw=
o 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 roa=
d 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 mo=
re
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 occas=
ion
was to get measured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business firs=
t,
and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street fr=
om
the shoemaker's to the post-office: it was kept by an old dame, who wore ho=
rn
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 spectacl=
es,
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,’ s=
aid
she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward: I could not ope=
n it
then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past se=
ven.
Various duties awaited me on my
arrival. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it wa=
s 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 G=
ryce
was still my companion: we had only a short end of candle in our candlestic=
k,
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 i=
nch
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, n=
ear
Millcote, - -shire.’
I examined the document long: the
writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lad=
y.
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 s=
ome
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 ha=
nd.
Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow's cap; frigid, perhaps, b=
ut
not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that,
doubtless, was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; thou=
gh 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 drop=
ped,
and the wick went out.
Next day new steps were to be take=
n;
my plans could no longer be confined to my own breast; I must impart them i=
n 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 bre=
ak
the matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee, and ascert=
ain
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 affa=
ir
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 roun=
d 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 assuran=
ce
added, that as I had always conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupi=
l,
at Lowood, a testimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspector=
s 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 preparation=
s:
the fortnight passed rapidly. I had not a very large wardrobe, though it was
adequate to my wants; and the last day sufficed to pack my trunk,- the same=
I
had brought with me eight years ago from Gateshead.
The box was corded, the card nailed
on. In half-an-hour the carrier was to call for it to take it to Lowton,
whither I myself was to repair at an early hour the next morning to meet the
coach. I had brushed my black stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet,
gloves, and muff; sought in all my drawers to see that no article was left
behind; and now having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I
could not; though I had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an
instant; I was too much excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a=
new
one opening to-morrow: impossible to slumber in the interval; I must watch
feverishly while the change was being accomplished.
‘Miss,’ said a servant=
who
met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled spirit, ‘a
person below wishes to see you.’
‘The carrier, no doubt,̵=
7; 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 kitch=
en,
when some one ran out-
‘It's her, I am sure!- I cou=
ld
have told her anywhere!’ cried the individual who stopped my progress=
and
took my hand.
I looked: I saw a woman attired li=
ke a
well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with bl=
ack
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 qui=
te
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 parlo=
ur.
By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and
trousers.
‘That is my little boy,̵=
7;
said Bessie directly.
‘Then you are married, Bessi=
e?’
‘Yes; nearly five years sinc=
e to
Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I've a little girl besides Bobby there, th=
at
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 g=
et
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 ta=
ll,
Miss Jane, nor so very stout,’ continued Mrs. Leaven. ‘I dare s=
ay
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.=
8217;
‘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 fou=
nd
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: bu=
t he
is such a dissipated young man, they will never make much of him, I think.&=
#8217;
‘What does he look like?R=
17;
‘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, Bess=
ie?’
‘No, indeed: but I have long
wanted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you, =
and
that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I'd just set =
off,
and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach.’
‘I am afraid you are
disappointed in me, Bessie.’ I said this laughing: I perceived that
Bessie's glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shape denote admirat=
ion.
‘No, Miss Jane, not exactly:=
you
are genteel enough; you look like a lady, and it is as much as ever I expec=
ted
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 pl=
ay
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 whic=
h 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 gla=
zed.
‘Well, that is beautiful, Mi=
ss
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 rea=
d it
and speak it.’
‘And you can work on muslin =
and
canvas?’
‘I can.’
‘Oh, you are quite a lady, M=
iss
Jane! I knew you would be: you will get on whether your relations notice yo=
u 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 belie=
ve
they are as much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years a=
go,
a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you; Missis said you were at
school fifty miles off; he seemed so much disappointed, for he could not st=
ay:
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 y=
our
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 afterwa=
rds
a 'sneaking tradesman.' My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant.’
‘Very likely,’ I retur=
ned;
‘or perhaps clerk or agent to a wine-merchant.’
Bessie and I conversed about old t=
imes
an hour longer, and then she was obliged to leave me: I saw her again for a=
few
minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We
parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst Arms there: each went her
separate way; she set off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance
which was to take her back to Gateshead, I mounted the vehicle which was to=
bear
me to new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote.
A new chapter in a novel is someth=
ing
like a new scene in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time, reade=
r,
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 furnit=
ure,
such ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait of Geo=
rge
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 fr=
om
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 cloc=
k 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 a=
s I
descended the wooden steps the ‘boots’ placed for my convenienc=
e,
expecting to hear my name pronounced, and to see some description of carria=
ge
waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible; and wh=
en I
asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answ=
ered
in the negative: so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a pri=
vate
room: and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubl=
ing
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 my=
self
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 instantl=
y-
‘Is your name Eyre, Miss?=
217;
‘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 o=
n 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.̵=
7;
‘How long shall we be before=
we
get there?’
‘Happen an hour and a half.&=
#8217;
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 conveya=
nce,
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 o=
nce,
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 d=
oes
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 o=
ut;
Millcote was behind us; judging by the number of its lights, it seemed a pl=
ace
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, le=
ss
picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.
The roads were heavy, the night mi=
sty;
my conductor let his horse walk all the way, and the hour and a half extend=
ed,
I verily believe, to two hours; at last he turned in his seat and said-
‘You're noan so far fro'
Thornfield now.’
Again I looked out: we were passin=
g 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 vill=
age
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 asce=
nded
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 can=
dle
at first dazzled me, contrasting as it did with the darkness to which my ey=
es
had been for two hours inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and agreea=
ble
picture presented itself to my view.
A snug small room; a round table b=
y 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-ide=
al
of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a new governess cou=
ld
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 kin=
dly
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?=
217;
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 wou=
ld
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 neg=
us
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 t=
he
fire,’ she continued. ‘You've brought your luggage with you,
haven't you, my dear?’
‘Yes, ma'am.’
‘I'll see it carried into yo=
ur
room,’ she said, and bustled out.
‘She treats me like a visito=
r,’
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 ro=
om
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 superio=
r;
but as she did not herself seem to consider she was doing anything out of h=
er
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 s=
he
offered me.
‘What did you say, my dear? =
I am
a little deaf,’ returned the good lady, approaching her ear to my mou=
th.
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.̵=
7;
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 sur=
e to
hear in time.
‘I am so glad,’ she
continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took the cat on her knee; =
8216;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 ca=
n'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 sev=
ere
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 gi=
rl
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 wort=
hy
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 sitti=
ng
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 lik=
e 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 mysel=
f.’
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 f=
rom
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 w=
hich
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 fina=
lly
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, a=
nd 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 earn=
ed.
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 pl=
anks
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 beginn=
ing
for me, one that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thor=
ns
and toils. My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the new field offer=
ed
to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely define what they expected, bu=
t 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 mu=
ch
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 sma=
ll
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; ye=
t I
had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too. However, when I had brushe=
d 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 tuc=
ker,
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 remem=
ber,
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 rubbin=
g.
Everything appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then I was so litt=
le
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 sho=
ne
serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields; advancing on to the la=
wn,
I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion. It was three storeys hig=
h,
of proportions not vast, though considerable: a gentleman's manor-house, no=
t 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 gr=
eat
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 separat=
ion
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 distr=
ict
stood nearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the
house and gates.
I was yet enjoying the calm prospe=
ct
and pleasant fresh air, yet listening with delight to the cawing of the roo=
ks,
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?’ s=
aid
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, ̵=
6;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,=
217;
she responded quietly. ‘Did you not know he was called Rochester?R=
17;
Of course I did not- I had never h=
eard
of him before; but the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a univers=
ally
understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.
‘I thought,’ I continu=
ed, ‘Thornfield
belonged to you.’
‘To me? Bless you, child; wh=
at
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 yond=
er
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 ne=
ver
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 pup=
il!’
‘She is Mr. Rochester's ward=
; he
commissioned me to find a governess for her. He intended to have her brough=
t 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 w=
idow
was no great dame; but a dependant like myself. I did not like her the wors=
e 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 m=
uch
the better- my position was all the freer.
As I was meditating on this discov=
ery,
a little girl, followed by her attendant, came running up the lawn. I looke=
d 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-featur=
ed
face, and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.
‘Good morning, Miss Adela,=
8217;
said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘Come and speak to the lady who is to teach you, a=
nd
to make you a clever woman some day.’ She approached.
‘C'est la ma gouverante!R=
17;
said she, pointing to me, and addressing her nurse; who answered-
‘Mais oui, certainement.R=
17;
‘Are they foreigners?’=
I
inquired, amazed at hearing the French language.
‘The nurse is a foreigner, a=
nd
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 advantag=
e 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 mysel=
f 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 a=
nd
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 w=
as
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 seat=
ed
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 t=
alk
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 g=
reat
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 ove=
r 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 i=
n a
great green place full of trees, called the Park; and there were many child=
ren
there besides me, and a pond with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with cr=
umbs.’
‘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, &=
#8216;with
whom did you live when you were in that pretty clean town you spoke of?R=
17;
‘I lived long ago with mama;=
but
she is gone to the Holy Virgin. Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, an=
d 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. S=
hall
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 han=
ds
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 rich=
est
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 hear=
ing
the notes of love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in v=
ery
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, Mademoise=
lle,
I will repeat you some poetry.’
Assuming an attitude, she began, &=
#8216;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 pr=
oved
she had been carefully trained.
‘Was it your mama who taught=
you
that piece?’ I asked.
‘Yes, and she just used to s=
ay
it in this way: 'Qu' avez vous donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!' She m=
ade
me lift my hand- so- to remind me to raise my voice at the question. Now sh=
all
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 n=
ot
kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back ag=
ain
himself, and I never see him.’
After breakfast, Adele and I withd=
rew
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 ne=
eded
in the way of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature,
poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, &c. I suppose he had consid=
ered
that these were all the governess would require for her private perusal; an=
d,
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 of=
fer
an abundant harvest of entertainment and information. In this room, too, th=
ere
was a cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for pain=
ting
and a pair of globes.
I found my pupil sufficiently doci=
le,
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 t=
he
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!̵=
7; I
exclaimed, as I looked round; for I had never before seen any half so impos=
ing.
‘Yes; this is the dining-roo=
m. 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, n=
ow
looped up. Mounting to it by two broad steps, and looking through, I though=
t I
caught a glimpse of a fairy place, so bright to my novice-eyes appeared the
view beyond. Yet it was merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within it a
boudoir, both spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant
garlands of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of white grapes and
vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast crimson couches and
ottomans; while the ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of sparkl=
ing
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: ex=
cept
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; an=
d 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 exactin=
g,
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 al=
ways
been respected here. Almost all the land in this neighbourhood, as far as y=
ou
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 other=
wise
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 eas=
y to
describe- nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks to you; you cann=
ot
be always sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or t=
he
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 defin=
ite
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-stor=
ey
rooms, though dark and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity. T=
he
furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments had from time to time b=
een
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 appa=
rent
traces of half-effaced embroideries, wrought by fingers that for two genera=
tions
had been coffin-dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfie=
ld
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 strang=
er
birds, and strangest human beings,- all which would have looked strange,
indeed, by the pallid gleam of moonlight.
‘Do the servants sleep in th=
ese
rooms?’ I asked.
‘No; they occupy a range of
smaller apartments to the back; no one ever sleeps here: one would almost s=
ay
that, if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt.=
217;
‘So I think: you have no gho=
st,
then?’
‘None that I ever heard of,&=
#8217;
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 t=
ime:
perhaps, though, that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves no=
w.’
‘Yes- 'after life's fitful f=
ever
they sleep well,'‘ I muttered. ‘Where are you going now, Mrs.
Fairfax?’ for she was moving away.
‘On to the leads; will you c=
ome
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 ro=
ad,
the tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day's sun; the horizon bound=
ed
by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with pearly white. No feature in the sc=
ene
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 bl=
ack
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 ha=
ll
was the centre, and over which I had been gazing with delight.
Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a momen=
t to
fasten the trap-door; I, by drift of groping, found the outlet from the att=
ic,
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, a=
nd 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 w=
as a
curious laugh; distinct, formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, on=
ly
for an instant; it began again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it w=
as
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 poi=
nted
out the door whence the accents issued.
‘Mrs. Fairfax!’ I call=
ed
out: for I now heard her descending the great stairs. ‘Did you hear t=
hat
loud laugh? Who is it?’
‘Some of the servants, very
likely,’ she answered: ‘perhaps Grace Poole.’
‘Did you hear it?’ I a=
gain
inquired.
‘Yes, plainly: I often hear =
her:
she sews in one of these rooms. Sometimes Leah is with her; they are freque=
ntly
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 ghostlin=
ess
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 romant=
ic
or less ghostly could scarcely be conceived.
‘Too much noise, Grace,̵=
7;
said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘Remember directions!’ Grace curtseyed silen=
tly
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.
The promise of a smooth career, wh=
ich
my first calm introduction to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not bel=
ied
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 s=
he
was committed entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any
quarter ever thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her lit=
tle
freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had no great talents, no mar=
ked
traits of character, no peculiar development of feeling or taste which rais=
ed
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 e=
ach
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 du=
ty
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 lit=
tle
self: just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindn=
ess,
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, wh=
en I
add further, that, now and then, when I took a walk by myself in the ground=
s;
when I went down to the gates and looked through them along the road; or wh=
en,
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 atti=
c,
and having reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and hi=
ll,
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 acquainta=
nce
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 a=
long
the corridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silen=
ce
and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell on whatever brig=
ht
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 mak=
e 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 restrai=
nt,
too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is
narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ou=
ght
to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing=
on
the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laug=
h 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 the=
re
were others when I could not account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I s=
aw
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. H=
er
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, w=
ere
decent people; but in no respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk Fre=
nch,
and sometimes I asked her questions about her native country; but she was n=
ot
of a descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and confu=
sed
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 t=
hat
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 st=
ill
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 c=
hair
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 und=
er
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 n=
oted
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 whi=
te,
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 b=
rown
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 i=
nto
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 do=
wn
on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was the principal object in t=
he
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 o=
ver
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 t=
hin
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 tin=
kle
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 tra=
mp,
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 hor=
se
was coming; the windings of the lane yet hid it, but it approached. I was j=
ust
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 bey=
ond
what childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for i=
t 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 hedg=
e,
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 for=
m 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 follo=
wed,-
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 gobl=
ins,
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,- o=
nly
a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a f=
ew
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 predicamen=
t,
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 prostra=
te
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 fe=
et.
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 =
8216;Down,
Pilot!’ The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if try=
ing
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 h=
elp,
sir, I can fetch some one either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.’
‘Thank you: I shall do: I ha=
ve
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 linger=
ed,
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 we=
re
not apparent, but I traced the general points of middle height and consider=
able
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 f=
elt
no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic- loo=
king
young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him agai=
nst
his will, and offering my services unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handso=
me
youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and ho=
mage
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 a=
nd
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 announc=
ed-
‘I cannot think of leaving y=
ou,
sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to m=
ount
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 n=
ot
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 t=
he
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?&=
#8217;
‘No, I have never seen him.&=
#8217;
‘He is not resident, then?=
8217;
‘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, wh=
ich,
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 de=
cide
what I was; I helped him.
‘I am the governess.’<= o:p>
‘Ah, the governess!’ he
repeated; ‘deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!̵=
7;
and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the st=
ile:
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 th=
at 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 dow=
n 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 hea=
d; I
made effort on effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of i=
ts
trampling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at
last he laughed.
‘I see,’ he said, R=
16;the
mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all you can do is to aid Maho=
met
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, releas=
ing
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 w=
ith
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 trac=
es;
all three vanished,
‘Like heath that, in the
wilderness, The wild wind whirls away.’
I took up my muff and walked on. T=
he
incident had occurred and was gone for me: it was an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a sens=
e;
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 somethi=
ng;
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 s=
lipped
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 agai=
n,
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 w=
hen
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 Thornfi=
eld.
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 ju=
st
as natural was the wish to stir, under my circumstances, as it would be und=
er
his.
I lingered at the gates; I lingere=
d on
the lawn; I paced backwards and forwards on the pavement; the shutters of t=
he
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,
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 reveale=
d,
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’ a=
nd
the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagg=
ed
his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I cou=
ld
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 a=
re
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 L=
ane?’
‘Yes, coming down-hill; it
slipped on some ice.’
‘Ah! Bring me a candle will =
you
Leah?’
Leah brought it; she entered, foll=
owed
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 a=
bout
tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.
Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the
surgeon's orders, went to bed early that night; nor did he rise soon next
morning. When he did come down, it was to attend to business: his agent and
some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting to speak with him.
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 mor=
ning
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; st=
eps,
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 p=
art,
I liked it better.
Adele was not easy to teach that d=
ay;
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 coin=
ed
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 intim=
ated
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,R=
17;
said she, ‘qu'il y aura la dedans un cadeau pour moi, et peut-etre po=
ur
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 M=
rs.
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 liber=
ty.
Left alone, I walked to the window; but nothing was to be seen thence: twil=
ight
and snowflakes together thickened the air, and hid the very shrubs on the l=
awn.
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 alwa=
ys
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,’ s=
aid
Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl ornament which Miss Temple gave m=
e as
a parting keepsake: I put it on, and then we went downstairs. Unused as I w=
as
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, a=
nd
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 t=
he
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 t=
he
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 charact=
er
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 physiognom=
y: I
suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term- broad chest=
ed
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,R=
17;
said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He bowed, still not taking his eyes fr=
om
the group of the dog and child.
‘Let Miss Eyre be seated,=
217;
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 t=
o me
whether Miss Eyre be there or not? At this moment I am not disposed to acco=
st
her.’
I sat down quite disembarrassed. A
reception of finished politeness would probably have confused me: I could n=
ot
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 usu=
al,
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: th=
en
she commended his patience and perseverance in going through with it.
‘Madam, I should like some t=
ea,’
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 assiduo=
us
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.=
8217;
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, ir=
ate,
and piercing.
‘I hardly know, sir; I have
little experience of them: they are generally thought pleasant things.̵=
7;
‘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, befo=
re
pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.’
‘Miss Eyre, you are not so
unsophisticated as Adele: she demands a 'cadeau,' clamorously, the moment s=
he
sees me: you beat about the bush.’
‘Because I have less confide=
nce
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 improveme=
nt.’
‘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,’ sa=
id
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 - -s=
hire.’
‘Ah! a charitable concern. H=
ow
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 L=
ane
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 w=
ere
waiting for your people when you sat on that stile?’
‘For whom, sir?’
‘For the men in green: it wa=
s a
proper moonlight evening for them. Did I break through one of your rings, t=
hat
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 ab=
out
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 knitt=
ing,
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 kinsfol=
k:
uncles and aunts?’
‘No; none that I ever saw.=
8217;
‘And your home?’
‘I have none.’
‘Where do your brothers and
sisters live?’
‘I have no brothers or siste=
rs.’
‘Who recommended you to come
here?’
‘I advertised, and Mrs. Fair=
fax
answered my advertisement.’
‘Yes,’ said the good l=
ady,
who now knew what ground we were upon, ‘and I am daily thankful for t=
he
choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable companio=
n to
me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adele.’
‘Don't trouble yourself to g=
ive
her a character,’ returned Mr. Rochester: ‘eulogiums will not b=
ias
me; I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse.’
‘Sir?’ said Mrs. Fairf=
ax.
‘I have to thank her for this
sprain.’
The widow looked bewildered.
‘Miss Eyre, have you ever li=
ved
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?’<= o:p>
‘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 direct=
or.’
‘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 f=
ront
of his offending?’ demanded Mr. Rochester.
‘He starved us when he had t=
he
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 use=
ful;
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 pla=
y?’
‘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 alte=
r 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 tun=
e.’
I departed, obeying his directions=
.
‘Enough!’ he called ou=
t in
a few minutes. ‘You play a li=
ttle,
I see; like any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than some,=
but
not well.’
I closed the piano and returned. M=
r.
Rochester continued- ’Adele showed me some sketches this morning, whi=
ch
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.R=
17;
‘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;- y=
ou’
(glancing at me) ‘resume your seat, and answer my questions. I percei=
ve
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 copi=
es?’
‘Out of my head.’
‘That head I see now on your
shoulders?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Has it other furniture of t=
he
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 te=
ll
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 striki=
ng;
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-colou=
rs.
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 glitterin=
g 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 visib=
le,
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 wit=
h 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 the=
ir
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 consiste=
ncy
as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lur=
id
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 pai=
nted
these pictures?’ asked Mr. Rochester presently.
‘I was absorbed, sir: yes, a=
nd I
was happy. To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasur=
es I
have ever known.’
‘That is not saying much. Yo=
ur
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
‘And you felt self-satisfied
with the result of your ardent labours?’
‘Far from it. I was tormente=
d 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 t=
he
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 t=
he
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.’<= o:p>
Adele went to kiss him before quit=
ting
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 w=
as
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 appea=
r so
to a stranger, but I am so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; a=
nd
then, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.’
‘Why?’
‘Partly because it is his na=
ture-
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 th=
ing.’
‘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. Roches=
ter
has not been very long in possession of the property; only about nine years=
.’
‘Nine years is a tolerable t=
ime.
Was he so very fond of his brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss=
?’
‘Why, no- perhaps not. I bel=
ieve
there were some misunderstandings between them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was n=
ot
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 toge=
ther.
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 qu=
ite
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 wa=
s 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?̵=
7;
‘Perhaps he thinks it gloomy=
.’
The answer was evasive. I should h=
ave
liked something clearer; but Mrs. Fairfax either could not, or would not, g=
ive
me more explicit information of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester's
trials. She averred they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew =
was
chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop=
the
subject, which I did accordingly.
For several subsequent days I saw
little of Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he seemed much engaged with busine=
ss,
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, a=
s he
generally did not come back till late at night.
During this interval, even Adele w=
as
seldom sent for to his presence, and all my acquaintance with him was confi=
ned
to an occasional rencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, w=
hen
he would sometimes pass me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging my pres=
ence
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 dinn=
er,
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 M=
rs.
Fairfax informed me; but the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester d=
id
not accompany them. Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message c=
ame
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, whe=
re
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 yours=
elf
with disembowelling it,’ said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of =
Mr.
Rochester, proceeding from the depths of an immense easy-chair at the fires=
ide.
‘And mind,’ he continued, ‘don't bother me with any detai=
ls
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!=
217;
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, n=
ear
which I still stood.
‘Ah! well, come forward; be seated here.’ He drew a chair near his own. ‘I am not fond of t= he prattle of children,’ he continued; ‘for, old bachelor as I am,= I have no pleasant associations connected with their lisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening tete-a-tete with a brat. Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it- if you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually forget them. Nor do I particularly affect simple-minded old lad= ies. 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.’<= o:p>
He rang, and despatched an invitat=
ion
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 he=
r 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;̵=
7;
pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in such broken English as =
she
was mistress of.
‘Now I have performed the pa=
rt
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 pleasur=
e.
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 promp=
tly.
We were, as I have said, in the
dining-room: the lustre, which had been lit for dinner, filled the room wit=
h 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 ey=
es
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 gen=
ial,
and also more self- indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morni=
ng;
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 gran=
ite-
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,&=
#8217;
said he: ‘do you think me handsome?’
I should, if I had deliberated, ha=
ve
replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but =
the
answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware- ’No, sir.=
8217;
‘Ah! By my word! there is so=
mething
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 fac=
e;
as just now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or makes a re=
mark
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 improm=
ptu
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, p=
ray?
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 blund=
er.’
‘Just so: I think so: and you
shall be answerable for it. Criticise me: does my forehead not please you?&=
#8217;
He lifted up the sable waves of ha=
ir
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?=
217;
‘Far from it, sir. You would=
, perhaps,
think me rude if I inquired in return whether you are a philanthropist?R=
17;
‘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;R=
17;
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 h=
ad 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 Fortu=
ne
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, tho=
ugh,
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-transformati=
on
from India-rubber back to flesh?’
‘Decidedly he has had too mu= ch 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?<= o:p>
‘You looked very much puzzle=
d,
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 breadt=
h 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 indifferen=
ce
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 gregari=
ous
and communicative to-night,’ he repeated, ‘and that is why I se=
nt
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.=
8217;
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.=
217;
I was dumb still. He bent his head=
a
little towards me, and with a single hasty glance seemed to dive into my ey=
es.
‘Stubborn?’ he said, &=
#8216;and
annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put my request in an absurd, almost insole=
nt
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 c=
laim
only such superiority as must result from twenty years' difference in age a=
nd 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, alm=
ost
an apology, and I did not feel insensible to his condescension, and would n=
ot
seem so.
‘I am willing to amuse you, =
if I
can, sir- quite willing; but I cannot introduce a topic, because how do I k=
now
what will interest you? Ask me questions, and I will do my best to answer t=
hem.’
‘Then, in the first place, do
you agree with me that I have a right to be a little masterful, abrupt, per=
haps
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 ma=
ny
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.̵=
7;
‘That is no answer; or rathe=
r it
is a very irritating, because a very evasive one. Reply clearly.’
‘I don't think, sir, you hav=
e a
right to command me, merely because you are older than I, or because you ha=
ve
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 th=
en,
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,R=
17;
said he, catching instantly the passing expression; ‘but speak too.=
8217;
‘I was thinking, sir, that v=
ery
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?=
8217;
‘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 ne=
ver
mistake informality for insolence: one I rather like, the other nothing
free-born would submit to, even for a salary.’
‘Humbug! Most things free-bo=
rn
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 speec=
h;
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 thre=
e in
three thousand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me as you ha=
ve
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, af=
ter
all, I go too fast in my conclusions: for what I yet know, you may be no be=
tter
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,=
217;
said he; ‘I have plenty of faults of my own: I know it, and I don't w=
ish
to palliate them, I assure you. God wot I need not be too severe about othe=
rs;
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 li=
ke
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 blo=
t 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 w=
ould
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 wi=
th
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 for=
te
to tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of themselves; they wi=
ll
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 bec=
ause
it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations.’
‘How do you know?- how can y=
ou
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 w=
ould
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 simplet=
on
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. Reforma=
tion
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 st=
ill
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 tast=
e bitter,
sir.’
‘How do you know?- you never
tried it. How very serious- how very solemn you look: and you are as ignora=
nt
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 o=
wn
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 y=
ou;
or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of light. I think I must a=
dmit
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 seduce=
r?’
‘I judged by your countenanc=
e,
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 mo=
st
gracious message in the world: for the rest, you are not my conscience-keep=
er,
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 h=
ad half
extended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible
being.
‘Now,’ he continued, a=
gain
addressing me, ‘I have received the pilgrim- a disguised deity, as I
verily believe. Already it has done me good: my heart was a sort of charnel=
; it
will now be a shrine.’
‘To speak truth, sir, I don't
understand you at all: I cannot keep up the conversation, because it has got
out of my depth. Only one thing, I know: you said you were not as good as y=
ou
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 d=
ay
you began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would i=
n a
few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which=
you
might revert with pleasure.’
‘Justly thought; rightly sai=
d,
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.’<= o:p>
‘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 circumsta=
nces
demand unheard-of rules.’
‘That sounds a dangerous max=
im,
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 shou=
ld
not arrogate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely
intrusted.’
‘What power?’
‘That of saying of any stran=
ge,
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 usel=
ess
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, becau=
se I
talk like a Sphynx.’
‘Your language is enigmatica=
l,
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, M=
iss
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 tha=
n 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 w=
hat
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 glanc=
e of
a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restl=
ess,
resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high. You =
are
still bent on going?’
‘It has struck nine, sir.=
217;
‘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 yo=
u, I
have also occasionally watched Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking he=
r a
curious study,- reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some d=
ay).
She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock;
rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her blood, blends
with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. 'Il faut que je
l'essaie!' cried she, 'et a l'instant meme!' and she rushed out of the room.
She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes she w=
ill
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; s=
tay
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 s=
kirt
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 Bri=
tish
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; h=
aving
found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have
but half a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as
just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of
expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all
this some day. Good-night.’
Mr. Rochester did, on a future
occasion, explain it. It was one afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and
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 daug=
hter
of a French opera-dancer, Celine Varens, towards whom he had once cherished
what he called a ‘grande pass=
ion.’
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'athle=
te’
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, tha=
t I
installed her in an hotel; gave her a complete establishment of servants, a
carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &c. In short, I began the pro=
cess
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 ou=
t;
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 vir=
tue
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 w=
ith
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 breathe=
d 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 chocol=
ate
comfits, and smoking alternately, watching meantime the equipages that roll=
ed
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 h=
ad
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 expecte=
d,
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 peepi=
ng
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, w=
hich
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 run=
g 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 l=
ove.
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 quie=
t 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 o=
ff
in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base. But I te=
ll
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 n=
ow.
‘I like this day; I like that
sky of steel; I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this fr=
ost.
I like Thornfield, its antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and
thorn-trees, its grey facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that met=
al
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, ir=
e,
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 sil=
ent,
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 w=
rote
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 ca=
n!
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 distanc=
e,
child; or go in to Sophie!’ Continuing then to pursue his walk in sil=
ence,
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 o=
ff
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 thi=
s,
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 secr=
ets.
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 t=
ake
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 th=
us
revealed to me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and there was 'the Varen=
s,'
shining in satin and jewels,- my gifts of course,- and there was her compan=
ion
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 ne=
ver
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 discussi=
on.
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 Celin=
e,
who even waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects- deformities she ter=
med
them. Now it had been her custom to launch out into fervent admiration of w=
hat she
called my 'beaute male:' wherei=
n 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.<= o:p>
‘Monsieur, John has just bee=
n 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, protestation=
s,
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 bulle=
t 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 pater=
nity
written in her countenance: Pilot is more like me than she. Some years afte=
r 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 t=
hat
she was quite destitute, I e'en took the poor thing out of the slime and mu=
d 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 perh=
aps
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 pre=
fer
the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess as a nuisa=
nce,
to a lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend?’
‘Oh, that is the light in wh=
ich
you view it! Well, I must go in now; and you too: it darkens.’
But I stayed out a few minutes lon=
ger
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: n=
ot
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 Engli=
sh
mind. Still she had her merits; and I was disposed to appreciate all that w=
as
good in her to the utmost. I sought in her countenance and features a liken=
ess
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 withdr=
awn
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 Englishma=
n's
passion for a French dancer, and her treachery to him, were every-day matte=
rs
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 pleas=
ure
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 a=
nd
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 fi=
ts
of chilling hauteur: when he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welc=
ome;
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 even=
ing
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 glimp=
ses
of its scenes and ways (I do not mean its corrupt scenes and wicked ways, b=
ut
such as derived their interest from the great scale on which they were acte=
d,
the strange novelty by which they were characterised); and I had a keen del=
ight
in receiving the new ideas he offered, in imagining the new pictures he
portrayed, and following him in thought through the new regions he disclose=
d,
never startled or troubled by one noxious allusion.
The ease of his manner freed me fr=
om
painful restraint: the friendly frankness, as correct as cordial, with whic=
h 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 th=
at;
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 gen=
ial,
made his face the object I best liked to see; his presence in a room was mo=
re
cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his faults; indee=
d, 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 hi=
m,
found him sitting in his library alone, with his head bent on his folded ar=
ms;
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 fa=
te.
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 c=
andle
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 mys=
elf.
‘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 dolefu=
l.
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 w=
as
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 w=
ay
along the dark gallery outside. I said, ‘Who is there?’ Nothing
answered. I was chilled with fear.
All at once I remembered that it m=
ight
be Pilot, who, when the kitchen- door chanced to be left open, not unfreque=
ntly
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 thro=
ugh
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, whe=
n 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 cham=
ber
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, &=
#8216;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 long=
er
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 ca=
ndle
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 di=
m,
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 a=
jar;
and that door was Mr. Rochester's, and the smoke rushed in a cloud from the=
nce.
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 rou=
nd
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. No=
t 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 wi=
th
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 ai=
d,
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 M=
r.
Rochester at last. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I h=
eard
him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of wat=
er.
‘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 elve=
s in
Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?’ he demanded. ‘What have you do=
ne
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 t=
oo
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!̵=
7;
I did run; I brought the candle wh=
ich
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 carp=
et
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,- t=
he
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 han=
ds
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?&=
#8217;
I asked.
‘Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the
deuce would you call her for? What can she do? Let her sleep unmolested.=
217;
‘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 le=
ave
you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are till I ret=
urn;
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 withd=
raw.
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 w=
as
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 th=
en I
did not see the use of staying, as I was not to rouse the house. I was on t=
he
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 f=
eet
tread the matting. ‘I hope it is he,’ thought I, ‘and not
something worse.’
He re-entered, pale and very gloom=
y. ‘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 h=
is
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 y=
ou
saw anything when you opened your chamber door.’
‘No, sir, only the candlesti=
ck
on the ground.’
‘But you heard an odd laugh?= You have heard that laugh before, I should think, or something like it?’<= o:p>
‘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 h=
ave
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 talk=
ing
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 v=
ery
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,̵=
7;
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.=
8217;
‘But not without taking leav=
e;
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 m=
ine:
he took it first in one, them in both his own.
‘You have saved my life: I h=
ave
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, J=
ane.’
He paused; gazed at me: words almo=
st
visible trembled on his lips,- but his voice was checked.
‘Good-night again, sir. Ther=
e 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 f=
irst
beheld you: their expression and smile did not’- (again he stopped)- =
’did
not’ (he proceeded hastily) ‘strike delight to my very inmost h=
eart
so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good gen=
ii:
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 tho=
ught
of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, wh=
ere
billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw be=
yond
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: judgm=
ent
would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.
I both wished and feared to see Mr.
Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night: I wanted to hear =
his
voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. During the early part of the morni=
ng,
I momentarily expected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit of ente=
ring
the schoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had t=
he
impression that he was sure to visit it that day.
But the morning passed just as usu=
al:
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 m=
ercy
master was not burnt in his bed!’ ‘It is always dangerous to ke=
ep a
candle lit at night.’ ‘How providential that he had presence of
mind to think of the water-jug!’ ‘I wonder he waked nobody!R=
17; ‘It
is to be hoped he will not take cold with sleeping on the library sofa,R=
17;
&c.
To much confabulation succeeded a
sound of scrubbing and setting to rights; and when I passed the room, in go=
ing
downstairs to dinner, I saw through the open door that all was again restor=
ed
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 o=
ther
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 thoug=
hts
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 inte=
nded
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.̵=
7;
‘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 readin=
g in
his bed last night; he fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains go=
t 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.̵=
7;
‘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, a=
nd
this time there was something of consciousness in their expression. She see=
med
to examine me warily; then she answered-
‘The servants sleep so far o=
ff,
you know, Miss, they would not be likely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax's room and y=
ours
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 add=
ed,
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 y=
ou
may have heard a noise?’
‘I did,’ said I, dropp=
ing
my voice, so that Leah, who was still polishing the panes, could not hear m=
e, ‘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 observ=
ed,
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 look=
ed
at me; and with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.
‘Have you told master that y=
ou
heard a laugh?’ she inquired.
‘I have not had the opportun=
ity
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-questioni=
ng
me, attempting to draw from me information unawares. The idea struck me tha=
t 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,’ sai=
d I,
‘I bolted my door.’
‘Then you are not in the hab=
it
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 a=
ny
danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall: but in futureR=
17;
(and I laid marked stress on the words) ‘I shall take good care to ma=
ke
all secure before I venture to lie down.’
‘It will be wise so to do,=
8217;
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; th=
ough
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.’ A=
nd
here she closed her harangue: a long one for her, and uttered with the
demureness of a Quakeress.
I still stood absolutely dumfounde=
red
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 por=
ter
and bit of pudding on a tray, and I'll carry it upstairs.’
‘You'll have some meat?̵=
7;
‘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 acco=
unt
of the curtain conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzl=
ing
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 h=
er
criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing he=
r?
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 f=
ear
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 exerci=
ses
over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, wh=
ich
he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?’ But, having reached this
point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, e=
ven
coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind's eye, that I thought, ̵=
6;No;
impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,’ suggested the sec=
ret
voice which talks to us in our own hearts, ‘you are not beautiful eit=
her,
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 stoop=
ing!’
She went on sketching; I went on thinking.
I hastened to drive from my mind t=
he
hateful notion I had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted m=
e. I
compared myself with her, and found we were different. Bessie Leaven had sa=
id 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 comin=
g 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 s=
hut;
darkness only came in through the window. Still it was not late; he often s=
ent
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 w=
ould
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 restrain=
t;
this suited both him and me.
A tread creaked on the stairs at l=
ast.
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,R=
17;
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 flu=
shed
and feverish.’
‘Oh, quite well! I never felt
better.’
‘Then you must prove it by
evincing a good appetite; will you fill the teapot while I knit off this
needle?’ Having completed her task, she rose to draw down the blind,
which she had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of making the most of
daylight, though dusk was now fast deepening into total obscurity.
‘It is fair to-night,’
said she, as she looked through the panes, ‘though not starlight; Mr.
Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day for his journey.’
‘Journey!- Is Mr. Rochester =
gone
anywhere? I did not know he was out.’
‘Oh, he set off the moment he
had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas, Mr. Eshton's place, ten miles on t=
he
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, fas=
hionable
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 th=
ink
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 Lea=
s?’
‘There are Mrs. Eshton and h=
er
three daughters- very elegant young ladies indeed; and there are the Honour=
able
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.=
8217;
‘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 magnificen=
tly
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?̵=
7;
‘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 brillia=
nt
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 longe=
st,
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, ti=
ed
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 f=
or
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.&=
#8217;
‘Mr. Rochester? I was not aw=
are
he could sing.’
‘Oh! he has a fine bass voic=
e,
and an excellent taste for music.’
‘And Miss Ingram: what sort =
of a
voice had she?’
‘A very rich and powerful on=
e:
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 s=
ay
her execution was remarkably good.’
‘And this beautiful and
accomplished lady, she is not yet married?’
‘It appears not: I fancy nei= ther 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.’<= o:p>
‘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 nothin=
g:
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 t=
he
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 ha=
ving
given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing s=
ince
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 pleas=
ing
him? You of importance to him i=
n any
way? Go! your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasion=
al
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 l=
ids
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 discove=
red
and responded to, must lead, ignis-=
fatus-like,
into miry wilds whence there is no extrication.
‘Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to
your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your
own picture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh line,
smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a
Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.'
‘Afterwards, take a piece of
smooth ivory- you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette,=
mix
your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair
pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in
your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given =
by
Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental e=
ye;-
What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!- no sentime=
nt!-
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 sh=
ould
chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictur=
es
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 resolv=
ed:
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 cont=
rast
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 t=
he
new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on my heart.
Ere long, I had reason to congratu=
late
myself on the course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my
feelings to submit. Thanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences
with a decent calm, which, had they found me unprepared, I should probably =
have
been unequal to maintain, even externally.
A week passed, and no news arrived=
of
Mr. Rochester: ten days, and still he did not come. Mrs. Fairfax said she
should not be surprised if he were to go straight from the Leas to London, =
and
thence to the Continent, and not show his face again at Thornfield for a ye=
ar
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 h=
ow I
got over the temporary blunder- how I cleared up the mistake of supposing M=
r.
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, an=
d so
forth. He is not of your order: keep to your caste, and be too self-respect=
ing
to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a gif=
t 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 br= ain of reasons why I should quit Thornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and pondering conjectures about new situations: these though= ts I did not think to check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.<= o:p>
Mr. Rochester had been absent upwa=
rds
of a fortnight, when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.
‘It is from the master,̵=
7;
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 spectacl=
es.
Ere I permitted myself to request =
an
explanation, I tied the string of Adele's pinafore, which happened to be lo=
ose:
having helped her also to another bun and refilled her mug with milk, I sai=
d,
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 ma=
ny
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 Millcot=
e,
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 go=
t 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 mir=
rors
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 prospec=
t 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,=
8217;
and to air and arrange the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper abou=
t 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 pas=
try,
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 perio=
d I
had no time to nurse chimeras; and I believe I was as active and gay as any=
body-
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 dou=
bts
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 apr=
on,
and handkerchief; when I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tre=
ad
muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-tur=
vy
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 belo=
w;
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, th=
at
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 solitu=
de
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 gues=
s?’
‘Yes,’ said Leah; R=
16;I
wish I had as good; not that mine are to complain of,- there's no stingines=
s at
Thornfield; but they're not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives. And s=
he
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 lea=
ve;
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.=
8217;
‘She is a good hand, I dares=
ay,’
said the charwoman.
‘Ah!- she understands what s= he has to do,- nobody better,’ rejoined Leah significantly; ‘and i= t is not every one could fill her shoes- not for all the money she gets.’<= o:p>
‘That it is not!’ was =
the
reply. ‘I wonder whether the master- ’
The charwoman was going on; but he=
re
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 festoo=
ned,
radiant white counterpanes spread, toilet tables arranged, furniture rubbed,
flowers piled in vases: both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and brigh=
t as
hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured; and the great carved clo=
ck,
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 sid=
es.
Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax
assumed her best black satin gown, her gloves, and her gold watch; for it w=
as
her part to receive the company,- to conduct the ladies to their rooms, &am=
p;c.
Adele, too, would be dressed: though I thought she had little chance of bei=
ng
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 sanc=
tum
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 M=
rs.
Fairfax, entering in rustling state. ‘I am glad I ordered dinner an h=
our
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’ (leani=
ng
out), ‘any news?’
‘They're coming, ma'am,̵=
7;
was the answer. ‘They'll be here in ten minutes.’
Adele flew to the window. I follow=
ed,
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 see=
med
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 stream=
ed
long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming throu=
gh
them, shone rich raven ringlets.
‘Miss Ingram!’ exclaim=
ed
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. A=
dele
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=
8217;
on being told this; but as I began to look very grave, she consented at las=
t to
wipe them.
A joyous stir was now audible in t=
he
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 gues=
ts
under its roof. Then light steps ascended the stairs; and there was a tripp=
ing
through the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and closing door=
s,
and, for a time, a hush.
‘Elles changent de toilettes=
,’
said Adele; who, listening attentively, had followed every movement; and she
sighed.
‘Chez maman,’ said she=
, ‘quand
il y avait du monde, je le suivais partout, au salon et a leurs chambres;
souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller les dames, et
c'etait si amusant: comme cela on apprend.’
‘Don't you feel hungry, Adel=
e?’
‘Mais oui, mademoiselle:
voila cinq ou six heures que nous n'avons pas mange.’
‘Well now, while the ladies =
are
in their rooms, I will venture down and get you something to eat.’
And issuing from my asylum with
precaution, I sought a back-stairs which conducted directly to the kitchen.=
All
in that region was fire and commotion; the soup and fish were in the last s=
tage
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 be=
en
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 m=
ade
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 the=
ir
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 brig=
ht
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 chic=
ken
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 repas=
t,
would have run a chance of getting no dinner at all: every one downstairs w=
as
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 be=
low,
and people bustling about. Besides, she added, a message might possibly come
from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed; ‘et alors quel dommage!=
217;
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 list=
ened
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 foun=
d 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 t=
he
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 r=
est
in carriages; I witnessed both the departure and the return. Miss Ingram, as
before, was the only lady equestrian; and, as before, Mr. Rochester gallope=
d 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. Roches=
ter
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 eveni=
ng,’
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 tha=
t 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 do=
n'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 embarrassm=
ent
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.R=
17;
‘Will these people remain lo=
ng,
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 alrea=
dy
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 s=
he
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 w=
ould
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 entr=
ance
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 exquisi=
te
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 conversa=
tion
could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.
Adele, who appeared to be still un=
der
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 satisfacti=
on,
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 painfu=
l 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 amplitud=
e 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 on=
ly
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 position=
s 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 t=
wo
of her daughters. She had evidently been a handsome woman, and was well
preserved still. Of her daughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather little: naiv=
e,
and child-like in face and manner, and piquant in form; her white muslin dr=
ess
and blue sash became her well. The second, Louisa, was taller and more eleg=
ant
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 p= earl ornaments, pleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame.<= o:p>
But the three most distinguished- =
partly,
perhaps, because the tallest figures of the band- were the Dowager Lady Ing=
ram
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 w=
as
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 t=
here
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 s=
ame 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 tru=
ly
imperial dignity.
Blanche and Mary were of equal
stature,- straight and tall as poplars. Mary was too slim for her height, b=
ut
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 nob=
le
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 continua=
lly;
her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of her arched a=
nd
haughty lip.
Genius is said to be self-consciou=
s. I
cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious- r=
emarkably
self-conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gent=
le
Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that science: though, as she
said, she liked flowers, ‘especially wild ones;’ Miss Ingram ha=
d,
and she ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived she was
(what is vernacularly termed) trail=
ing
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 talk=
ed
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 f=
ace
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 su=
ch 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 sha=
de
of doubt, it remained but to see them together.
You are not to suppose, reader, th=
at
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.’<= o:p>
And Miss Ingram had looked down at= her with a mocking air, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, what a little puppet!’<= o:p>
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 han=
d,
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 conten=
t.
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 whis=
kers
still dark, which gives him something of the appearance of a ‘pere no=
ble
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 o=
nly
of the work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threa=
ds
that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitab=
ly
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 overflo=
w;
in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that momen=
t!
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 d=
id
not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder, when, without loo=
king
at me, he took a seat at the other side of the room, and began conversing w=
ith
some of the ladies.
No sooner did I see that his atten=
tion
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, wi=
th 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, g=
rim
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. Wh=
at
was the gallant grace of the Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,- e=
ven
the military distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native
pith and genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearance, their expres=
sion:
yet I could imagine that most observers would call them attractive, handsom=
e,
imposing; while they would pronounce Mr. Rochester at once harsh-featured a=
nd
melancholy-looking. I saw them smile, laugh- it was nothing; the light of t=
he
candles had as much soul in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as mu=
ch
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 s=
ure
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 b=
rain
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 f=
or
me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his for=
ce
to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tas=
tes
and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we a=
re
for ever sundered:- and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.=
217;
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 liste=
n.
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 ve=
ry
fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa, coffee- cup in h=
and,
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 lo=
oks,
smiles now and then, but apparently says little. The tall and phlegmatic Lo=
rd
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 bett=
er
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 w=
ith
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.<= o:p>
‘Mr. Rochester, I thought you
were not fond of children?’
‘Nor am I.’
‘Then, what induced you to t=
ake
charge of such a little doll as that?’ (pointing to Adele). ‘Wh=
ere
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: scho=
ols
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! t=
here
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 consid=
er
economy and common sense. You should hear mama on the chapter of governesse=
s:
Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at least in our day; half of t=
hem
detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all incubi- were they not, mama?=
217;
‘Did you speak, my own?̵=
7;
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 th= eir incompetency and caprice. I thank Heaven I have now done with them!’<= o:p>
Mrs. Dent here bent over to the pi=
ous
lady and whispered something in her ear; I suppose, from the answer elicite=
d,
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, b=
ut
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 pri=
vate
ear,’ replied she, wagging her turban three times with portentous
significancy.
‘But my curiosity will be pa=
st
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 shor=
t;
and Mrs. Grey was coarse and insensible; no blow took effect on her. But po=
or
Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had driven he=
r 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,̵=
7;
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 attempt=
ing
to teach such clever blades as we were, when she was herself so ignorant.=
8217;
‘We did; and, Tedo, you know=
, I
helped you in prosecuting (or persecuting) your tutor, whey-faced Mr. Vinin=
g- the
parson in the pip, as we used to call him. He and Miss Wilson took the libe=
rty
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, fou=
nd
out that it was of an immoral tendency. Did you not, my lady-mother?’=
‘Certainly, my best. And I w=
as
quite right: depend on that: there are a thousand reasons why liaisons betw=
een
governesses and tutors should never be tolerated a moment in any well-regul=
ated
house; firstly- ’
‘Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us
the enumeration! Au reste, we a=
ll
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 rig=
ht
now, as always.’
‘Then no more need be said:
change the subject.’
Amy Eshton, not hearing or not hee=
ding
this dictum, joined in with her soft, infantine tone: ‘Louisa and I u=
sed
to quiz our governess too; but she was such a good creature, she would bear
anything: nothing put her out. She was never cross with us; was she, Louisa=
?’
‘No, never: we might do what=
we
pleased; ransack her desk and her workbox, and turn her drawers inside out;=
and
she was so good-natured, she would give us anything we asked for.’
‘I suppose, now,’ said
Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically, ‘we shall have an abstrac=
t of
the memoirs of all the governesses extant: in order to avert such a visitat=
ion,
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 w=
ill
be wanted on my royal service.’
‘Who would not be the Rizzio=
of
so divine a Mary?’
‘A fig for Rizzio!’ cr=
ied
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 wh=
ich
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 obl=
iged
to you,’ was the reply.
Miss Ingram, who had now seated
herself with proud grace at the piano, spreading out her snowy robes in que=
enly
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 you=
ng
men of the present day!’ exclaimed she, rattling away at the instrume=
nt. ‘Poor,
puny things, not fit to stir a step beyond papa's park gates: nor to go eve=
n so
far without mama's permission and guardianship! Creatures so absorbed in ca=
re
about their pretty faces, and their white hands, and their small feet; as i=
f 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=
i>,
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 hus=
band
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, an=
d 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!’ command=
ed
the lady.
‘Pardon me, madam: no need of
explanation; your own fine sense must inform you that one of your frowns wo=
uld
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 b=
ass,
into which he threw his own feeling, his own force; finding a way through t=
he
ear to the heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the l=
ast
deep and full vibration had expired- till the tide of talk, checked an inst=
ant,
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 h=
eard
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 as=
ked.
‘I am very well, sir.’=
‘Why did you not come and sp=
eak
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 y=
ou,
as you seemed engaged, sir.’
‘What have you been doing du=
ring
my absence?’
‘Nothing particular; teaching
Adele as usual.’
‘And getting a good deal pal=
er
than you were- as I saw at first sight. What is the matter?’
‘Nothing at all, sir.’=
‘Did you take any cold that
night you half drowned me?’
‘Not the least.’
‘Return to the drawing-room:=
you
are deserting too early.’
‘I am tired, sir.’
He looked at me for a minute.
‘And a little depressed,R=
17;
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 a=
nd
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.
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 forgotte=
n: 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 geni=
al
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 go=
ing
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. Wh=
ile
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 shawl=
s,
dresses, draperies of any kind; and certain wardrobes of the third storey w=
ere
ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoa=
ts,
satin sacques, black modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought down in arm=
fuls
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: afterw=
ards
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, whi=
ch
had got loose.
‘Will you play?’ he as=
ked.
I shook my head. He did not insist, which I rather feared he would have don=
e;
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, ra=
ng
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 tab=
le.
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 be=
fore
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 ya=
rd
or two back within the room, appeared a large marble basin- which I recogni=
sed
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 atti=
red
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 a=
nd
her general air, suggested the idea of some Israelitish princess of the pat=
riarchal
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 table=
au
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 b=
y 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 grou=
nd.
I knew Mr. Rochester; though the begrimed face, the disordered dress (his c=
oat
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 elaps=
ed
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 sh=
e, ‘that,
of the three characters, I liked you in the last best? Oh, had you but live=
d 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 p=
ity!
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, rememb=
er
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 lead=
er's
right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and he=
r. I
did not now watch the actors; I no longer waited with interest for the curt=
ain 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 wi=
th
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 mea=
n 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 w=
ill
think, reader, to engender jealousy: if a woman, in my position, could pres=
ume
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 w=
ord.
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; tender=
ness
and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent s=
he
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 f=
rom
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, f=
or
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 t=
he
nerve was touched and teased- this was where the fever was sustained and fe=
d: 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 t=
hem.
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- jeal=
ousy
and despair: then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should have admired he=
r- acknowledged
her excellence, and been quiet for the rest of my days: and the more absolu=
te
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- he=
rself
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 h=
im more,
when she is privileged to draw so near to him?’ I asked myself. ̵=
6;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 les=
s,
get nigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far different expression fr=
om
that which hardens it now while she is so vivaciously accosting him; but th=
en
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 a=
nd
grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam. How w=
ill
she manage to please him when they are married? I do not think she will man=
age
it; and yet it might be managed; and his wife might, I verily believe, be t=
he
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 positi=
on,
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 l=
ike
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 a=
s I
wished to act.
But in other points, as well as th=
is,
I was growing very lenient to my master: I was forgetting all his faults, f=
or
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 t=
he
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 on=
ly
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 someth=
ing-
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 somethi=
ng
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 hea=
rt,
but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to d=
are-
to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day she might lo=
ok
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 a=
nd
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 goss=
ip
ran, like a pair of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-natu=
red
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 listen=
ed
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 act=
ors:
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 Millcot=
e 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 com=
mon
beyond Hay, was consequently deferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone to t=
he
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 cl=
ock
had already given warning of the hour to dress for dinner, when little Adel=
e,
who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed-
‘Voila, Monsieur Rochester, =
qui
revient!’
I turned, and Miss Ingram darted
forwards from her sofa: the others, too, looked up from their several
occupations; for at the same time a crunching of wheels and a splashing tra=
mp
of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel. A post-chaise was approach=
ing.
‘What can possess him to come
home in that style?’ said Miss Ingram. ‘He rode Mesrour (the bl=
ack
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 h=
er
tall person and ample garments so near the window, that I was obliged to be=
nd
back almost to the breaking of my spine: in her eagerness she did not obser=
ve
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!’ excla=
imed
Miss Ingram: ‘you tiresome monkey!’ (apostrophising Adele), =
216;who
perched you up in the window to give false intelligence?’ and she cas=
t 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 h=
er
the eldest lady present.
‘It appears I come at an
inopportune time, madam,’ said he, ‘when my friend, Mr. Rochest=
er,
is from home; but I arrive from a very long journey, and I think I may pres=
ume
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,- betw=
een
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 w=
ell
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 wander=
ed,
and had no meaning in its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I n=
ever
remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an unamiable-looking man, he
repelled me exceedingly: there was no power in that smooth-skinned face of a
full oval shape: no firmness in that aquiline nose and small cherry mouth;
there was no thought on the low, even forehead; no command in that blank, b=
rown
eye.
As I sat in my usual nook, and loo=
ked
at him with the light of the girandoles on the mantelpiece beaming full over
him- for he occupied an arm-chair drawn close to the fire, and kept shrinki=
ng
still nearer, as if he were cold, I compared him with Mr. Rochester. I think
(with deference be it spoken) the contrast could not be much greater betwee=
n a
sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and the rough-coated
keen-eyed dog, its guardian.
He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as =
an
old friend. A curious friendship theirs must have been: a pointed illustrat=
ion,
indeed, of the old adage that ‘extremes meet.’
Two or three of the gentlemen sat =
near
him, and I caught at times scraps of their conversation across the room. At
first I could not make much sense of what I heard; for the discourse of Lou=
isa
Eshton and Mary Ingram, who sat nearer to me, confused the fragmentary
sentences that reached me at intervals. These last were discussing the
stranger; they both called him ‘a beautiful man.’ Louisa said he
was ‘a love of a creature,’ and she ‘adored him;’ a=
nd
Mary instanced his ‘pretty little mouth, and nice nose,’ as her
ideal of the charming.
‘And what a sweet-tempered
forehead he has!’ cried Louisa,- ’so smooth- none of those frow=
ning
irregularities I dislike so much; and such a placid eye and smile!’
And then, to my great relief, Mr.
Henry Lynn summoned them to the other side of the room, to settle some point
about the deferred excursion to Hay Common.
I was now able to concentrate my
attention on the group by the fire, and I presently gathered that the new-c=
omer
was called Mr. Mason; then I learned that he was but just arrived in Englan=
d,
and that he came from some hot country: which was the reason, doubtless, his
face was so sallow, and that he sat so near the hearth, and wore a surtout =
in
the house. Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Spanish Town, indicated t=
he
West Indies as his residence; and it was with no little surprise I gathered,
ere long, that he had there first seen and become acquainted with Mr.
Rochester. He spoke of his friend's dislike of the burning heats, the
hurricanes, and rainy seasons of that region. I knew Mr. Rochester had been=
a
traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but I thought the continent of Europe =
had
bounded his wanderings; till now I had never heard a hint given of visits to
more distant shores.
I was pondering these things, when=
an
incident, and a somewhat unexpected one, broke the thread of my musings. Mr.
Mason, shivering as some one chanced to open the door, asked for more coal =
to
be put on the fire, which had burnt out its flame, though its mass of cinder
still shone hot and red. The footman who brought the coal, in going out,
stopped near Mr. Eshton's chair, and said something to him in a low voice, =
of
which I heard only the words, ‘old woman,’- ’quite
troublesome.’
‘Tell her she shall be put in
the stocks if she does not take herself off,’ replied the magistrate.=
‘No- stop!’ interrupted
Colonel Dent. ‘Don't send her away, Eshton; we might turn the thing to
account; better consult the ladies.’ And speaking aloud, he continued=
- ’Ladies,
you talked of going to Hay Common to visit the gipsy camp; Sam here says th=
at
one of the old Mother Bunches is in the servants' hall at this moment, and
insists upon being brought in before 'the quality,' to tell them their
fortunes. Would you like to see her?’
‘Surely, colonel,’ cri=
ed
Lady Ingram, ‘you would not encourage such a low impostor? Dismiss he=
r,
by all means, at once!’
‘But I cannot persuade her t=
o go
away, my lady,’ said the footman; ‘nor can any of the servants:
Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now, entreating her to be gone; but she has t=
aken
a chair in the chimney-corner, and says nothing shall stir her from it till=
she
gets leave to come in here.’
‘What does she want?’
asked Mrs. Eshton.
‘'To tell the gentry their fortunes,' she says, ma'am; and she swears she must and will do it.’<= o:p>
‘What is she like?’
inquired the Misses Eshton, in a breath.
‘A shockingly ugly old creat=
ure,
miss; almost as black as a crock.’
‘Why, she's a real sorceress=
!’
cried Frederick Lynn. ‘Let us have her in, of course.’
‘To be sure,’ rejoined=
his
brother; ‘it would be a thousand pities to throw away such a chance of
fun.’
‘My dear boys, what are you
thinking about?’ exclaimed Mrs. Lynn.
‘I cannot possibly countenan=
ce
any such inconsistent proceeding,’ chimed in the Dowager Ingram.
‘Indeed, mama, but you can- =
and
will,’ pronounced the haughty voice of Blanche, as she turned round on
the piano-stool; where till now she had sat silent, apparently examining su=
ndry
sheets of music. ‘I have a curiosity to hear my fortune told: therefo=
re,
Sam, order the beldame forward.’
‘My darling Blanche! recolle=
ct- ’
‘I do- I recollect all you c=
an
suggest; and I must have my will- quick, Sam!’
‘Yes- yes- yes!’ cried=
all
the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen. ‘Let her come- it will be
excellent sport!’
The footman still lingered. ‘=
;She
looks such a rough one,’ said he.
‘Go!’ ejaculated Miss
Ingram, and the man went.
Excitement instantly seized the wh=
ole
party: a running fire of raillery and jests was proceeding when Sam returne=
d.
‘She won't come now,’ =
said
he. ‘She says it's not her mission to appear before the 'vulgar herd'
(them's her words). I must show her into a room by herself, and then those =
who
wish to consult her must go to her one by one.’
‘You see now, my queenly
Blanche,’ began Lady Ingram, ‘she encroaches. Be advised, my an=
gel
girl- and- ’
‘Show her into the library, =
of
course,’ cut in the ‘angel girl.’ ‘It is not my mis=
sion
to listen to her before the vulgar herd either: I mean to have her all to
myself. Is there a fire in the library?’
‘Yes, ma'am- but she looks s=
uch
a tinkler.’
‘Cease that chatter, blockhe=
ad!
and do my bidding.’
Again Sam vanished; and mystery,
animation, expectation rose to full flow once more.
‘She's ready now,’ said
the footman, as he reappeared. ‘She wishes to know who will be her fi=
rst
visitor.’
‘I think I had better just l=
ook
in upon her before any of the ladies go,’ said Colonel Dent.
‘Tell her, Sam, a gentleman =
is
coming.’
Sam went and returned.
‘She says, sir, that she'll =
have
no gentlemen; they need not trouble themselves to come near her; nor,’=
; he
added, with difficulty suppressing a titter, ‘any ladies either, exce=
pt
the young, and single.’
‘By Jove, she has taste!R=
17;
exclaimed Henry Lynn.
Miss Ingram rose solemnly: ‘=
I go
first,’ she said, in a tone which might have befitted the leader of a
forlorn hope, mounting a breach in the van of his men.
‘Oh, my best! oh, my dearest!
pause- reflect!’ was her mama's cry; but she swept past her in stately
silence, passed through the door which Colonel Dent held open, and we heard=
her
enter the library.
A comparative silence ensued. Lady
Ingram thought it ‘le cas’ to wring her hands: which she did
accordingly. Miss Mary declared she felt, for her part, she never dared
venture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under their breath, and looked a li=
ttle
frightened.
The minutes passed very slowly:
fifteen were counted before the library- door again opened. Miss Ingram
returned to us through the arch.
Would she laugh? Would she take it=
as
a joke? All eyes met her with a glance of eager curiosity, and she met all =
eyes
with one of rebuff and coldness; she looked neither flurried nor merry: she
walked stiffly to her seat, and took it in silence.
‘Well, Blanche?’ said =
Lord
Ingram.
‘What did she say, sister?=
8217;
asked Mary.
‘What did you think? How do =
you
feel?- Is she a real fortune-teller?’ demanded the Misses Eshton.
‘Now, now, good people,̵=
7;
returned Miss Ingram, ‘don't press upon me. Really your organs of won=
der
and credulity are easily excited: you seem, by the importance of you all- my
good mama included- ascribe to this matter, absolutely to believe we have a
genuine witch in the house, who is in close alliance with the old gentleman=
. I
have seen a gipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed fashion the scie=
nce
of palmistry and told me what such people usually tell. My whim is gratifie=
d;
and now I think Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag in the stocks to-mor=
row
morning, as he threatened.’
Miss Ingram took a book, leant bac=
k in
her chair, and so declined further conversation. I watched her for nearly
half-an-hour: during all that time she never turned a page, and her face gr=
ew
momently darker, more dissatisfied, and more sourly expressive of disappoin=
tment.
She had obviously not heard anything to her advantage: and it seemed to me,
from her prolonged fit of gloom and taciturnity, that she herself,
notwithstanding her professed indifference, attached undue importance to
whatever revelations had been made her.
Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Lou=
isa
Eshton, declared they dared not go alone; and yet they all wished to go. A
negotiation was opened through the medium of the ambassador, Sam; and after
much pacing to and fro, till, I think, the said Sam's calves must have ached
with the exercise, permission was at last, with great difficulty, extorted =
from
the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait upon her in a body.
Their visit was not so still as Mi=
ss
Ingram's had been: we heard hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceedi=
ng
from the library; and at the end of about twenty minutes they burst the door
open, and came running across the hall, as if they were half-scared out of
their wits.
‘I am sure she is something =
not
right!’ they cried, one and all. ‘She told us such things! She
knows all about us!’ and they sank breathless into the various seats =
the
gentlemen hastened to bring them.
Pressed for further explanation, t=
hey
declared she had told them of things they had said and done when they were =
mere
children; described books and ornaments they had in their boudoirs at home:
keepsakes that different relations had presented to them. They affirmed that
she had even divined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each t=
he
name of the person she liked best in the world, and informed them of what t=
hey
most wished for.
Here the gentlemen interposed with
earnest petitions to be further enlightened on these two last-named points;=
but
they got only blushes, ejaculations, tremors, and titters, in return for th=
eir
importunity. The matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; =
and
again and again reiterated the expression of their concern that their warni=
ng
had not been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger
urged their services on the agitated fair ones.
In the midst of the tumult, and wh=
ile
my eyes and ears were fully engaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem c=
lose
at my elbow: I turned, and saw Sam.
‘If you please, miss, the gi=
psy
declares that there is another young single lady in the room who has not be=
en
to her yet, and she swears she will not go till she has seen all. I thought=
it
must be you: there is no one else for it. What shall I tell her?’
‘Oh, I will go by all means,=
’
I answered: and I was glad of the unexpected opportunity to gratify my
much-excited curiosity. I slipped out of the room, unobserved by any eye- f=
or
the company were gathered in one mass about the trembling trio just returne=
d- and
I closed the door quietly behind me.
‘If you like, miss,’ s=
aid
Sam, ‘I'll wait in the hall for you; and if she frightens you, just c=
all
and I'll come in.’
‘No, Sam, return to the kitc=
hen:
I am not in the least afraid.’ Nor was I; but I was a good deal
interested and excited.
The library looked tranquil enough=
as
I entered it, and the Sibyl- if Sibyl she were- was seated snugly enough in=
an
easy-chair at the chimney- corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonne=
t:
or rather, a broad- brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped handkerchief
under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending =
over
the fire, and seemed reading in a little black book, like a prayer-book, by=
the
light of the blaze: she muttered the words to herself, as most old women do,
while she read; she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared =
she
wished to finish a paragraph.
I stood on the rug and warmed my
hands, which were rather cold with sitting at a distance from the drawing-r=
oom
fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did in my life: there was nothing in=
deed
in the gipsy's appearance to trouble one's calm. She shut her book and slow=
ly
looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as she
raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and black: elf- l=
ocks
bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under her chin, and came
half over her cheeks, or rather jaws: her eye confronted me at once, with a
bold and direct gaze.
‘Well, and you want your for=
tune
told?’ she said, in a voice as decided as her glance, as harsh as her
features.
‘I don't care about it, moth=
er;
you may please yourself: but I ought to warn you, I have no faith.’
‘It's like your impudence to=
say
so: I expected it of you; I heard it in your step as you crossed the thresh=
old.’
‘Did you? You've a quick ear=
.’
‘I have; and a quick eye and=
a
quick brain.’
‘You need them all in your
trade.’
‘I do; especially when I've
customers like you to deal with. Why don't you tremble?’
‘I'm not cold.’
‘Why don't you turn pale?=
217;
‘I am not sick.’
‘Why don't you consult my ar=
t?’
‘I'm not silly.’
The old crone ‘nichered̵=
7; a
laugh under her bonnet and bandage; she then drew out a short black pipe, a=
nd
lighting it began to smoke. Having indulged a while in this sedative, she
raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, and while gazing steadil=
y at
the fire, said very deliberately- ’You are cold; you are sick; and you
are silly.’
‘Prove it,’ I rejoined=
.
‘I will, in few words. You a=
re
cold, because you are alone: no contact strikes the fire from you that is in
you. You are sick; because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweete=
st
given to man, keeps far away from you. You are silly, because, suffer as you
may, you will not beckon it to approach, nor will you stir one step to meet=
it
where it waits you.’
She again put her short black pipe=
to
her lips, and renewed her smoking with vigour.
‘You might say all that to
almost any one who you knew lived as a solitary dependent in a great house.=
’
‘I might say it to almost any
one: but would it be true of almost any one?’
‘In my circumstances.’=
‘Yes; just so, in your circumstances: but find me an=
other
precisely placed as you are.’
‘It would be easy to find you
thousands.’
‘You could scarcely find me =
one.
If you knew it, you are peculiarly situated: very near happiness; yes, with=
in
reach of it. The materials are all prepared; there only wants a movement to
combine them. Chance laid them somewhat apart; let them be once approached =
and
bliss results.’
‘I don't understand enigmas.=
I
never could guess a riddle in my life.’
‘If you wish me to speak more
plainly, show me your palm.’
‘And I must cross it with
silver, I suppose?’
‘To be sure.’
I gave her a shilling: she put it =
into
an old stocking-foot which she took out of her pocket, and having tied it r=
ound
and returned it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did. She approached her
face to the palm, and pored over it without touching it.
‘It is too fine,’ said
she. ‘I can make nothing of such a hand as that; almost without lines:
besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is not written there.’
‘I believe you,’ said =
I.
‘No,’ she continued, &=
#8216;it
is in the face: on the forehead, about the eyes, in the lines of the mouth.
Kneel, and lift up your head.’
‘Ah! now you are coming to
reality,’ I said, as I obeyed her. ‘I shall begin to put some f=
aith
in you presently.’
I knelt within half a yard of her.=
She
stirred the fire, so that a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: =
the
glare, however, as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine, it
illumined.
‘I wonder with what feelings=
you
came to me to-night,’ she said, when she had examined me a while. =
216;I
wonder what thoughts are busy in your heart during all the hours you sit in
yonder room with the fine people flitting before you like shapes in a
magic-lantern: just as little sympathetic communion passing between you and
them as if they were really mere shadows of human forms, and not the actual
substance.’
‘I feel tired often, sleepy
sometimes, but seldom sad.’
‘Then you have some secret h=
ope
to buoy you up and please you with whispers of the future?’
‘Not I. The utmost I hope is=
, to
save money enough out of my earnings to set up a school some day in a little
house rented by myself.’
‘A mean nutriment for the sp=
irit
to exist on: and sitting in that window- seat (you see I know your habits )=
- ’
‘You have learned them from =
the
servants.’
‘Ah! you think yourself shar=
p.
Well, perhaps I have: to speak truth, I have an acquaintance with one of th=
em,
Mrs. Poole- ’
I started to my feet when I heard =
the
name.
‘You have- have you?’
thought I; ‘there is diablerie in the business after all, then!’=
;
‘Don't be alarmed,’
continued the strange being; ‘she's a safe hand is Mrs. Poole: close =
and
quiet; any one may repose confidence in her. But, as I was saying: sitting =
in
that window-seat, do you think of nothing but your future school? Have you =
no
present interest in any of the company who occupy the sofas and chairs befo=
re
you? Is there not one face you study? one figure whose movements you follow
with at least curiosity?’
‘I like to observe all the f=
aces
and all the figures.’
‘But do you never single one
from the rest- or it may be, two?’
‘I do frequently; when the
gestures or looks of a pair seem telling a tale: it amuses me to watch them=
.’
‘What tale do you like best =
to
hear?’
‘Oh, I have not much choice!
They generally run on the same theme- courtship; and promise to end in the =
same
catastrophe- marriage.’
‘And do you like that monoto=
nous
theme?’
‘Positively, I don't care ab=
out
it: it is nothing to me.’
‘Nothing to you? When a lady,
young and full of life and health, charming with beauty and endowed with the
gifts of rank and fortune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you- =
’
‘I what?’
‘You know- and perhaps think
well of.’
‘I don't know the gentlemen
here. I have scarcely interchanged a syllable with one of them; and as to
thinking well of them, I consider some respectable, and stately, and
middle-aged, and others young, dashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly
they are all at liberty to be the recipients of whose smiles they please,
without my feeling disposed to consider the transaction of any moment to me=
.’
‘You don't know the gentlemen
here? You have not exchanged a syllable with one of them? Will you say that=
of
the master of the house!’
‘He is not at home.’
‘A profound remark! A most i=
ngenious
quibble! He went to Millcote this morning, and will be back here to-night or
to-morrow: does that circumstance exclude him from the list of your
acquaintance- blot him, as it were, out of existence?’
‘No; but I can scarcely see =
what
Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme you had introduced.’
‘I was talking of ladies smi=
ling
in the eyes of gentlemen; and of late so many smiles have been shed into Mr.
Rochester's eyes that they overflow like two cups filled above the brim: ha=
ve
you never remarked that?’
‘Mr. Rochester has a right to
enjoy the society of his guests.’
‘No question about his right:
but have you never observed that, of all the tales told here about matrimon=
y,
Mr. Rochester has been favoured with the most lively and the most continuou=
s?’
‘The eagerness of a listener
quickens the tongue of a narrator.’ I said this rather to myself than=
to
the gipsy, whose strange talk, voice, manner, had by this time wrapped me i=
n a
kind of dream. One unexpected sentence came from her lips after another, ti=
ll I
got involved in a web of mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit had
been sitting for weeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record =
of
every pulse.
‘Eagerness of a listener!=
217;
repeated she: ‘yes; Mr. Rochester has sat by the hour, his ear inclin=
ed
to the fascinating lips that took such delight in their task of communicati=
ng;
and Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the
pastime given him; you have noticed this?’
‘Grateful! I cannot remember
detecting gratitude in his face.’
‘Detecting! You have analyse=
d,
then. And what did you detect, if not gratitude?’
I said nothing.
‘You have seen love: have you
not?- and, looking forward, you have seen him married, and beheld his bride
happy?’
‘Humph! Not exactly. Your wi=
tch's
skill is rather at fault sometimes.’
‘What the devil have you see=
n,
then?’
‘Never mind: I came here to
inquire, not to confess. Is it known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?=
8217;
‘Yes; and to the beautiful M=
iss
Ingram.’
‘Shortly?’
‘Appearances would warrant t=
hat
conclusion: and, no doubt (though, with an audacity that wants chastising o=
ut
of you, you seem to question it), they will be a superlatively happy pair. =
He
must love such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she
loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse. I know she considers =
the
Rochester estate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon me!) I told
her something on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous
grave: the corners of her mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her
blackaviced suitor to look out: if another comes, with a longer or clearer
rent-roll,- he's dished- ’
‘But, mother, I did not come=
to
hear Mr. Rochester's fortune: I came to hear my own; and you have told me
nothing of it.’
‘Your fortune is yet doubtfu=
l:
when I examined your face, one trait contradicted another. Chance has meted=
you
a measure of happiness: that I know. I knew it before I came here this even=
ing.
She has laid it carefully on one side for you. I saw her do it. It depends =
on
yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up: but whether you will do =
so,
is the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug.’
‘Don't keep me long; the fire
scorches me.’
I knelt. She did not stoop towards=
me,
but only gazed, leaning back in her chair. She began muttering,-
‘The flame flickers in the e=
ye;
the eye shines like dew; it looks soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my
jargon: it is susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear
sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weigh=
s on
the lid: that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns from=
me;
it will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking glance,=
the
truth of the discoveries I have already made,- to disown the charge both of
sensibility and chagrin: its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinio=
n.
The eye is favourable.
‘As to the mouth, it delight=
s at
times in laughter; it is disposed to impart all that the brain conceives;
though I daresay it would be silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile a=
nd
flexible, it was never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of
solitude: it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often, and have h=
uman
affection for its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious.
‘I see no enemy to a fortuna=
te
issue but in the brow; and that brow professes to say,- 'I can live alone, =
if
self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my sou=
l to
buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive =
if
all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I ca=
nnot
afford to give.' The forehead declares, 'Reason sits firm and holds the rei=
ns,
and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild chasms. =
The
passions may rage furiously, like true heathens, as they are; and the desir=
es
may imagine all sorts of vain things: but judgment shall still have the last
word in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision. Strong wind,
earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by: but I shall follow the guiding of t=
hat
still small voice which interprets the dictates of conscience.'
‘Well said, forehead; your
declaration shall be respected. I have formed my plans- right plans I deem =
them-
and in them I have attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of
reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup of
bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detect=
ed;
and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution- such is not my taste. I w=
ish
to foster, not to blight- to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood- n=
o,
nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet- That =
will
do. I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish now to
protract this moment ad infinitum=
i>;
but I dare not. So far I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I
inwardly swore I would act; but further might try me beyond my strength. Ri=
se,
Miss Eyre: leave me; the play is played out'.’
Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? =
Had
I been dreaming? Did I dream still? The old woman's voice had changed: her
accent, her gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass-=
as
the speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I stirred =
the fire,
and I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her
face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illuminated her hand stret=
ched
out: roused now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at once noticed that h=
and.
It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded supple
member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on =
the
little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I had se=
en a
hundred times before. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned
from me- on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the
head advanced.
‘Well, Jane, do you know me?=
’
asked the familiar voice.
‘Only take off the red cloak,
sir, and then- ’
‘But the string is in a knot=
- help
me.’
‘Break it, sir.’
‘There, then- 'Off, ye
lendings!'‘ And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his disguise.
‘Now, sir, what a strange id=
ea!’
‘But well carried out, eh? D=
on't
you think so?’
‘With the ladies you must ha=
ve
managed well.’
‘But not with you?’
‘You did not act the charact=
er
of a gipsy with me.’
‘What character did I act? My
own?’
‘No; some unaccountable one.=
In
short, I believe you have been trying to draw me out- or in; you have been
talking nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir.’=
‘Do you forgive me, Jane?=
217;
‘I cannot tell till I have
thought it all over. If, on reflection, I find I have fallen into no great
absurdity, I shall try to forgive you; but it was not right.’
‘Oh, you have been very corr=
ect-
very careful, very sensible.’
I reflected, and thought, on the
whole, I had. It was a comfort; but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost =
from
the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew
gipsies and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old
woman had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anx=
iety
to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace Poole- that
living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her. I had never
thought of Mr. Rochester.
‘Well,’ said he, ̵=
6;what
are you musing about? What does that grave smile signify?’
‘Wonder and self-congratulat=
ion,
sir. I have your permission to retire now, I suppose?’
‘No; stay a moment; and tell=
me
what the people in the drawing-room yonder are doing.’
‘Discussing the gipsy, I
daresay.’
‘Sit down!- Let me hear what
they said about me.’
‘I had better not stay long,
sir; it must be near eleven o'clock. Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that=
a
stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?’
‘A stranger!- no; who can it=
be?
I expected no one; is he gone?’
‘No; he said he had known you
long, and that he could take the liberty of installing himself here till you
returned.’
‘The devil he did! Did he gi=
ve
his name?’
‘His name is Mason, sir; and= he comes from the West Indies; from Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think.’<= o:p>
Mr. Rochester was standing near me=
; he
had taken my hand, as if to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist=
a
convulsive grip; the smile on his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his
breath.
‘Mason!- the West Indies!=
217;
he said, in the tone one might fancy a speaking automaton to enounce its si=
ngle
words; ‘Mason!- the West Indies!’ he reiterated; and he went ov=
er
the syllables three times, growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter th=
an
ashes: he hardly seemed to know what he was doing.
‘Do you feel ill, sir?’=
; I
inquired.
‘Jane, I've got a blow; I've=
got
a blow, Jane!’ He staggered.
‘Oh, lean on me, sir.’=
‘Jane, you offered me your
shoulder once before; let me have it now.’
‘Yes, sir, yes; and my arm.&=
#8217;
He sat down, and made me sit beside
him. Holding my hand in both his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the sa=
me
time, with the most troubled and dreary look.
‘My little friend!’ sa=
id
he, ‘I wish I were in a quiet island with only you; and trouble, and
danger, and hideous recollections removed from me.’
‘Can I help you, sir?- I'd g=
ive
my life to serve you.’
‘Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll
seek it at your hands; I promise you that.’
‘Thank you, sir. Tell me wha=
t to
do,- I'll try, at least, to do it.’
‘Fetch me now, Jane, a glass=
of
wine from the dining-room: they will be at supper there; and tell me if Mas=
on
is with them, and what he is doing.’
I went. I found all the party in t=
he
dining-room at supper, as Mr. Rochester had said; they were not seated at
table,- the supper was arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he ch=
ose,
and they stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in
their hands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were
general and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking to Colonel and
Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. I filled a wine-glass (I s=
aw
Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did so: she thought I was taking a
liberty, I daresay), and I returned to the library.
Mr. Rochester's extreme pallor had
disappeared, and he looked once more firm and stern. He took the glass from=
my
hand.
‘Here is to your health,
ministrant spirit!’ he said. He swallowed the contents and returned i=
t to
me. ‘What are they doing, Jane?’
‘Laughing and talking, sir.&=
#8217;
‘They don't look grave and
mysterious, as if they had heard something strange?’
‘Not at all: they are full of
jests and gaiety.’
‘And Mason?’
‘He was laughing too.’=
‘If all these people came in=
a body
and spat at me, what would you do, Jane?’
‘Turn them out of the room, =
sir,
if I could.’
He half smiled. ‘But if I we=
re
to go to them, and they only looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly
amongst each other, and then dropped off and left me one by one, what then?
Would you go with them?’
‘I rather think not, sir: I
should have more pleasure in staying with you.’
‘To comfort me?’
‘Yes, sir, to comfort you, as
well as I could.’
‘And if they laid you under a
ban for adhering to me?’
‘I, probably, should know
nothing about their ban; and if I did, I should care nothing about it.̵=
7;
‘Then, you could dare censure
for my sake?’
‘I could dare it for the sak=
e of
any friend who deserved my adherence; as you, I am sure, do.’
‘Go back now into the room; =
step
quietly up to Mason, and whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and
wishes to see him: show him in here and then leave me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I did his behest. The company all
stared at me as I passed straight among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered=
the
message, and preceded him from the room: I ushered him into the library, and
then I went upstairs.
At a late hour, after I had been in
bed some time, I heard the visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguish=
ed
Mr. Rochester's voice, and heard him say, ‘This way, Mason; this is y=
our
room.’
He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones=
set
my heart at ease. I was soon asleep.
I had forgotten to draw my curtain,
which I usually did, and also to let down my window-blind. The consequence =
was,
that when the moon, which was full and bright (for the night was fine), cam=
e in
her course to that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at =
me
through the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the dea=
d of
night, I opened my eyes on her disk- silver-white and crystal clear. It was
beautiful, but too solemn; I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the
curtain.
Good God! What a cry!
The night- its silence- its rest, =
was
rent in twain by a savage, a sharp, a shrilly sound that ran from end to en=
d of
Thornfield Hall.
My pulse stopped: my heart stood
still; my stretched arm was paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed.
Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it:
not the widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession, send =
out
such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering such
utterance must rest ere it could repeat the effort.
It came out of the third storey; f=
or
it passed overhead. And overhead- yes, in the room just above my
chamber-ceiling- I now heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed from the no=
ise;
and a half-smothered voice shouted-
‘Help! help! help!’ th=
ree
times rapidly.
‘Will no one come?’ it
cried; and then, while the staggering and stamping went on wildly, I distin=
guished
through plank and plaster:-
‘Rochester! Rochester! for G=
od's
sake, come!’
A chamber-door opened: some one ra=
n,
or rushed, along the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above and
something fell; and there was silence.
I had put on some clothes, though
horror shook all my limbs; I issued from my apartment. The sleepers were all
aroused: ejaculations, terrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after =
door
unclosed; one looked out and another looked out; the gallery filled. Gentle=
men
and ladies alike had quitted their beds; and ‘Oh! what is it?’-=
’Who
is hurt?’- ’What has happened?’- ’Fetch a light!=
217;-
’Is it fire?’- ’Are there robbers?’- ’Where s=
hall
we run?’ was demanded confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight =
they
would have been in complete darkness. They ran to and fro; they crowded
together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the confusion was inextricable.
‘Where the devil is Rocheste=
r?’
cried Colonel Dent. ‘I cannot find him in his bed.’
‘Here! here!’ was shou=
ted
in return. ‘Be composed, all of you: I'm coming.’
And the door at the end of the gal=
lery
opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle: he had just descended from
the upper storey. One of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm=
: it
was Miss Ingram.
‘What awful event has taken
place?’ said she. ‘Speak! let us know the worst at once!’=
‘But don't pull me down or
strangle me,’ he replied: for the Misses Eshton were clinging about h=
im
now; and the two dowagers, in vast white wrappers, were bearing down on him
like ships in full sail.
‘All's right!- all's right!&=
#8217;
he cried. ‘It's a mere rehearsal of Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, k=
eep
off, or I shall wax dangerous.’
And dangerous he looked: his black
eyes darted sparks. Calming himself by an effort, he added-
‘A servant has had the
nightmare; that is all. She's an excitable, nervous person: she construed h=
er
dream into an apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt; and has take=
n a
fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms; for, t=
ill
the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodn=
ess
to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in
evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa, return to your nests =
like
a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames’ (to the dowagers), ‘you =
will
take cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in this chill gallery any longer=
.’
And so, by dint of alternate coaxi=
ng
and commanding, he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their
separate dormitories. I did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but retrea=
ted
unnoticed, as unnoticed I had left it.
Not, however, to go to bed: on the
contrary, I began and dressed myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after
the scream, and the words that had been uttered, had probably been heard on=
ly
by me; for they had proceeded from the room above mine: but they assured me
that it was not a servant's dream which had thus struck horror through the
house; and that the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was merely an inven=
tion
framed to pacify his guests. I dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. =
When
dressed, I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent grounds
and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what. It seemed to me that s=
ome
event must follow the strange cry, struggle, and call.
No: stillness returned: each murmur
and movement ceased gradually, and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was aga=
in
as hushed as a desert. It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their emp=
ire.
Meantime the moon declined: she was about to set. Not liking to sit in the =
cold
and darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was. I left
the window, and moved with little noise across the carpet; as I stooped to =
take
off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door.
‘Am I wanted?’ I asked=
.
‘Are you up?’ asked the
voice I expected to hear, viz., my master's.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And dressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come out, then, quietly.=
217;
I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in t=
he
gallery holding a light.
‘I want you,’ he said:=
‘come
this way: take your time, and make no noise.’
My slippers were thin: I could walk
the matted floor as softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the
stairs, and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey: I
had followed and stood at his side.
‘Have you a sponge in your r=
oom?’
he asked in a whisper.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you any salts- volatile
salts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go back and fetch both.R=
17;
I returned, sought the sponge on t=
he
washstand, the salts in my drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still
waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the small, black door=
s,
he put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again.
‘You don't turn sick at the
sight of blood?’
‘I think I shall not: I have
never been tried yet.’
I felt a thrill while I answered h=
im;
but no coldness, and no faintness.
‘Just give me your hand,R=
17;
he said: ‘it will not do to risk a fainting fit.’
I put my fingers into his. ‘=
Warm
and steady,’ was his remark: he turned the key and opened the door.
I saw a room I remembered to have =
seen
before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with
tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part, and there was a d=
oor
apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open; a light shone =
out
of the room within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost like=
a
dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, said to me, ‘=
;Wait
a minute,’ and he went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of
laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poo=
le's
own goblin ha! ha! She then was
there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking, though I heard a =
low
voice address him: he came out and closed the door behind him.
‘Here, Jane!’ he said;=
and
I walked round to the other side of a large bed, which with its drawn curta=
ins
concealed a considerable portion of the chamber. An easy-chair was near the
bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat; he was
still; his head leant back; his eyes were closed. Mr. Rochester held the ca=
ndle
over him; I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face- the strange=
r,
Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked=
in
blood.
‘Hold the candle,’ said
Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a basin of water from the washstan=
d: ‘Hold
that,’ said he. I obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moist=
ened
the corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle, and applied it to the
nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned. Mr. Rochester op=
ened
the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he spon=
ged
away blood, trickling fast down.
‘Is there immediate danger?&=
#8217;
murmured Mr. Mason.
‘Pooh! No- a mere scratch. D=
on't
be so overcome, man: bear up! I'll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you=
'll
be able to be removed by morning, I hope. Jane,’ he continued.
‘Sir?’
‘I shall have to leave you in
this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours: you will
sponge the blood as I do when it returns: if he feels faint, you will put t=
he
glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You w=
ill
not speak to him on any pretext- and- Richard, it will be at the peril of y=
our
life if you speak to her: open your lips- agitate yourself- and I'll not an=
swer
for the consequences.’
Again the poor man groaned; he loo=
ked
as if he dared not move; fear, either of death or of something else, appear=
ed
almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my han=
d,
and I proceeded to use it as he had done. He watched me a second, then sayi=
ng, ‘Remember!-
No conversation,’ he left the room. I experienced a strange feeling as
the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating step ceased to =
be
heard.
Here then I was in the third store=
y,
fastened into one of its mystic cells; night around me; a pale and bloody
spectacle under my eyes and hands; a murderess hardly separated from me by a
single door: yes- that was appalling- the rest I could bear; but I shuddere=
d at
the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me.
I must keep to my post, however. I
must watch this ghastly countenance- these blue, still lips forbidden to
unclose- these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room, =
now
fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand
again and again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling
gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment; t=
he
shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and grow black un=
der
the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a
great cabinet opposite- whose front, divided into twelve panels, bore, in g=
rim
design, the heads of the twelve apostles, each enclosed in its separate pan=
el
as in a frame; while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying
Christ.
According as the shifting obscurity
and flickering gleam hovered here or glanced there, it was now the bearded
physician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John's long hair that waved; a=
nd
anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the panel, and seemed
gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor- of Satan
himself- in his subordinate's form.
Amidst all this, I had to listen as
well as watch: to listen for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in
yonder side den. But since Mr. Rochester's visit it seemed spellbound: all =
the
night I heard but three sounds at three long intervals,- a step creak, a
momentary renewal of the snarling, canine noise, and a deep human groan.
Then my own thoughts worried me. W=
hat
crime was this that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could
neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner?- what mystery, that broke out=
now
in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night? What creature was =
it,
that, masked in an ordinary woman's face and shape, uttered the voice, now =
of a
mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey?
And this man I bent over- this
commonplace, quiet stranger- how had he become involved in the web of horro=
r?
and why had the Fury flown at him? What made him seek this quarter of the h=
ouse
at an untimely season, when he should have been asleep in bed? I had heard =
Mr.
Rochester assign him an apartment below- what brought him here! And why, no=
w,
was he so tame under the violence or treachery done him? Why did he so quie=
tly
submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why did Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been
outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted agai=
nst;
and both attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion! Lastly, I s=
aw
Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the
latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former: the few words w=
hich
had passed between them assured me of this. It was evident that in their fo=
rmer
intercourse, the passive disposition of the one had been habitually influen=
ced
by the active energy of the other: whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester's
dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason's arrival? Why had the mere name of this
unresisting individual- whom his word now sufficed to control like a child-=
fallen
on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on an oak?
Oh! I could not forget his look and
his paleness when he whispered: ‘Jane, I have got a blow- I have got a
blow, Jane.’ I could not forget how the arm had trembled which he res=
ted
on my shoulder: and it was no light matter which could thus bow the resolute
spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester.
‘When will he come? When wil=
l he
come?’ I cried inwardly, as the night lingered and lingered- as my
bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened: and neither day nor aid arrived=
. I
had, again and again, held the water to Mason's white lips; again and again
offered him the stimulating salts: my efforts seemed ineffectual: either bo=
dily
or mental suffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were fast
prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost,=
I
feared he was dying; and I might not even speak to him.
The candle, wasted at last, went o=
ut;
as it expired, I perceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains:
dawn was then approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of h=
is
distant kennel in the courtyard: hope revived. Nor was it unwarranted: in f=
ive
minutes more the grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was
relieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: many a week has see=
med
shorter.
Mr. Rochester entered, and with him
the surgeon he had been to fetch.
‘Now, Carter, be on the aler=
t,’
he said to this last: ‘I give you but half-an-hour for dressing the
wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all.̵=
7;
‘But is he fit to move, sir?=
’
‘No doubt of it; it is nothi=
ng
serious; he is nervous, his spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work.R=
17;
Mr. Rochester drew back the thick
curtain, drew up the holland blind, let in all the daylight he could; and I=
was
surprised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks w=
ere
beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon =
was
already handling.
‘Now, my good fellow, how are
you?’ he asked.
‘She's done for me, I fear,&=
#8217;
was the faint reply.
‘Not a whit!- courage! This =
day
fortnight you'll hardly be a pin the worse of it: you've lost a little bloo=
d;
that's all. Carter, assure him there's no danger.’
‘I can do that conscientious=
ly,’
said Carter, who had now undone the bandages; ‘only I wish I could ha=
ve
got here sooner: he would not have bled so much- but how is this? The flesh=
on
the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife:
there have been teeth here!’
‘She bit me,’ he murmu=
red.
‘She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife from her=
.’
‘You should not have yielded:
you should have grappled with her at once,’ said Mr. Rochester.
‘But under such circumstance=
s,
what could one do?’ returned Mason. ‘Oh, it was frightful!̵=
7;
he added, shuddering. ‘And I did not expect it: she looked so quiet at
first.’
‘I warned you,’ was his
friend's answer; ‘I said- be on your guard when you go near her. Besi=
des,
you might have waited till to-morrow, and had me with you: it was mere foll=
y to
attempt the interview to-night, and alone.’
‘I thought I could have done
some good.’
‘You thought! you thought! Y=
es,
it makes me impatient to hear you: but, however, you have suffered, and are
likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice; so I'll say no more. Cart=
er- hurry!-
hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off.’
‘Directly, sir; the shoulder=
is
just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm: she has had her
teeth here too, I think.’
‘She sucked the blood: she s=
aid
she'd drain my heart,’ said Mason.
I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a
singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his counten=
ance
almost to distortion; but he only said-
‘Come, be silent, Richard, a=
nd
never mind her gibberish: don't repeat it.’
‘I wish I could forget it,=
8217;
was the answer.
‘You will when you are out of
the country: when you get back to Spanish Town, you may think of her as dead
and buried- or rather, you need not think of her at all.’
‘Impossible to forget this
night!’
‘It is not impossible: have =
some
energy, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and=
you
are all alive and talking now. There!- Carter has done with you or nearly s=
o;
I'll make you decent in a trice. Jane’ (he turned to me for the first
time since his re-entrance), ‘take this key: go down into my bedroom,=
and
walk straight forward into my dressing-room: open the top drawer of the
wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bring them here;=
and
be nimble.’
I went; sought the repository he h=
ad
mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them.
‘Now,’ said he, ‘=
;go
to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; but don't leave the
room: you may be wanted again.’
I retired as directed.
‘Was anybody stirring below =
when
you went down, Jane?’ inquired Mr. Rochester presently.
‘No, sir; all was very still=
.’
‘We shall get you off cannil=
y,
Dick: and it will be better, both for your sake, and for that of the poor
creature in yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should not
like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his waist-coat. Whe=
re
did you leave your furred cloak? You can't travel a mile without that, I kn=
ow,
in this damned cold climate. In your room?- Jane, run down to Mr. Mason's r=
oom,-
the one next mine,- and fetch a cloak you will see there.’
Again I ran, and again returned,
bearing an immense mantle lined and edged with fur.
‘Now, I've another errand for
you,’ said my untiring master; ‘you must away to my room again.
What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane!- a clod-hopping messenger would
never do at this juncture. You must open the middle drawer of my toilet-tab=
le
and take out a little phial and a little glass you will find there,- quick!=
’
I flew thither and back, bringing =
the
desired vessels.
‘That's well! Now, doctor, I
shall take the liberty of administering a dose myself, on my own
responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, of an Italian charlatan- a fell=
ow
you would have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be used indiscriminatel=
y,
but it is good upon occasion: as now, for instance. Jane, a little water.=
8217;
He held out the tiny glass, and I =
half
filled it from the water-bottle on the washstand.
‘That will do;- now wet the =
lip
of the phial.’
I did so; he measured twelve drops=
of
a crimson liquid, and presented it to Mason.
‘Drink, Richard: it will give
you the heart you lack, for an hour or so.’
‘But will it hurt me?- is it
inflammatory?’
‘Drink! drink! drink!’=
Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was
evidently useless to resist. He was dressed now: he still looked pale, but =
he
was no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three minutes aft=
er
he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his arm- ‘Now I am sure you can get on=
your
feet,’ he said- ’try.’
The patient rose.
‘Carter, take him under the
other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard; step out- that's it!’
‘I do feel better,’
remarked Mr. Mason.
‘I am sure you do. Now, Jane,
trip on before us away to the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and
tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard- or just outsid=
e,
for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement- to be re=
ady;
we are coming: and, Jane, if any one is about, come to the foot of the stai=
rs
and hem.’
It was by this time half-past five,
and the sun was on the point of rising; but I found the kitchen still dark =
and
silent. The side-passage door was fastened; I opened it with as little nois=
e as
possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open, and there =
was
a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated on the box,
stationed outside. I approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming; he
nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened. The stillness of early
morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet drawn over the servants'
chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched
orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall enclo=
sing
one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped from time to time in their
closed stables: all else was still.
The gentlemen now appeared. Mason,
supported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable e=
ase:
they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed.
‘Take care of him,’ sa=
id
Mr. Rochester to the latter, ‘and keep him at your house till he is q=
uite
well: I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how=
is
it with you?’
‘The fresh air revives me,
Fairfax.’
‘Leave the window open on his
side, Carter; there is no wind- good-bye, Dick.’
‘Fairfax- ’
‘Well what is it?’
‘Let her be taken care of; l=
et
her be treated as tenderly as may be: let her- ’ he stopped and burst
into tears.
‘I do my best; and have done=
it,
and will do it,’ was the answer: he shut up the chaise door, and the
vehicle drove away.
‘Yet would to God there was =
an
end of all this!’ added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and barred the he=
avy
yard-gates.
This done, he moved with slow step=
and
abstracted air towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard. I, supposi=
ng
he had done with me, prepared to return to the house; again, however, I hea=
rd
him call ‘Jane!’ He had opened feel portal and stood at it, wai=
ting
for me.
‘Come where there is some
freshness, for a few moments,’ he said; ‘that house is a mere
dungeon: don't you feel it so?’
‘It seems to me a splendid
mansion, sir.’
‘The glamour of inexperience=
is
over your eyes,’ he answered; ‘and you see it through a charmed
medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draperies
cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse
chips and scaly bark. Now here&=
#8217;
(he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) ‘all is real, swee=
t,
and pure.’
He strayed down a walk edged with =
box,
with apple trees, pear trees, and cherry trees on one side, and a border on=
the
other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams,
primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various
fragrant herbs. They were fresh now as a succession of April showers and
gleams, followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was j=
ust
entering the dappled east, and his light illumined the wreathed and dewy
orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks under them.
‘Jane, will you have a flowe=
r?’
He gathered a half-blown rose, the
first on the bush, and offered it to me.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Do you like this sunrise, J=
ane?
That sky with its high and light clouds which are sure to melt away as the =
day
waxes warm- this placid and balmly atmosphere?’
‘I do, very much.’
‘You have passed a strange
night, Jane.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And it has made you look pa=
le- were
you afraid when I left you alone with Mason?’
‘I was afraid of some one co=
ming
out of the inner room.’
‘But I had fastened the door=
- I
had the key in my pocket: I should have been a careless shepherd if I had l=
eft
a lamb- my pet lamb- so near a wolf's den, unguarded: you were safe.’=
‘Will Grace Poole live here
still, sir?’
‘Oh yes! don't trouble your =
head
about her- put the thing out of your thoughts.’
‘Yet it seems to me your lif=
e is
hardly secure while she stays.’
‘Never fear- I will take car=
e of
myself.’
‘Is the danger you apprehend=
ed
last night gone by now, sir?’
‘I cannot vouch for that till
Mason is out of England: nor even then. To live, for me, Jane, is to stand =
on a
crater-crust which may crack and spue fire any day.’
‘But Mr. Mason seems a man
easily led. Your influence, sir, is evidently potent with him: he will never
set you at defiance or wilfully injure you.’
‘Oh, no! Mason will not defy=
me;
nor, knowing it, will he hurt me- but, unintentionally, he might in a momen=
t,
by one careless word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of happiness=
.’
‘Tell him to be cautious, si=
r:
let him know what you fear, and show him how to avert the danger.’
He laughed sardonically, hastily t=
ook
my hand, and as hastily threw it from him.
‘If I could do that, simplet=
on,
where would the danger be? Annihilated in a moment. Ever since I have known
Mason, I have only had to say to him 'Do that,' and the thing has been done.
But I cannot give him orders in this case: I cannot say 'Beware of harming =
me,
Richard;' for it is imperative that I should keep him ignorant that harm to=
me
is possible. Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle you further. You are my
little friend, are you not?’
‘I like to serve you, sir, a=
nd
to obey you in all that is right.’
‘Precisely: I see you do. I =
see
genuine contentment in your gait and mien, your eye and face, when you are
helping me and pleasing me- working for me, and with me, in, as you
characteristically say, 'all that is
right:' for if I bid you do what you thought wrong, there would be no
light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no lively glance and animated
complexion. My friend would then turn to me, quiet and pale, and would say,
'No, sir; that is impossible: I cannot do it, because it is wrong;' and wou=
ld
become immutable as a fixed star. Well, you too have power over me, and may
injure me: yet I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and
friendly as you are, you should transfix me at once.’
‘If you have no more to fear
from Mr. Mason than you have from me, sir, you are very safe.’
‘God grant it may be so! Her=
e,
Jane, is an arbour; sit down.’
The arbour was an arch in the wall,
lined with ivy; it contained a rustic seat. Mr. Rochester took it, leaving
room, however, for me: but I stood before him.
‘Sit,’ he said; ‘=
;the
bench is long enough for two. You don't hesitate to take a place at my side=
, do
you? Is that wrong, Jane?’
I answered him by assuming it: to
refuse would, I felt, have been unwise.
‘Now, my little friend, while
the sun drinks the dew- while all the flowers in this old garden awake and
expand, and the birds fetch their young ones' breakfast out of the Thornfie=
ld,
and the early bees do their first spell of work- I'll put a case to you, wh=
ich
you must endeavour to suppose your own: but first, look at me, and tell me =
you
are at ease, and not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you err in
staying.’
‘No, sir; I am content.̵=
7;
‘Well then, Jane, call to aid
your fancy:- suppose you were no longer a girl well reared and disciplined,=
but
a wild boy indulged from childhood upwards; imagine yourself in a remote
foreign land; conceive that you there commit a capital error, no matter of =
what
nature or from what motives, but one whose consequences must follow you thr=
ough
life and taint all your existence. Mind, I don't say a crime; I am not speaking of shedding of blood or any other guil=
ty
act, which might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my word is error. The results of what you hav=
e done
become in time to you utterly insupportable; you take measures to obtain re=
lief:
unusual measures, but neither unlawful nor culpable. Still you are miserabl=
e;
for hope has quitted you on the very confines of life: your sun at
He paused for an answer: and what =
was
I to say? Oh, for some good spirit to suggest a judicious and satisfactory
response! Vain aspiration! The west wind whispered in the ivy round me; but=
no
gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as a medium of speech: the birds sang in t=
he
tree-tops; but their song, however sweet, was inarticulate.
Again Mr. Rochester propounded his
query:
‘Is the wandering and sinful,
but now rest-seeking and repentant, man justified in daring the world's
opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial
stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?&=
#8217;
‘Sir,’ I answered, =
216;a
wanderer's repose or a sinner's reformation should never depend on a
fellow-creature. Men and women die; philosophers falter in wisdom, and
Christians in goodness: if any one you know has suffered and erred, let him
look higher than his equals for strength to amend and solace to heal.’=
;
‘But the instrument- the
instrument! God, who does the work, ordains the instrument. I have myself- I
tell it you without parable- been a worldly, dissipated, restless man; and I
believe I have found the instrument for my cure in- ’
He paused: the birds went on
carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I almost wondered they did not check
their songs and whispers to catch the suspended revelation; but they would =
have
had to wait many minutes- so long was the silence protracted. At last I loo=
ked
up at the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me.
‘Little friend,’ said =
he,
in quite a changed tone- while his face changed too, losing all its softness
and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic- ’you have noticed my
tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don't you think if I married her she would
regenerate me with a vengeance?’
He got up instantly, went quite to=
the
other end of the walk, and when he came back he was humming a tune.
‘Jane, Jane,’ said he,
stopping before me, ‘you are quite pale with your vigils: don't you c=
urse
me for disturbing your rest?’
‘Curse you? No, sir.’<= o:p>
‘Shake hands in confirmation=
of
the word. What cold fingers! They were warmer last night when I touched the=
m at
the door of the mysterious chamber. Jane, when will you watch with me again=
?’
‘Whenever I can be useful, s=
ir.’
‘For instance, the night bef=
ore
I am married! I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. Will you promise to s=
it
up with me to bear me company? To you I can talk of my lovely one: for now =
you
have seen her and know her.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She's a rare one, is she no=
t,
Jane?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A strapper- a real strapper,
Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair just such as the ladies of Carthage =
must
have had. Bless me! there's Dent and Lynn in the stables! Go in by the
shrubbery, through that wicket.’
As I went one way, he went another,
and I heard him in the yard, saying cheerfully-
‘Mason got the s=
tart of
you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise: I rose at four to see him
off.’
Presentiments are strange things! =
and
so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one myster=
y to
which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments =
in
my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe,
exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged
relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the sou=
rce
to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension.
And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.=
When I was a little girl, only six
years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had
been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure
sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin. The saying might have w=
orn
out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served
indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the
deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled this
saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone
over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I
sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched
playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running wat=
er.
It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nest=
led
close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinc=
ed,
whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet =
me
the moment I entered the land of slumber.
I did not like this iteration of o=
ne
idea- this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime a=
pproached
and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this
baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry;
and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs =
by a
message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room. On repairing thithe=
r, I
found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman's servant:=
he
was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded
with a crape band.
‘I daresay you hardly rememb=
er
me, Miss,’ he said, rising as I entered; ‘but my name is Leaven=
: I
lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine yea=
rs
since, and I live there still.’
‘Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?’<= o:p>
‘Yes, Miss: my wife is very
hearty, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since=
- we
have three now- and both mother and child are thriving.’
‘And are the family well at =
the
house, Robert?’
‘I am sorry I can't give you
better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present- in great trouble=
.’
‘I hope no one is dead,̵=
7; I
said, glancing at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his
hat and replied-
‘Mr. John died yesterday was=
a
week, at his chambers in London.’
‘Mr. John?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how does his mother bear
it?’
‘Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it=
is
not a common mishap: his life has been very wild: these last three years he
gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was shocking.’
‘I heard from Bessie he was =
not
doing well.’
‘Doing well! He could not do
worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the wo=
rst
women. He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but=
as
soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head =
was
not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever
heard. He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to
give up all to him. Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by
his extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was that he was
dead. How he died, God knows!- they say he killed himself.’
I was silent: the things were frig=
htful.
Robert Leaven resumed-
‘Missis had been out of heal=
th
herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was not strong with it; =
and
the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The
information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: =
it
brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday =
she
seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and k=
ept
making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, howeve=
r,
that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she made =
out
the words, 'Bring Jane- fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.' Bessie is=
not
sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words; but =
she told
Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you. The young
ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said, 'J=
ane,
Jane,' so many times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterd=
ay:
and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early
to-morrow morning.’
‘Yes, Robert, I shall be rea=
dy:
it seems to me that I ought to go.’
‘I think so too, Miss. Bessie
said she was sure you would not refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask =
leave
before you can get off?’
‘Yes; and I will do it now;&=
#8217;
and having directed him to the servants' hall, and recommended him to the c=
are
of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr.
Rochester.
He was not in any of the lower roo=
ms;
he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if
she had seen him;- yes: she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ing=
ram.
To the billiard- room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices
resounded thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and th=
eir
admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some courage to disturb =
so
interesting a party; my errand, however, was one I could not defer, so I
approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's side. She turned as I
drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, ‘Wh=
at
can the creeping creature want now?’ and when I said, in a low voice,=
‘Mr.
Rochester,’ she made a movement as if tempted to order me away. I
remember her appearance at the moment- it was very graceful and very striki=
ng:
she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted =
in
her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did=
not
lower the expression of her haughty lineaments.
‘Does that person want you?&=
#8217;
she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the R=
16;person’
was. He made a curious grimace- one of his strange and equivocal demonstrat=
ions-
threw down his cue and followed me from the room.
‘Well, Jane?’ he said,=
as
he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he had shut.
‘If you please, sir, I want
leave of absence for a week or two.’
‘What to do?- where to go?=
8217;
‘To see a sick lady who has =
sent
for me.’
‘What sick lady?- where does=
she
live?’
‘At Gateshead; in - -shire.&=
#8217;
‘-shire? That is a hundred m= iles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?’<= o:p>
‘Her name is Reed, sir- Mrs.
Reed.’
‘Reed of Gateshead? There wa=
s a
Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate.’
‘It is his widow, sir.’=
;
‘And what have you to do with
her? How do you know her?’
‘Mr. Reed was my uncle- my
mother's brother.’
‘The deuce he was! You never
told me that before: you always said you had no relations.’
‘None that would own me, sir.
Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was poor, and
burdensome, and she disliked me.’
‘But Reed left children?- you
must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead
yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram=
was
mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her
beauty a season or two ago in London.’
‘John Reed is dead, too, sir=
: he
ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed
suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic
attack.’
‘And what good can you do he=
r?
Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old
lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she =
cast
you off.’
‘Yes, sir, but that is long =
ago;
and when her circumstances were very different: I could not be easy to negl=
ect
her wishes now.’
‘How long will you stay?R=
17;
‘As short a time as possible,
sir.’
‘Promise me only to stay a w=
eek-
’
‘I had better not pass my wo=
rd:
I might be obliged to break it.’
‘At all events you will come back: you will not be in=
duced
under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?’
‘Oh, no! I shall certainly
return if all be well.’
‘And who goes with you? You
don't travel a hundred miles alone.’
‘No, sir, she has sent her
coachman.’
‘A person to be trusted?R=
17;
‘Yes, sir, he has lived ten
years in the family.’
Mr. Rochester meditated. ‘Wh=
en
do you wish to go?’
‘Early to-morrow morning, si=
r.’
‘Well, you must have some mo=
ney;
you can't travel without money, and I daresay you have not much: I have giv=
en
you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?’ he asked,
smiling.
I drew out my purse; a meagre thin=
g it
was. ‘Five shillings, sir.’ He took the purse, poured the hoard=
into
his palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him. Soon he
produced his pocket-book: ‘Here,’ said he, offering me a note; =
it
was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.
‘I don't want change; you kn=
ow
that. Take your wages.’
I declined accepting more than was=
my
due. He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said-
‘Right, right! Better not gi=
ve
you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty
pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?’
‘Yes, sir, but now you owe me
five.’
‘Come back for it, then; I am
your banker for forty pounds.’
‘Mr. Rochester, I may as well
mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity.R=
17;
‘Matter of business? I am
curious to hear it.’
‘You have as good as informed
me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?’
‘Yes; what then?’
‘In that case, sir, Adele ou=
ght
to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it.’
‘To get her out of my bride's
way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically? There's sen=
se
in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to school;=
and
you, of course, must march straight to- the devil?’
‘I hope not, sir; but I must
seek another situation somewhere.’
‘In course!’ he exclai=
med,
with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and
ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.
‘And old Madam Reed, or the
Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?=
’
‘No, sir; I am not on such t=
erms
with my relatives as would justify me in asking favours of them- but I shall
advertise.’
‘You shall walk up the pyram=
ids
of Egypt!’ he growled. ‘At your peril you advertise! I wish I h=
ad
only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pound=
s,
Jane; I've a use for it.’
‘And so have I, sir,’ I
returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. ‘I could not spare=
the
money on any account.’
‘Little niggard!’ said=
he,
‘refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane.’
‘Not five shillings, sir; nor
five pence.’
‘Just let me look at the cas=
h.’
‘No, sir; you are not to be
trusted.’
‘Jane!’
‘Sir?’
‘Promise me one thing.’=
;
‘I'll promise you anything, =
sir,
that I think I am likely to perform.’
‘Not to advertise: and to tr=
ust
this quest of a situation to me. I'll find you one in time.’
‘I shall be glad so to do, s=
ir,
if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele shall be both safe out =
of
the house before your bride enters it.’
‘Very well! very well! I'll
pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?’
‘Yes, sir; early.’
‘Shall you come down to the
drawing-room after dinner?’
‘No, sir, I must prepare for=
the
journey.’
‘Then you and I must bid
good-bye for a little while?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘And how do people perform t=
hat
ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me; I'm not quite up to it.’
‘They say, Farewell, or any
other form they prefer.’
‘Then say it.’
‘Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for
the present.’
‘What must I say?’
‘The same, if you like, sir.=
’
‘Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the
present; is that all?’
‘Yes?’
‘It seems stingy, to my noti=
ons,
and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else: a little addition to=
the
rite. If one shook hands, for instance; but no- that would not content me
either. So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?’
‘It is enough, sir: as much
good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.’
‘Very likely; but it is blank
and cool- 'Farewell.'‘
‘How long is he going to sta=
nd
with his back against that door?’ I asked myself; ‘I want to co=
mmence
my packing.’ The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, witho=
ut
another syllable: I saw him no more during the day, and was off before he h=
ad
risen in the morning.
I reached the lodge at Gateshead a=
bout
five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there before
going up to the hall. It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows we=
re
hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and
fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on t=
he
hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a
corner.
‘Bless you!- I knew you would
come!’ exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered.
‘Yes, Bessie,’ said I,
after I had kissed her; ‘and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. R=
eed?-
Alive still, I hope.’
‘Yes, she is alive; and more
sensible and collected than she was. The doctor says she may linger a week =
or
two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.’
‘Has she mentioned me lately=
?’
‘She was talking of you only=
this
morning, and wishing you would come, but she is sleeping now, or was ten
minutes ago, when I was up at the house. She generally lies in a kind of
lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest
yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?’
Robert here entered, and Bessie la=
id
her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she
insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said I loo=
ked
pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be
relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undre=
ss
me when a child.
Old times crowded fast back on me =
as I
watched her bustling about- setting out the tea-tray with her best china,
cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving
little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give m=
e in
former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot=
and
good looks.
Tea ready, I was going to approach=
the
table; but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I
must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little
round stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to acc=
ommodate
me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and
obeyed her as in bygone days.
She wanted to know if I was happy =
at
Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was; and when I told
her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked
him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that =
he
treated me kindly, and I was content. Then I went on to describe to her the=
gay
company that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details Bes=
sie
listened with interest: they were precisely of the kind she relished.
In such conversation an hour was s=
oon
gone: Bessie restored to me my bonnet, &c., and, accompanied by her, I
quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had,
nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark,
misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate a=
nd
embittered heart- a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation- to seek th=
e chilly
harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same host=
ile
roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had ye=
t an
aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I
experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dr=
ead
of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and
the flame of resentment extinguished.
‘You shall go into the
breakfast-room first,’ said Bessie, as she preceded me through the ha=
ll; ‘the
young ladies will be there.’
In another moment I was within that
apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on t=
he
morning I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had sto=
od
upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could
distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying their old p=
lace
on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged ju=
st
above. The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had
altered past recognition.
Two young ladies appeared before m=
e;
one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram- very thin too, with a sallow =
face
and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her look, which was augment=
ed
by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starc=
hed
linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament =
of a
string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I
could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and
colourless visage.
The other was as certainly Georgia=
na:
but not the Georgiana I remembered- the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven.
This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and
regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The hue=
of
her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister's=
- so
much more flowing and becoming- it looked as stylish as the other's looked
puritanical.
In each of the sisters there was o=
ne
trait of the mother- and only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had h=
er
parent's Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her con=
tour
of jaw and chin- perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an
indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom=
.
Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to
welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of ‘Miss Eyre.’
Eliza's greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; a=
nd
then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget m=
e.
Georgiana added to her ‘How d'ye do?’ several commonplaces abou=
t my
journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and
accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot- now
traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the pl=
ain
trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting
you know that they think you a ‘quiz’ without actually saying t=
he
words. A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance =
of
tone, express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing them =
by
any positive rudeness in word or deed.
A sneer, however, whether covert or
open, had now no longer that power over me it once possessed: as I sat betw=
een
my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect=
of
the one and the semi- sarcastic attentions of the other- Eliza did not mort=
ify,
nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about;
within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more pot=
ent
than any they could raise- pains and pleasures so much more acute and exqui=
site
had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow- that
their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad.
‘How is Mrs. Reed?’ I
asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle at the
direct address, as if it were an unexpected liberty.
‘Mrs. Reed? Ah! mama, you me=
an;
she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you can see her to-night.’
‘If,’ said I, ‘y=
ou
would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much obliged to
you.’
Georgiana almost started, and she
opened her blue eyes wild and wide. ‘I know she had a particular wish=
to
see me,’ I added, ‘and I would not defer attending to her desire
longer than is absolutely necessary.’
‘Mama dislikes being disturb=
ed
in an evening,’ remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonn=
et
and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie- who was, I
dared say, in the kitchen- and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was
disposed to receive me or not to- night. I went, and having found Bessie and
despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures. It had
heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance: received as I had
been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very
next morning; now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a
foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I
must stay with her till she was better- or dead: as to her daughters' pride=
or
folly, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addre=
ssed
the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be=
a
visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber, and
followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.
‘Missis is awake,’ said
she; ‘I have told her you are here: come and let us see if she will k=
now
you.’
I did not need to be guided to the
well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or
reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the doo=
r: a
shaded light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the
great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table, =
the
armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been sentenced =
to
kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certai=
n corner
near, half-expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which
used to lurk there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm=
or
shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over =
the
high-piled pillows.
Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's fa=
ce,
and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quel=
ls
the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I=
had
left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no
other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong
yearning to forget and forgive all injuries- to be reconciled and clasp han=
ds
in amity.
The well-known face was there: ste=
rn,
relentless as ever- there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, a=
nd
the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered =
on
me menace and hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sor=
rows
revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and kissed h=
er:
she looked at me.
‘Is this Jane Eyre?’ s=
he
said.
‘Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you,
dear aunt?’
I had once vowed that I would never
call her aunt again: I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. =
My
fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she press=
ed
mine kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But
unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipath=
ies
so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face
rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me=
so
icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me- her feeling towards me- was
unchanged and unchangeable. I knew by her stony eye- opaque to tenderness,
indissoluble to tears- that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last;
because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sens=
e of
mortification.
I felt pain, and then I felt ire; =
and
then I felt a determination to subdue her- to be her mistress in spite both=
of
her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered
them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and
leaned over the pillow.
‘You sent for me,’ I s=
aid,
‘and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get=
on.’
‘Oh, of course! You have see=
n my
daughters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you may tell them I w=
ish
you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind:
to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But the=
re
was something I wished to say- let me see- ’
The wandering look and changed
utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turni=
ng
restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corne=
r of
the quilt, fixed it down: she was at once irritated.
‘Sit up!’ said she; =
8216;don't
annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?’
‘I am Jane Eyre.’
‘I have had more trouble with
that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands=
- and
so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehens=
ible
disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural
watchings of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once like something
mad, or like a fiend- no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad =
to
get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever
broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: bu=
t I
said she did- I wish she had died!’
‘A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; =
why
do you hate her so?’
‘I had a dislike to her moth=
er
always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a great favourite with hi=
m:
he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and w=
hen
news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the bab=
y;
though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its
maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it- a sickly, whini=
ng,
pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long- not screaming
heartily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it; =
and
he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, =
than
he ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my children frien=
dly
to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with
them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought
continually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by =
vow
to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat =
out
of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resem=
ble
his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers- he is
quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for mo=
ney?
I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor. I must send away half
the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never subm=
it
to do that- yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of my income goes in paying
the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses- poor =
boy!
He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded- his look is frightful- I
feel ashamed for him when I see him.’
She was getting much excited. R=
16;I
think I had better leave her now,’ said I to Bessie, who stood on the
other side of the bed.
‘Perhaps you had, Miss: but =
she
often talks in this way towards night- in the morning she is calmer.’=
I rose. ‘Stop!’ exclai=
med
Mrs. Reed, ‘there is another thing I wished to say. He threatens me- =
he
continually threatens me with his own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes
that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen=
and
blackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is=
to
be done? How is the money to be had?’
Bessie now endeavoured to persuade=
her
to take a sedative draught: she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs.
Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her.
More than ten days elapsed before I
had again any conversation with her. She continued either delirious or
lethargic; and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite h=
er.
Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were v=
ery
cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or
writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. Georgiana wo=
uld
chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. =
But
I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had
brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.
Provided with a case of pencils, a=
nd
some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them, near the windo=
w,
and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that
happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of
imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship
crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad's head,
crowned with lotus- flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a
hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom.
One morning I fell to sketching a
face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a so=
ft
black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on =
the
paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: =
that
contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with
features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that bro=
w;
then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and fu=
ll
nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm ch=
in,
with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers =
were
wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the
forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they requi=
red
the most careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelas=
hes
I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. ‘Good! but not
quite the thing,’ I thought, as I surveyed the effect: ‘they wa=
nt
more force and spirit;’ and I wrought the shades blacker, that the li=
ghts
might flash more brilliantly- a happy touch or two secured success. There, I
had a friend's face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young
ladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking
likeness: I was absorbed and content.
‘Is that a portrait of some =
one
you know?’ asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded =
that
it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of cou=
rse,
I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. B=
ut
what was that to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to
look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that ‘an ug=
ly
man.’ They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch the=
ir
portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana prod=
uced
her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at
once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had be=
en
out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation: she had favoure=
d me
with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seas=
ons
ago- of the admiration she had there excited- the attention she had receive=
d;
and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of =
the
afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversati=
ons
were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume =
of a
novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The
communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same th=
eme-
herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either=
to
her mother's illness, or her brother's death, or the present gloomy state of
the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of
past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about f=
ive
minutes each day in her mother's sick-room, and no more.
Eliza still spoke little: she had
evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to b=
e;
yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result=
of
her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she
occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time
into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a d=
ay
she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer
Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she
said, ‘the Rubric.’ Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold
thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a car=
pet.
In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it=
was
a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two
hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the
kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to wa=
nt
no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routi=
ne
sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any
incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.
She told me one evening, when more
disposed to be communicative than usual, that John's conduct, and the
threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to =
her:
but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her=
own
fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died- and it was
wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover =
or
linger long- she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement
where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and pl=
ace
safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana w=
ould
accompany her.
‘Of course not. Georgiana and
she had nothing in common: they never had had. She would not be burdened wi=
th
her society for any consideration. Georgiana should take her own course; and
she, Eliza, would take hers.’
Georgiana, when not unburdening her
heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the
dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson
would send her an invitation up to town. ‘It would be so much better,=
’
she said, ‘if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, t=
ill
all was over.’ I did not ask what she meant by ‘all being over,=
’
but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gl=
oomy
sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's
indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been
before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded=
her
embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus-
‘Georgiana, a more vain and
absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth. You=
had
no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in,
and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your
feebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be found willing =
to
burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry =
out
that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence for you
must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a =
dungeon:
you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered- you must h=
ave
music, dancing, and society- or you languish, you die away. Have you no sen=
se
to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all
wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each section
apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minu=
tes,
five minutes- include all; do each piece of business in its turn with metho=
d,
with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has
begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vac=
ant
moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation, sympathy,
forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do.
Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not w=
ant
me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect it- go on as heretofore, cravi=
ng,
whining, and idling- and suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and
insuperable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I
shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it.
After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is
carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as =
if
we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced t=
o be
born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the
feeblest claim: I can tell you this- if the whole human race, ourselves
excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would lea=
ve
you in the old world, and betake myself to the new.’
She closed her lips.
‘You might have spared yours=
elf
the trouble of delivering that tirade,’ answered Georgiana. ‘Ev=
erybody
knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and I know your spiteful hatred toward=
s me:
I have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord Ed=
win
Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be
received into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted t=
he
spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever.’ Georgiana took o=
ut
her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold,
impassable, and assiduously industrious.
True, generous feeling is made sma=
ll
account of by some, but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerably
acrid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without
judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is t=
oo
bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition.
It was a wet and windy afternoon:
Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza =
was
gone to attend a saint's-day service at the new church- for in matters of
religion she was a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual
discharge of what she considered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she w=
ent
to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were pray=
ers.
I bethought myself to go upstairs =
and
see how the dying woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded: the very serva=
nts
paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked af=
ter,
would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she=
had
her own family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall. I fou=
nd
the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient=
lay
still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire
was dying in the grate. I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gaz=
ed
awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the
window.
The rain beat strongly against the
panes, the wind blew tempestuously: ‘One lies there,’ I thought=
, ‘who
will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit- =
now
struggling to quit its material tenement- flit when at length released?R=
17;
In pondering the great mystery, I
thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words- her faith- her doctrine of
the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her
well-remembered tones- still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her
wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispe=
red
her longing to be restored to her divine Father's bosom- when a feeble voice
murmured from the couch behind: ‘Who is that?’
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for
days: was she reviving? I went up to her.
‘It is I, Aunt Reed.’<= o:p>
‘Who- I?’ was her answ=
er. ‘Who
are you?’ looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still =
not
wildly. ‘You are quite a stranger to me- where is Bessie?’
‘She is at the lodge, aunt.&=
#8217;
‘Aunt,’ she repeated. =
‘Who
calls me aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you- that fac=
e,
and the eyes and forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you are like- why, you=
are
like Jane Eyre!’
I said nothing: I was afraid of
occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.
‘Yet,’ said she, ̵=
6;I
am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyr=
e,
and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must =
be
so changed.’ I now gently assured her that I was the person she suppo=
sed
and desired me to be: and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses
were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch =
me
from Thornfield.
‘I am very ill, I know,̵=
7;
she said ere long. ‘I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since, =
and
find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die:
what we think little of in health, burdens us at such an hour as the presen=
t is
to me. Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?’
I assured her we were alone.
‘Well, I have twice done you=
a
wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my
husband to bring you up as my own child; the other- ’ she stopped. =
8216;After
all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,’ she murmured to herself:=
‘and
then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful.’
She made an effort to alter her
position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to experience some inward
sensation- the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.
‘Well, I must get it over.
Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.- Go to my dressing-case, open=
it,
and take out a letter you will see there.’
I obeyed her directions. ‘Re=
ad
the letter,’ she said.
It was short, and thus conceived:-=
‘Madam,- Will you have the
goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how =
she
is? It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at
Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and a=
s I
am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath
her at my death whatever I may have to leave.- I am, Madam, &c., &c=
.,
‘JOHN EYRE, Madeira.’<= o:p>
It was dated three years back.
‘Why did I never hear of thi=
s?’
I asked.
‘Because I disliked you too
fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I
could not forget your conduct to me, Jane- the fury with which you once tur=
ned
on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody =
in
the world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the =
very
thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with miser=
able
cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and
poured out the venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had
struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man=
's
voice.- Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!’
‘Dear Mrs. Reed,’ said=
I,
as I offered her the draught she required, ‘think no more of all this,
let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me for my passionate language: I w=
as a
child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day.’
She heeded nothing of what I said;=
but
when she had tasted the water and drawn breath, she went on thus-
‘I tell you I could not forg=
et
it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed =
in a
state of ease and comfort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I s=
aid
I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of
typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my
assertion- expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think,=
to
be my torment: my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which, =
but
for you, I should never have been tempted to commit.’
‘If you could but be persuad=
ed
to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgivenes=
s’
‘You have a very bad
disposition,’ said she, ‘and one to this day I feel it impossib=
le
to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiescent under =
any
treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and violence, I can never
comprehend.’
‘My disposition is not so ba=
d as
you think: I am passionate, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little ch=
ild,
I should have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I long
earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt.’
I approached my cheek to her lips:=
she
would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and a=
gain
demanded water. As I laid her down- for I raised her and supported her on my
arm while she drank- I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the
feeble fingers shrank from my touch- the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.
‘Love me, then, or hate me, =
as
you will,’ I said at last, ‘you have my full and free forgivene=
ss:
ask now for God's, and be at peace.’
Poor, suffering woman! it was too =
late
for her to make now the effort to change her habitual frame of mind: living,
she had ever hated me- dying, she must hate me still.
The nurse now entered, and Bessie
followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping to see some sign of am=
ity:
but she gave none. She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind aga=
in
rally: at twelve o'clock that night she died. I was not present to close her
eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morni=
ng
that all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look =
at
her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go.
There was stretched Sarah Reed's once robust and active frame, rigid and st=
ill:
her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits =
wore
yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn object was that
corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing swee=
t,
nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating ang=
uish
for her woes- not my loss- and a sombre tearless dis=
may at
the fearfulness of death in such a form.
Eliza surveyed her parent calmly.
After a silence of some minutes she observed-
‘With her constitution she
should have lived to a good old age: her life was shortened by trouble.R=
17;
And then a spasm constricted her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she
turned and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear.
Mr. Rochester had given me but one
week's leave of absence: yet a month elapsed before I quitted Gateshead. I
wished to leave immediately after the funeral, but Georgiana entreated me to
stay till she could get off to London, whither she was now at last invited =
by
her uncle, Mr. Gibson, who had come down to direct his sister's interment a=
nd
settle the family affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded being left alone with
Eliza; from her she got neither sympathy in her dejection, support in her
fears, nor aid in her preparations; so I bore with her feeble-minded wailin=
gs
and selfish lamentations as well as I could, and did my best in sewing for =
her
and packing her dresses. It is true, that while I worked, she would idle; a=
nd I
thought to myself, ‘If you and I were destined to live always togethe=
r,
cousin, we would commence matters on a different footing. I should not sett=
le
tamely down into being the forbearing party; I should assign you your share=
of
labour, and compel you to accomplish it, or else it should be left undone: I
should insist, also, on your keeping some of those drawling, half-insincere
complaints hushed in your own breast. It is only because our connection hap=
pens
to be very transitory, and comes at a peculiarly mournful season, that I
consent thus to render it so patient and compliant on my part.’
At last I saw Georgiana off; but n=
ow
it was Eliza's turn to request me to stay another week. Her plans required =
all
her time and attention, she said; she was about to depart for some unknown
bourne; and all day long she stayed in her own room, her door bolted within,
filling trunks, emptying drawers, burning papers, and holding no communicat=
ion
with any one. She wished me to look after the house, to see callers, and an=
swer
notes of condolence.
One morning she told me I was at
liberty. ‘And,’ she added, ‘I am obliged to you for your =
valuable
services and discreet conduct! There is some difference between living with
such an one as you and with Georgiana: you perform your own part in life and
burden no one. To-morrow,’ she continued, ‘I set out for the
Continent. I shall take up my abode in a religious house near Lisle- a nunn=
ery
you would call it; there I shall be quiet and unmolested. I shall devote my=
self
for a time to the examination of the Roman Catholic dogmas, and to a careful
study of the workings of their system: if I find it to be, as I half suspec=
t it
is, the one best calculated to ensure the doing of all things decently and =
in
order, I shall embrace the tenets of Rome and probably take the veil.’=
;
I neither expressed surprise at th=
is
resolution nor attempted to dissuade her from it. ‘The vocation will =
fit
you to a hair,’ I thought: ‘much good may it do you!’
When we parted, she said: ‘G=
ood-bye,
cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well: you have some sense.’
I then returned: ‘You are not
without sense, cousin Eliza; but what you have, I suppose, in another year =
will
be walled up alive in a French convent. However, it is not my business, and=
so
it suits you, I don't much care.’
‘You are in the right,’
said she; and with these words we each went our separate way. As I shall not
have occasion to refer either to her or her sister again, I may as well men=
tion
here, that Georgiana made an advantageous match with a wealthy worn-out man=
of
fashion, and that Eliza actually took the veil, and is at this day superior=
of
the convent where she passed the period of her novitiate, and which she end=
owed
with her fortune.
How people feel when they are
returning home from an absence, long or short, I did not know: I had never
experienced the sensation. I had known what it was to come back to Gateshead
when a child after a long walk, to be scolded for looking cold or gloomy; a=
nd
later, what it was to come back from church to Lowood, to long for a plente=
ous
meal and a good fire, and to be unable to get either. Neither of these
returnings was very pleasant or desirable: no magnet drew me to a given poi=
nt,
increasing in its strength of attraction the nearer I came. The return to
Thornfield was yet to be tried.
My journey seemed tedious- very
tedious: fifty miles one day, a night spent at an inn; fifty miles the next
day. During the first twelve hours I thought of Mrs. Reed in her last momen=
ts;
I saw her disfigured and discoloured face, and heard her strangely altered
voice. I mused on the funeral day, the coffin, the hearse, the black train =
of
tenants and servants- few was the number of relatives- the gaping vault, the
silent church, the solemn service. Then I thought of Eliza and Georgiana; I
beheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, the other the inmate of a convent c=
ell;
and I dwelt on and analysed their separate peculiarities of person and
character. The evening arrival at the great town of- scattered these though=
ts;
night gave them quite another turn: laid down on my traveller's bed, I left
reminiscence for anticipation.
I was going back to Thornfield: but
how long was I to stay there? Not long; of that I was sure. I had heard from
Mrs. Fairfax in the interim of my absence: the party at the hall was disper=
sed;
Mr. Rochester had left for London three weeks ago, but he was then expected=
to
return in a fortnight. Mrs. Fairfax surmised that he was gone to make
arrangements for his wedding, as he had talked of purchasing a new carriage:
she said the idea of his marrying Miss Ingram still seemed strange to her; =
but
from what everybody said, and from what she had herself seen, she could no
longer doubt that the event would shortly take place. ‘You would be
strangely incredulous if you did doubt it,’ was my mental comment. =
8216;I
don't doubt it.’
The question followed, ‘Where
was I to go?’ I dreamt of Miss Ingram all the night: in a vivid morni=
ng
dream I saw her closing the gates of Thornfield against me and pointing me =
out
another road; and Mr. Rochester looked on with his arms folded- smiling
sardonically, as it seemed, at both her and me.
I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax=
the
exact day of my return; for I did not wish either car or carriage to meet m=
e at
Millcote. I proposed to walk the distance quietly by myself; and very quiet=
ly,
after leaving my box in the ostler's care, did I slip away from the George =
Inn,
about six o'clock of a June evening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a
road which lay chiefly through fields, and was now little frequented.
It was not a bright or splendid su=
mmer
evening, though fair and soft: the haymakers were at work all along the roa=
d;
and the sky, though far from cloudless, was such as promised well for the
future: its blue- where blue was visible- was mild and settled, and its clo=
ud
strata high and thin. The west, too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it- =
it
seemed as if there was a fire lit, an altar burning behind its screen of
marbled vapour, and out of apertures shone a golden redness.
I felt glad as the road shortened
before me: so glad that I stopped once to ask myself what that joy meant: a=
nd
to remind reason that it was not to my home I was going, or to a permanent
resting-place, or to a place where fond friends looked out for me and waite=
d my
arrival. ‘Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure,R=
17;
said I; ‘and little Adele will clap her hands and jump to see you: but
you know very well you are thinking of another than they, and that he is not
thinking of you.’
But what is so headstrong as youth?
What so blind as inexperience? These affirmed that it was pleasure enough to
have the privilege of again looking on Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on =
me
or not; and they added- ’Hasten! hasten! be with him while you may: b=
ut a
few more days or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for ever!̵=
7;
And then I strangled a new-born agony- a deformed thing which I could not
persuade myself to own and rear- and ran on.
They are making hay, too, in
Thornfield meadows: or rather, the labourers are just quitting their work, =
and
returning home with their rakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour I arri=
ve.
I have but a field or two to traverse, and then I shall cross the road and
reach the gates. How full the hedges are of roses! But I have no time to ga=
ther
any; I want to be at the house. I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy and
flowery branches across the path; I see the narrow stile with stone steps; =
and
I see- Mr. Rochester sitting there, a book and a pencil in his hand; he is
writing.
Well, he is not a ghost; yet every
nerve I have is unstrung: for a moment I am beyond my own mastery. What doe=
s it
mean? I did not think I should tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose =
my
voice or the power of motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I c=
an
stir: I need not make an absolute fool of myself. I know another way to the
house. It does not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me.
‘Hillo!’ he cries; and=
he
puts up his book and his pencil. ‘There you are! Come on, if you plea=
se.’
I suppose I do come on; though in =
what
fashion I know not; being scarcely cognisant of my movements, and solicitous
only to appear calm; and, above all, to control the working muscles of my f=
ace-
which I feel rebel insolently against my will, and struggle to express what=
I
had resolved to conceal. But I have a veil- it is down: I may make shift ye=
t to
behave with decent composure.
‘And this is Jane Eyre? Are =
you
coming from Millcote, and on foot? Yes- just one of your tricks: not to send
for a carriage, and come clattering over street and road like a common mort=
al,
but to steal into the vicinage of your home along with twilight, just as if=
you
were a dream or a shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this la=
st
month?’
‘I have been with my aunt, s=
ir,
who is dead.’
‘A true Janian reply! Good
angels be my guard! She comes from the other world- from the abode of people
who are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone here in the gloaming!=
If
I dared, I'd touch you, to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!- but
I'd as soon offer to take hold of a blue ignis
fatuus light in a marsh. Truant! truant!’ he added, when he had
paused an instant. ‘Absent from me a whole month, and forgetting me
quite, I'll be sworn!’
I knew there would be pleasure in
meeting my master again, even though broken by the fear that he was so soon=
to
cease to be my master, and by the knowledge that I was nothing to him: but
there was ever in Mr. Rochester (so at least I thought) such a wealth of the
power of communicating happiness, that to taste but of the crumbs he scatte=
red
to stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast genially. His last words =
were
balm: they seemed to imply that it imported something to him whether I forg=
ot
him or not. And he had spoken of Thornfield as my home- would that it were =
my
home!
He did not leave the stile, and I
hardly liked to ask to go by. I inquired soon if he had not been to London.=
‘Yes; I suppose you found th=
at
out by second-sight.’
‘Mrs. Fairfax told me in a
letter.’
‘And did she inform you what=
I
went to do?’
‘Oh, yes, sir! Everybody knew
your errand.’
‘You must see the carriage,
Jane, and tell me if you don't think it will suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; a=
nd
whether she won't look like Queen Boadicea, leaning back against those purp=
le
cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted to match with her
externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are- can't you give me a charm, or a
philter, or something of that sort, to make me a handsome man?’
‘It would be past the power =
of
magic, sir;’ and, in thought, I added, ‘A loving eye is all the
charm needed: to such you are handsome enough; or rather your sternness has=
a
power beyond beauty.’
Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my
unspoken thoughts with an acumen to me incomprehensible: in the present
instance he took no notice of my abrupt vocal response; but he smiled at me
with a certain smile he had of his own, and which he used but on rare occas=
ions.
He seemed to think it too good for common purposes: it was the real sunshin=
e of
feeling- he shed it over me now.
‘Pass, Janet,’ said he,
making room for me to cross the stile: ‘go up home, and stay your wea=
ry
little wandering feet at a friend's threshold.’
All I had now to do was to obey hi=
m in
silence: no need for me to colloquise further. I got over the stile without=
a
word, and meant to leave him calmly. An impulse held me fast- a force turne=
d me
round. I said- or something in me said for me, and in spite of me-
‘Thank you, Mr. Rochester, f=
or
your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wher=
ever
you are is my home- my only home.’
I walked on so fast that even he c=
ould
hardly have overtaken me had he tried. Little Adele was half wild with deli=
ght
when she saw me. Mrs. Fairfax received me with her usual plain friendliness.
Leah smiled, and even Sophie bid me ‘bon soir’ with glee. This =
was
very pleasant; there is no happiness like that of being loved by your
fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their
comfort.
I that evening shut my eyes resolu=
tely
against the future: I stopped my cars against the voice that kept warning m=
e of
near separation and coming grief. When tea was over and Mrs. Fairfax had ta=
ken
her knitting, and I had assumed a low seat near her, and Adele, kneeling on=
the
carpet, had nestled close up to me, and a sense of mutual affection seemed =
to
surround us with a ring of golden peace, I uttered a silent prayer that we
might not be parted far or soon; but when, as we thus sat, Mr. Rochester
entered, unannounced, and looking at us, seemed to take pleasure in the
spectacle of a group so amicable- when he said he supposed the old lady was=
all
right now that she had got her adopted daughter back again, and added that =
he
saw Adele was ‘prete a croquer sa petite maman Anglaise’- I half
ventured to hope that he would, even after his marriage, keep us together
somewhere under the shelter of his protection, and not quite exiled from the
sunshine of his presence.
A fortnight of dubious calm succee=
ded
my return to Thornfield Hall. Nothing was said of the master's marriage, an=
d I
saw no preparation going on for such an event. Almost every day I asked Mrs.
Fairfax if she had yet heard anything decided: her answer was always in the
negative. Once she said she had actually put the question to Mr. Rochester =
as
to when he was going to bring his bride home; but he had answered her only =
by a
joke and one of his queer looks, and she could not tell what to make of him=
.
One thing specially surprised me, =
and
that was, there were no journeyings backward and forward, no visits to Ingr=
am
Park: to be sure it was twenty miles off, on the borders of another county;=
but
what was that distance to an ardent lover? To so practised and indefatigabl=
e a
horseman as Mr. Rochester, it would be but a morning's ride. I began to che=
rish
hopes I had no right to conceive: that the match was broken off; that rumour
had been mistaken; that one or both parties had changed their minds. I used=
to
look at my master's face to see if it were sad or fierce; but I could not
remember the time when it had been so uniformly clear of clouds or evil
feelings. If, in the moments I and my pupil spent with him, I lacked spirits
and sank into inevitable dejection, he became even gay. Never had he called=
me
more frequently to his presence; never been kinder to me when there- and, a=
las!
never had I loved him so well.
A splendid Midsummer shone over
England: skies so pure, suns so radiant as were then seen in long successio=
n,
seldom favour even singly, our wave- girt land. It was as if a band of Ital=
ian
days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and
lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the
fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the
trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tint=
ed,
contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between.
On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with
gathering wild strawberries in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with =
the
sun. I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden.
It was now the sweetest hour of the
twenty-four:- ’Day its fervid fires had wasted,’ and dew fell c=
ool
on panting plain and scorched summit. Where the sun had gone down in simple
state- pure of the pomp of clouds- spread a solemn purple, burning with the
light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and
extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven. The east =
had
its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino and solit=
ary
star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon.
I walked a while on the pavement; =
but
a subtle, well-known scent- that of a cigar- stole from some window; I saw =
the
library casement open a handbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I
went apart into the orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more
Eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall =
shut
it out from the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it
from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation from lon=
ely
fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant
horse-chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, led down to the fence. Here =
one
could wander unseen. While such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such
gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such shade for ever; but in
threading the flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure,
enticed there by the light the now rising moon cast on this more open quart=
er,
my step is stayed- not by sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning
fragrance.
Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasm=
ine,
pink, and rose have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: =
this
new scent is neither of shrub nor flower; it is- I know it well- it is Mr.
Rochester's cigar. I look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripeni=
ng
fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving f=
orm
is visible, no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee=
. I
make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr. Rochester enter=
ing.
I step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long: he will soon return
whence he came, and if I sit still he will never see me.
But no- eventide is as pleasant to=
him
as to me, and this antique garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lif=
ting
the gooseberry-tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with whi=
ch
they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping toward=
s a
knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-bead=
s on
their petals. A great moth goes humming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr.
Rochester's foot: he sees it, and bends to examine it.
‘Now, he has his back towards
me,’ thought I, ‘and he is occupied too; perhaps, if I walk sof=
tly,
I can slip away unnoticed.’
I trode on an edging of turf that =
the
crackle of the pebbly gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the
beds at a yard or two distant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently
engaged him. ‘I shall get by very well,’ I meditated. As I cros=
sed
his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he
said quietly, without turning-
‘Jane, come and look at this
fellow.’
I had made no noise: he had not ey=
es
behind- could his shadow feel? I started at first, and then I approached hi=
m.
‘Look at his wings,’ s=
aid
he, ‘he reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often=
see
so large and gay a night-rover in England; there! he is flown.’
The moth roamed away. I was sheepi=
shly
retreating also; but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wic=
ket,
he said-
‘Turn back: on so lovely a n=
ight
it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed
while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise.’
It is one of my faults, that thoug= h my tongue is sometimes prompt enough at an answer, there are times when it sad= ly fails me in framing an excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, = when a facile word or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of pai= nful embarrassment. I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr. Rochester= in the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to allege for leaving hi= m. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means= of extrication; but he himself looked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil- if evil existent or prospective there was- seemed to lie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet.<= o:p>
‘Jane,’ he recommenced=
, as
we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the
sunk fence and the horse-chestnut, ‘Thornfield is a pleasant place in
summer, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You must have become in some
degree attached to the house,- you, who have an eye for natural beauties, a=
nd a
good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?’
‘I am attached to it, indeed=
.’
‘And though I don't comprehe=
nd
how it is, I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish
little child Adele, too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?’
‘Yes, sir; in different ways=
, I
have an affection for both.’
‘And would be sorry to part =
with
them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pity!’ he said, and
sighed and paused. ‘It is always the way of events in this life,̵=
7;
he continued presently: ‘no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant
resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the h=
our
of repose is expired.’
‘Must I move on, sir?’=
I
asked. ‘Must I leave Thornfield?’
‘I believe you must, Jane. I=
am
sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must.’
This was a blow: but I did not let=
it
prostrate me.
‘Well, sir, I shall be ready
when the order to march comes.’
‘It is come now- I must give=
it
to-night.’
‘Then you are going to be married, sir?’
‘Ex-act-ly- pre-cise-ly: with
your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail straight on the head.’
‘Soon, sir?’
‘Very soon, my- that is, Miss
Eyre: and you'll remember, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intim=
ated
to you that it was my intention to put my old bachelor's neck into the sacr=
ed
noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony- to take Miss Ingram to my
bosom, in short (she's an extensive armful: but that's not to the point- one
can't have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche):
well, as I was saying- listen to me, Jane! You're not turning your head to =
look
after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, 'flying away
home.' I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that
discretion I respect in you- with that foresight, prudence, and humility wh=
ich
befit your responsible and dependent position- that in case I married Miss
Ingram, both you and little Adele had better trot forthwith. I pass over the
sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my beloved;
indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I'll try to forget it: I shall notice
only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adele =
must
go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation.’
‘Yes, sir, I will advertise
immediately: and meantime, I suppose- ’ I was going to say, ‘I
suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to betake myself to:=
8217;
but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice
was not quite under command.
‘In about a month I hope to =
be a
bridegroom,’ continued Mr. Rochester; ‘and in the interim, I sh=
all
myself look out for employment and an asylum for you.’
‘Thank you, sir; I am sorry =
to
give- ’
‘Oh, no need to apologise! I
consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours,
she has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can
conveniently render her; indeed I have already, through my future
mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake =
the
education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodg=
e,
Connaught, Ireland. You'll like Ireland, I think: they're such warm-hearted
people there, they say.’
‘It is a long way off, sir.&=
#8217;
‘No matter- a girl of your s=
ense
will not object to the voyage or the distance.’
‘Not the voyage, but the
distance: and then the sea is a barrier- ’
‘From what, Jane?’
‘From England and from
Thornfield: and- ’
‘Well?’
‘From you, sir.’
I said this almost involuntarily, =
and,
with as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so=
as
to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O'Gall and
Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the
brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at
whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean- we=
alth,
caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably lov=
ed.
‘It is a long way,’ I
again said.
‘It is, to be sure; and when=
you
get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, J=
ane:
that's morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much =
of a
fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?’=
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when friends are on the=
eve
of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them clos=
e to
each other. Come! we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly
half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in hea=
ven
yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come=
, we
will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to
sit there together.’ He seated me and himself.
‘It is a long way to Ireland,
Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels: but i=
f I
can't do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you
think, Jane?’
I could risk no sort of answer by =
this
time: my heart was still.
‘Because,’ he said, =
8216;I
sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you- especially when you are =
near
me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly
and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding
quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundr=
ed
miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communi=
on
will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding
inwardly. As for you,- you'd forget me.’
‘That I never should, sir: you know- ’ Impossible to proceed.
‘Jane, do you hear that
nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!’
In listening, I sobbed convulsivel=
y;
for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I=
was
shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only=
to
express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to
Thornfield.
‘Because you are sorry to le=
ave
it?’
The vehemence of emotion, stirred =
by
grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full swa=
y,
and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign=
at
last: yes,- and to speak.
‘I grieve to leave Thornfiel=
d: I
love Thornfield:- I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightf=
ul
life,- momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been
petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from ev=
ery
glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have tal=
ked,
face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,- with an origi=
nal,
a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strik=
es
me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for e=
ver.
I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of
death.’
‘Where do you see the necess=
ity?’
he asked suddenly.
‘Where? You, sir, have place=
d it
before me.’
‘In what shape?’
‘In the shape of Miss Ingram=
; a
noble and beautiful woman,- your bride.’
‘My bride! What bride? I hav=
e no
bride!’
‘But you will have.’
‘Yes;- I will!- I will!̵=
7;
He set his teeth.
‘Then I must go:- you have s=
aid
it yourself.’
‘No: you must stay! I swear =
it- and
the oath shall be kept.’
‘I tell you I must go!’=
; I
retorted, roused to something like passion. ‘Do you think I can stay =
to
become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?- a machine without
feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, an=
d my
drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor,
obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!- I
have as much soul as you,- and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me
with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to
leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now thr=
ough
the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;- it is my
spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the
grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal,- as we are!’
‘As we are!’ repeated =
Mr.
Rochester- ’so,’ he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering =
me
to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: ‘so, Jane!’
‘Yes, so, sir,’ I rejo=
ined:
‘and yet not so; for you are a married man- or as good as a married m=
an,
and wed to one inferior to you- to one with whom you have no sympathy- whom=
I
do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I
would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you- let me go!’=
‘Where, Jane? To Ireland?=
217;
‘Yes- to Ireland. I have spo=
ken
my mind, and can go anywhere now.’
‘Jane, be still; don't strug=
gle
so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its
desperation.’
‘I am no bird; and no net
ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now
exert to leave you.’
Another effort set me at liberty, =
and
I stood erect before him.
‘And your will shall decide =
your
destiny,’ he said: ‘I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share =
of
all my possessions.’
‘You play a farce, which I
merely laugh at.’
‘I ask you to pass through l=
ife
at my side- to be my second self, and best earthly companion.’
‘For that fate you have alre=
ady
made your choice, and must abide by it.’
‘Jane, be still a few moment=
s:
you are over-excited: I will be still too.’
A waft of wind came sweeping down =
the
laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered a=
way-
away- to an indefinite distance- it died. The nightingale's song was then t=
he
only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat
quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke=
; he
at last said-
‘Come to my side, Jane, and =
let
us explain and understand one another.’
‘I will never again come to =
your
side: I am torn away now, and cannot return.’
‘But, Jane, I summon you as =
my
wife: it is you only I intend to marry.’
I was silent: I thought he mocked =
me.
‘Come, Jane- come hither.=
217;
‘Your bride stands between u=
s.’
He rose, and with a stride reached=
me.
‘My bride is here,’ he
said, again drawing me to him, ‘because my equal is here, and my
likeness. Jane, will you marry me?’
Still I did not answer, and still I
writhed myself from his grasp: for I was still incredulous.
‘Do you doubt me, Jane?̵=
7;
‘Entirely.’
‘You have no faith in me?=
217;
‘Not a whit.’
‘Am I a liar in your eyes?=
8217;
he asked passionately. ‘Little sceptic, you shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and
that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to pro=
ve:
I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was
supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldn=
ess
both from her and her mother. I would not- I could not- marry Miss Ingram. =
You-
you strange, you almost unearthly thing!- I love as my own flesh. You- poor=
and
obscure, and small and plain as you are- I entreat to accept me as a husban=
d.’
‘What, me!’ I ejaculat=
ed,
beginning in his earnestness- and especially in his incivility- to credit h=
is
sincerity: ‘me who have not a friend in the world but you- if you are=
my
friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?’
‘You, Jane, I must have you =
for
my own- entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly.’
‘Mr. Rochester, let me look =
at
your face: turn to the moonlight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to read your
countenance- turn!’
‘There! you will find it
scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on: only make
haste, for I suffer.’
His face was very much agitated and
very much flushed, and there were strong workings in the features, and stra=
nge
gleams in the eyes.
‘Oh, Jane, you torture me!=
8217;
he exclaimed. ‘With that searching and yet faithful and generous look,
you torture me!’
‘How can I do that? If you a=
re
true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and
devotion- they cannot torture.’
‘Gratitude!’ he
ejaculated; and added wildly- ’Jane accept me quickly. Say, Edward- g=
ive
me my name- Edward- I will marry you.’
‘Are you in earnest? Do you
truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?’
‘I do; and if an oath is
necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.’
‘Then, sir, I will marry you=
.’
‘Edward- my little wife!R=
17;
‘Dear Edward!’
‘Come to me- come to me enti=
rely
now,’ said he; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as =
his
cheek was laid on mine, ‘Make my happiness- I will make yours.’=
‘God pardon me!’ he
subjoined ere long; ‘and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will
hold her.’
‘There is no one to meddle, =
sir.
I have no kindred to interfere.’ ‘No- that is the best of it,=
8217;
he said. And if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and l=
ook
of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of par=
ting-
called to the paradise of union- I thought only of the bliss given me to dr=
ink
in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, ‘Are you happy, Jane?=
’
And again and again I answered, ‘Yes.’ After which he murmured,=
‘It
will atone- it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and c=
omfortless?
Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my hear=
t,
and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my
Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment- I wash my hands thereo=
f.
For man's opinion- I defy it.’
But what had befallen the night? T=
he
moon was not yet set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my
master's face, near as I was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed =
and
groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us.
‘We must go in,’ said =
Mr.
Rochester: ‘the weather changes. I could have sat with thee till morn=
ing,
Jane.’
‘And so,’ thought I, &=
#8216;could
I with you.’ I should have said so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark
leapt out of a cloud at which I was looking, and there was a crack, a crash,
and a close rattling peal; and I thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes aga=
inst
Mr. Rochester's shoulder.
The rain rushed down. He hurried m=
e up
the walk, through the grounds, and into the house; but we were quite wet be=
fore
we could pass the threshold. He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and
shaking the water out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from h=
er
room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp was l=
it.
The clock was on the stroke of twelve.
‘Hasten to take off your wet
things,’ said he; ‘and before you go, good- night- good-night, =
my
darling!’
He kissed me repeatedly. When I lo=
oked
up, on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I =
only
smiled at her, and ran upstairs. ‘Explanation will do for another tim=
e,’
thought I. Still, when I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she
should even temporarily misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon effaced
every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder
crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the
rain fell during a storm of two hours' duration, I experienced no fear and
little awe. Mr. Rochester came thrice to my door in the course of it, to as=
k if
I was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength for anythi=
ng.
Before I left my bed in the mornin=
g,
little Adele came running in to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the
bottom of the orchard had been struck by lightning in the night, and half o=
f it
split away.
As I rose and dressed, I thought o=
ver
what had happened, and wondered if it were a dream. I could not be certain =
of
the reality till I had seen Mr. Rochester again, and heard him renew his wo=
rds
of love and promise.
While arranging my hair, I looked =
at
my face in the glass, and felt it was no longer plain: there was hope in its
aspect and life in its colour; and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the
fount of fruition, and borrowed beams from the lustrous ripple. I had often
been unwilling to look at my master, because I feared he could not be pleas=
ed
at my look; but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his
affection by its expression. I took a plain but clean and light summer dress
from my drawer and put it on: it seemed no attire had ever so well become m=
e,
because none had I ever worn in so blissful a mood.
I was not surprised, when I ran do=
wn
into the hall, to see that a brilliant June morning had succeeded to the
tempest of the night; and to feel, through the open glass door, the breathi=
ng
of a fresh and fragrant breeze. Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy=
. A
beggar-woman and her little boy- pale, ragged objects both- were coming up =
the
walk, and I ran down and gave them all the money I happened to have in my p=
urse-
some three or four shillings: good or bad, they must partake of my jubilee.=
The
rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; but nothing was so merry or so musical=
as
my own rejoicing heart.
Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looki=
ng
out of the window with a sad countenance, and saying gravely- ’Miss E=
yre,
will you come to breakfast?’ During the meal she was quiet and cool: =
but
I could not undeceive her then. I must wait for my master to give explanati=
ons;
and so must she. I ate what I could, and then I hastened upstairs. I met Ad=
ele
leaving the schoolroom.
‘Where are you going? It is =
time
for lessons.’
‘Mr. Rochester has sent me a=
way
to the nursery.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In there,’ pointing to
the apartment she had left; and I went in, and there he stood.
‘Come and bid me good-mornin=
g,’
said he. I gladly advanced; and it was not merely a cold word now, or even a
shake of the hand that I received, but an embrace and a kiss. It seemed
natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, so caressed by him.
‘Jane, you look blooming, and
smiling, and pretty,’ said he: ‘truly pretty this morning. Is t=
his
my pale, little elf? Is this my mustard- seed? This little sunny-faced girl
with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the
radiant hazel eyes?’ (I had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse t=
he
mistake: for him they were new-dyed, I suppose.)
‘It is Jane Eyre, sir.’=
;
‘Soon to be Jane Rochester,&=
#8217;
he added: ‘in four weeks, Janet; not a day more. Do you hear that?=
217;
I did, and I could not quite
comprehend it: it made me giddy. The feeling, the announcement sent through=
me,
was something stronger than was consistent with joy- something that smote a=
nd
stunned. It was, I think almost fear.
‘You blushed, and now you ar=
e white,
Jane: what is that for?’
‘Because you gave me a new n=
ame-
Jane Rochester; and it seems so strange.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Rochester,’
said he; ‘young Mrs. Rochester- Fairfax Rochester's girl-bride.’=
;
‘It can never be, sir; it do=
es
not sound likely. Human beings never enjoy complete happiness in this world=
. I
was not born for a different destiny to the rest of my species: to imagine =
such
a lot befalling me is a fairy tale- a day-dream.’
‘Which I can and will realis=
e. I
shall begin to-day. This morning I wrote to my banker in London to send me
certain jewels he has in his keeping,- heirlooms for the ladies of Thornfie=
ld.
In a day or two I hope to pour them into your lap: for every privilege, eve=
ry
attention shall be yours that I would accord a peer's daughter, if about to
marry her.’
‘Oh, sir!- never rain jewels=
! I
don't like to hear them spoken of. Jewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and
strange: I would rather not have them.’
‘I will myself put the diamo=
nd
chain round your neck, and the circlet on your forehead,- which it will bec=
ome:
for nature, at least, has stamped her patent of nobility on this brow, Jane;
and I will clasp the bracelets on these fine wrists, and load these fairy-l=
ike
fingers with rings.’
‘No, no, sir! think of other
subjects, and speak of other things, and in another strain. Don't address m=
e as
if I were a beauty; I am your plain, Quakerish governess.’
‘You are a beauty in my eyes,
and a beauty just after the desire of my heart,- delicate and aerial.’=
;
‘Puny and insignificant, you
mean. You are dreaming, sir,- or you are sneering. For God's sake don't be
ironical!’
‘I will make the world
acknowledge you a beauty, too,’ he went on, while I really became une=
asy
at the strain he had adopted, because I felt he was either deluding himself=
or
trying to delude me. ‘I will attire my Jane in satin and lace, and she
shall have roses in her hair; and I will cover the head I love best with a
priceless veil.’
‘And then you won't know me,
sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequi=
n's
jacket- a jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester,
tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself clad in a court-lady's robe; and I
don't call you handsome, sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly=
to
flatter you. Don't flatter me.’
He pursued his theme, however, wit=
hout
noticing my deprecation. ‘This very day I shall take you in the carri=
age
to Millcote, and you must choose some dresses for yourself. I told you we s=
hall
be married in four weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in the chur=
ch
down below yonder; and then I shall waft you away at once to town. After a
brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun: to Fr=
ench
vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is famous in old s=
tory
and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the life of cities; and she
shall learn to value herself by just comparison with others.’
‘Shall I travel?- and with y=
ou,
sir?’
‘You shall sojourn at Paris,
Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and Vienna: all the ground I have
wandered over shall be re-trodden by you: wherever I stamped my hoof, your
sylph's foot shall step also. Ten years since, I flew through Europe half m=
ad;
with disgust, hate, and rage as my companions: now I shall revisit it healed
and cleansed, with a very angel as my comforter.’
I laughed at him as he said this. =
‘I
am not an angel,’ I asserted; ‘and I will not be one till I die=
: I
will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything
celestial of me- for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of y=
ou:
which I do not at all anticipate.’
‘What do you anticipate of m=
e?’
‘For a little while you will
perhaps be as you are now,- a very little while; and then you will turn coo=
l;
and then you will be capricious; and then you will be stern, and I shall ha=
ve
much ado to please you: but when you get well used to me, you will perhaps =
like
me again,- like me, I say, not =
love me. I suppose your love will
effervesce in six months, or less. I have observed in books written by men,
that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband's ardour extends. Y=
et,
after all, as a friend and companion, I hope never to become quite distaste=
ful
to my dear master.’
‘Distasteful! and like you
again! I think I shall like you again, and yet again: and I will make you
confess I do not only like, but=
love you- with truth, fervour,
constancy.’
‘Yet are you not capricious,
sir?’
‘To women who please me only=
by
their faces, I am the very devil when I find out they have neither souls no=
r hearts-
when they open to me a perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps
imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent
tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not
break- at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent- I am ever tender
and true.’
‘Had you ever experience of =
such
a character, sir? Did you ever love such an one?’
‘I love it now.’
‘But before me: if I, indeed=
, in
any respect come up to your difficult standard?’
‘I never met your likeness.
Jane, you please me, and you master me- you seem to submit, and I like the
sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein
round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. I am influenced- =
conquered;
and the influence is sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo=
has
a witchery beyond any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does =
that
inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean?’
‘I was thinking, sir (you wi=
ll
excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I was thinking of Hercules and Samson
with their charmers- ’
‘You were, you little elfish=
- ’
‘Hush, sir! You don't talk v=
ery
wisely just now; any more than those gentlemen acted very wisely. However, =
had
they been married, they would no doubt by their severity as husbands have m=
ade
up for their softness as suitors; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how you
will answer me a year hence, should I ask a favour it does not suit your
convenience or pleasure to grant.’
‘Ask me something now, Jane,=
- the
least thing: I desire to be entreated- ’
‘Indeed I will, sir; I have =
my
petition all ready.’
‘Speak! But if you look up a=
nd
smile with that countenance, I shall swear concession before I know to what,
and that will make a fool of me.’
‘Not at all, sir; I ask only
this: don't send for the jewels, and don't crown me with roses: you might as
well put a border of gold lace round that plain pocket handkerchief you have
there.’
‘I might as well 'gild refin=
ed
gold.' I know it: your request is granted then- for the time. I will remand=
the
order I despatched to my banker. But you have not yet asked for anything; y=
ou
have prayed a gift to be withdrawn: try again.’
‘Well then, sir, have the
goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is much piqued on one point.’=
He looked disturbed. ‘What?
what?’ he said hastily. ‘Curiosity is a dangerous petition: it =
is
well I have not taken a vow to accord every request- ’
‘But there can be no danger =
in
complying with this, sir.’
‘Utter it, Jane: but I wish =
that
instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half my
estate.’
‘Now, King Ahasuerus! What d=
o I
want with half your estate? Do you think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good
investment in land? I would much rather have all your confidence. You will =
not
exclude me from your confidence if you admit me to your heart?’
‘You are welcome to all my
confidence that is worth having, Jane; but for God's sake, don't desire a
useless burden! Don't long for poison- don't turn out a downright Eve on my
hands!’
‘Why not, sir? You have just
been telling me how much you liked to be conquered, and how pleasant
over-persuasion is to you. Don't you think I had better take advantage of t=
he
confession, and begin and coax and entreat- even cry and be sulky if necess=
ary-
for the sake of a mere essay of my power?’
‘I dare you to any such
experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is up.’
‘Is it, sir? You soon give i=
n.
How stern you look now! Your eyebrows have become as thick as my finger, and
your forehead resembles what, in some very astonishing poetry, I once saw
styled, 'a blue-piled thunderloft.' That will be your married look, sir, I
suppose?’
‘If that will be your married look, I, as a Christi=
an,
will soon give up the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander=
. But
what had you to ask, thing,- out with it?’
‘There, you are less than ci=
vil
now; and I like rudeness a great deal better than flattery. I had rather be=
a thing than an angel. This is what =
I have
to ask,- Why did you take such pains to make me believe you wished to marry
Miss Ingram?’
‘Is that all? Thank God it i=
s no
worse!’ And now he unknit his black brows; looked down, smiling at me,
and stroked my hair, as if well pleased at seeing a danger averted. ‘I
think I may confess,’ he continued, ‘even although I should make
you a little indignant, Jane- and I have seen what a fire-spirit you can be
when you are indignant. You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when y=
ou
mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Janet, by-the-bye=
, it
was you who made me the offer.’
‘Of course I did. But to the
point if you please, sir- Miss Ingram?’
‘Well, I feigned courtship of
Miss Ingram, because I wished to render you as madly in love with me as I w=
as
with you; and I knew jealousy would be the best ally I could call in for the
furtherance of that end.’
‘Excellent! Now you are smal=
l- not
one whit bigger than the end of my little finger. It was a burning shame an=
d a
scandalous disgrace to act in that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingra=
m's
feelings, sir?’
‘Her feelings are concentrat=
ed
in one- pride; and that needs humbling. Were you jealous, Jane?’
‘Never mind, Mr. Rochester: =
it
is in no way interesting to you to know that. Answer me truly once more. Do=
you
think Miss Ingram will not suffer from your dishonest coquetry? Won't she f=
eel
forsaken and deserted?’
‘Impossible!- when I told you
how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the idea of my insolvency cooled, or
rather extinguished, her flame in a moment.’
‘You have a curious, designi=
ng
mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid your principles on some points are eccentr=
ic.’
‘My principles were never
trained, Jane: they may have grown a little awry for want of attention.R=
17;
‘Once again, seriously; may I
enjoy the great good that has been vouchsafed to me, without fearing that a=
ny
one else is suffering the bitter pain I myself felt a while ago?’
‘That you may, my good little
girl: there is not another being in the world has the same pure love for me=
as
yourself- for I lay that pleasant unction to my soul, Jane, a belief in your
affection.’
I turned my lips to the hand that =
lay
on my shoulder. I loved him very much- more than I could trust myself to sa=
y- more
than words had power to express.
‘Ask something more,’ =
he
said presently; ‘it is my delight to be entreated, and to yield.̵=
7;
I was again ready with my request.=
‘Communicate
your intentions to Mrs. Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the
hall, and she was shocked. Give her some explanation before I see her again=
. It
pains me to be misjudged by so good a woman.’
‘Go to your room, and put on
your bonnet,’ he replied. ‘I mean you to accompany me to Millco=
te
this morning; and while you prepare for the drive, I will enlighten the old
lady's understanding. Did she think, Janet, you had given the world for lov=
e,
and considered it well lost?’
‘I believe she thought I had
forgotten my station, and yours, sir.’
‘Station! station!- your sta=
tion
is in my heart, and on the necks of those who would insult you, now or
hereafter.- Go.’
I was soon dressed; and when I hea=
rd
Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax's parlour, I hurried down to it. The old la=
dy,
had been reading her morning portion of Scripture- the Lesson for the day; =
her
Bible lay open before her, and her spectacles were upon it. Her occupation,
suspended by Mr. Rochester's announcement, seemed now forgotten: her eyes,
fixed on the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind
stirred by unwonted tidings. Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a sort=
of
effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smile
expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put up her spectacl=
es,
shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table.
‘I feel so astonished,’
she began, ‘I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Eyre. I have surely
not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half fall asleep when I am sitting a=
lone
and fancy things that have never happened. It has seemed to me more than on=
ce
when I have been in a doze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years si=
nce,
has come in and sat down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me =
by
my name, Alice, as he used to do. Now, can you tell me whether it is actual=
ly
true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don't laugh at me. But I
really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and said that in a month y=
ou
would be his wife.’
‘He has said the same thing =
to
me,’ I replied.
‘He has! Do you believe him?
Have you accepted him?’
‘Yes.’
She looked at me bewildered. ̵=
6;I
could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters were pro=
ud:
and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been called care=
ful.
He means to marry you?’
‘He tells me so.’
She surveyed my whole person: in h=
er
eyes I read that they had there found no charm powerful enough to solve the
enigma.
‘It passes me!’ she
continued; ‘but no doubt, it is true since you say so. How it will
answer, I cannot tell: I really don't know. Equality of position and fortun=
e is
often advisable in such cases; and there are twenty years of difference in =
your
ages. He might almost be your father.’
‘No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!=
8217;
exclaimed I, nettled; ‘he is nothing like my father! No one, who saw =
us
together, would suppose it for an instant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, an=
d is
as young, as some men at five-and- twenty.’
‘Is it really for love he is
going to marry you?’ she asked.
I was so hurt by her coldness and
scepticism, that the tears rose to my eyes.
‘I am sorry to grieve you,=
8217;
pursued the widow; ‘but you are so young, and so little acquainted wi=
th
men, I wished to put you on your guard. It is an old saying that 'all is not
gold that glitters;' and in this case I do fear there will be something fou=
nd
to be different to what either you or I expect.’
‘Why?- am I a monster?’=
; I
said: ‘is it impossible that Mr. Rochester should have a sincere
affection for me?’
‘No: you are very well; and =
much
improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I daresay, is fond of you. I have alwa=
ys
noticed that you were a sort of pet of his. There are times when, for your
sake, I have been a little uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished=
to
put you on your guard: but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of
wrong. I knew such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so
discreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be trust=
ed
to protect yourself. Last night I cannot tell you what I suffered when I so=
ught
all over the house, and could find you nowhere, nor the master either; and
then, at twelve o'clock, saw you come in with him.’
‘Well, never mind that now,&=
#8217;
I interrupted impatiently; ‘it is enough that all was right.’
‘I hope all will be right in=
the
end,’ she said: ‘but believe me, you cannot be too careful. Try=
and
keep Mr. Rochester at a distance: distrust yourself as well as him. Gentlem=
en
in his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses.’
I was growing truly irritated:
happily, Adele ran in.
‘Let me go,- let me go to
Millcote too!’ she cried. ‘Mr. Rochester won't: though there is=
so
much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go mademoiselle.’
‘That I will, Adele;’ =
and
I hastened away with her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress. The carriage was
ready: they were bringing it round to the front, and my master was pacing t=
he
pavement, Pilot following him backwards and forwards.
‘Adele may accompany us, may=
she
not, sir?’
‘I told her no. I'll have no
brats!- I'll have only you.’
‘Do let her go, Mr. Rocheste=
r,
if you please: it would be better.’
‘Not it: she will be a
restraint.’
He was quite peremptory, both in l=
ook
and voice. The chill of Mrs. Fairfax's warnings, and the damp of her doubts
were upon me: something of unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my ho=
pes.
I half lost the sense of power over him. I was about mechanically to obey h=
im,
without further remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he loo=
ked
at my face.
‘What is the matter?’ =
he
asked; ‘all the sunshine is gone. Do you really wish the bairn to go?
Will it annoy you if she is left behind?’
‘I would far rather she went,
sir.’
‘Then off for your bonnet, a=
nd
back like a flash of lightning!’ cried he to Adele.
She obeyed him with what speed she
might.
‘After all, a single morning=
's
interruption will not matter much,’ said he, ‘when I mean short=
ly
to claim you- your thoughts, conversation, and company- for life.’
Adele, when lifted in, commenced
kissing me, by way of expressing her gratitude for my intercession: she was
instantly stowed away into a corner on the other side of him. She then peep=
ed
round to where I sat; so stern a neighbour was too restrictive to him, in h=
is
present fractious mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him a=
ny
information.
‘Let her come to me,’ I
entreated: ‘she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir: there is plenty of r=
oom
on this side.’
He handed her over as if she had b=
een
a lapdog. ‘I'll send her to school yet,’ he said, but now he was
smiling.
Adele heard him, and asked if she =
was
to go to school ‘sans mademoiselle?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, =
216;absolutely
sans mademoiselle; for I am to take mademoiselle to the moon, and there I s=
hall
seek a cave in one of the white valleys among the volcano-tops, and
mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only me.’
‘She will have nothing to ea=
t:
you will starve her,’ observed Adele.
‘I shall gather manna for her
morning and night: the plains and hillsides in the moon are bleached with
manna, Adele.’
‘She will want to warm herse=
lf:
what will she do for a fire?’
‘Fire rises out of the lunar
mountains: when she is cold, I'll carry her up to a peak, and lay her down =
on
the edge of a crater.’
‘Oh, qu' elle y sera mal-=
peu
comfortable! And her cloth=
es,
they will wear out: how can she get new ones?’
Mr. Rochester professed to be puzz=
led.
‘Hem!’ said he. ‘What would you do, Adele? Cudgel your br=
ains
for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown, do y=
ou
think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out of a rainbow.’
‘She is far better as she is=
,’
concluded Adele, after musing some time: ‘besides, she would get tire=
d of
living with only you in the moon. If I were mademoiselle, I would never con=
sent
to go with you.’
‘She has consented: she has
pledged her word.’
‘But you can't get her there;
there is no road to the moon: it is all air; and neither you nor she can fl=
y.’
‘Adele, look at that field.&=
#8217;
We were now outside Thornfield gates, and bowling lightly along the smooth =
road
to Millcote, where the dust was well laid by the thunderstorm, and, where t=
he
low hedges and lofty timber trees on each side glistened green and
rain-refreshed.
‘In that field, Adele, I was
walking late one evening about a fortnight since- the evening of the day you
helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows; and, as I was tired with raki=
ng
swaths, I sat down to rest me on a stile; and there I took out a little book
and a pencil, and began to write about a misfortune that befell me long ago,
and a wish I had for happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, thou=
gh
daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stop=
ped
two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of goss=
amer
on its head. I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at my knee. I nev=
er
spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I read its eyes, and it
read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this effect-
‘It was a fairy, and come fr=
om
Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make me happy: I must go with it o=
ut
of the common world to a lonely place- such as the moon, for instance- and =
it
nodded its head towards her horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the
alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. I said I should like to=
go;
but reminded it, as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.
‘'Oh,' returned the fairy, '=
that
does not signify! Here is a talisman will remove all difficulties;' and she
held out a pretty gold ring. 'Put it,' she said, 'on the fourth finger of my
left hand, and I am yours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and =
make
our own heaven yonder.' She nodded again at the moon. The ring, Adele, is i=
n my
breeches-pocket, under the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to chan=
ge
it to a ring again.’
‘But what has mademoiselle t=
o do
with it? I don't care for the fairy: you said it was mademoiselle you would
take to the moon?’
‘Mademoiselle is a fairy,=
217;
he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon I told her not to mind his
badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a fund of genuine French scepticism:
denominating Mr. Rochester ‘un vrai menteur,’ and assuring him =
that
she made no account whatever of his ‘contes de fee,’ and that &=
#8216;du
reste, il n'y avait pas de fees, et quand meme il y en avait:’ she was
sure they would never appear to him, nor ever give him rings, or offer to l=
ive
with him in the moon.
The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me. Mr. Rochester obliged me to go to a certain s= ilk warehouse: there I was ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no- it should be gone through with no= w. By dint of entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-d= ozen to two: these however, he vowed he would select himself. With anxiety I wat= ched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the most brill= iant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin. I told him in a new series of whispe= rs, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bonnet at once: I sho= uld certainly never venture to wear his choice. With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I persuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin and pearl-grey silk. ‘It might pass for the present= ,’ he said; ‘but he would yet see me glittering like a parterre.’<= o:p>
Glad was I to get him out of the s=
ilk
warehouse, and then out of a jewellers shop: the more he bought me, the mor=
e my
cheek burned with a sense of annoyance and degradation. As we re-entered the
carriage, and I sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered what, in the hur=
ry
of events, dark and bright, I had wholly forgotten- the letter of my uncle,
John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intention to adopt me and make me his legatee.=
‘It
would, indeed, be a relief,’ I thought, ‘if I had ever so small=
an
independency; I never can bear being dressed like a doll by Mr. Rochester, =
or
sitting like a second Danae with the golden shower falling daily round me. I
will write to Madeira the moment I get home, and tell my uncle John I am go=
ing
to be married, and to whom: if I had but a prospect of one day bringing Mr.
Rochester an accession of fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him =
now.’
And somewhat relieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute that day)=
, I
ventured once more to meet my master's and lover's eye, which most
pertinaciously sought mine, though I averted both face and gaze. He smiled;=
and
I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful and fond mome=
nt,
bestow on a slave his gold and gems had enriched: I crushed his hand, which=
was
ever hunting mine, vigorously, and thrust it back to him red with the
passionate pressure.
‘You need not look in that w=
ay,’
I said; ‘if you do, I'll wear nothing but my old Lowood frocks to the=
end
of the chapter. I'll be married in this lilac gingham: you may make a
dressing-gown for yourself out of the pearl-grey silk, and an infinite seri=
es
of waistcoats out of the black satin.’
He chuckled; he rubbed his hands. =
‘Oh,
it is rich to see and hear her?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is she original=
? Is
she piquant? I would not exchange this one little English girl for the Grand
Turk's whole seraglio, gazelle- eyes, houri forms, and all!’
The Eastern allusion bit me again.=
‘I'll
not stand you an inch in the stead of a seraglio,’ I said; ‘so
don't consider me an equivalent for one. If you have a fancy for anything in
that line, away with you, sir, to the bazaars of Stamboul without delay, and
lay out in extensive slave- purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a
loss to spend satisfactorily here.’
‘And what will you do, Janet,
while I am bargaining for so many tons of flesh and such an assortment of b=
lack
eyes?’
‘I'll be preparing myself to=
go
out as a missionary to preach liberty to them that are enslaved- your harem=
inmates
amongst the rest. I'll get admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you,
three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered
amongst our hands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you =
have
signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred.’
‘I would consent to be at yo=
ur
mercy, Jane.’
‘I would have no mercy, Mr.
Rochester, if you supplicated for it with an eye like that. While you looked
so, I should be certain that whatever charter you might grant under coercio=
n,
your first act, when released, would be to violate its conditions.’
‘Why, Jane, what would you h=
ave?
I fear you will compel me to go through a private marriage ceremony, besides
that performed at the altar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms-=
what
will they be?’
‘I only want an easy mind, s=
ir;
not crushed by crowded obligations. Do you remember what you said of Celine
Varens?- of the diamonds, the cashmeres you gave her? I will not be your
English Celine Varens. I shall continue to act as Adele's governess; by tha=
t I
shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides. I'll fur=
nish
my own wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but- ̵=
7;
‘Well, but what?’
‘Your regard; and if I give =
you
mine in return, that debt will be quit.’
‘Well, for cool native impud=
ence
and pure innate pride, you haven't your equal,’ said he. We were now
approaching Thornfield. ‘Will it please you to dine with me to-day?=
8217;
he asked, as we re-entered the gates.
‘No, thank you, sir.’<= o:p>
‘And what for, 'no, thank yo=
u?'
if one may inquire.’
‘I never have dined with you,
sir: and I see no reason why I should now: till- ’
‘Till what? You delight in
half-phrases.’
‘Till I can't help it.’=
;
‘Do you suppose I eat like an
ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being the companion of my repast?’
‘I have formed no suppositio=
n on
the subject, sir; but I want to go on as usual for another month.’
‘You will give up your
governessing slavery at once.’
‘Indeed, begging your pardon,
sir, I shall not. I shall just go on with it as usual. I shall keep out of =
your
way all day, as I have been accustomed to do: you may send for me in the
evening, when you feel disposed to see me, and I'll come then; but at no ot=
her
time.’
‘I want a smoke, Jane, or a
pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all this, 'pour me donner une contenanc=
e,'
as Adele would say; and unfortunately I have neither my cigar-case, nor my
snuff-box. But listen- whisper. It is your time now, little tyrant, but it =
will
be mine presently; and when once I have fairly seized you, to have and to h=
old,
I'll just- figuratively speaking- attach you to a chain like this’
(touching his watch-guard). ‘Yes, bonny wee thing, I'll wear you in my
bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne.’
He said this as he helped me to al=
ight
from the carriage, and while he afterwards lifted out Adele, I entered the
house, and made good my retreat upstairs.
He duly summoned me to his presenc=
e in
the evening. I had prepared an occupation for him; for I was determined not=
to
spend the whole time in a tete-a-te=
te
conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked to sing- good
singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and, in his fastidious
judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in listening when the
performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, began to
lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened the
piano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song. He sai=
d I
was a capricious witch, and that he would rather sing another time; but I
averred that no time was like the present.
‘Did I like his voice?’=
; he
asked.
‘Very much.’ I was not
fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of his; but for once, and from
motives of expediency, I would e'en soothe and stimulate it.
‘Then, Jane, you must play t=
he
accompaniment.’
‘Very well, sir, I will try.=
’
I did try, but was presently swept=
off
the stool and denominated ‘a little bungler.’ Being pushed
unceremoniously to one side- which was precisely what I wished- he usurped =
my
place, and proceeded to accompany himself: for he could play as well as sin=
g. I
hied me to the window-recess. And while I sat there and looked out on the s=
till
trees and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the following
strain:-
‘The truest love that ever h=
eart
Felt at its kindled core, Did through each vein, in quickened start, The ti=
de
of being pour.
Her coming was my hope each day, H=
er
parting was my pain; The chance that did her steps delay Was ice in every v=
ein.
I dreamed it would be nameless bli=
ss,
As I loved, loved to be; And to this object did I press As blind as eagerly.
But wide as pathless was the space That lay our lives between, And dangerou=
s as
the foamy race Of ocean-surges green.
And haunted as a robber-path Throu=
gh
wilderness or wood; For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath, Between our spi=
rits
stood.
I dangers dared; I hindrance scorn=
ed;
I omens did defy: Whatever menaced, harassed, warned, I passed impetuous by=
.
On sped my rainbow, fast as light;=
I
flew as in a dream; For glorious rose upon my sight That child of Shower and
Gleam.
Still bright on clouds of suffering
dim Shines that soft, solemn joy; Nor care I now, how dense and grim Disast=
ers
gather nigh.
I care not in this moment sweet,
Though all I have rushed o'er Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,
Proclaiming vengeance sore:
Though haughty Hate should strike =
me
down, Right, bar approach to me, And grinding Might, with furious frown, Sw=
ear
endless enmity.
My love has placed her little hand
With noble faith in mine, And vowed that wedlock's sacred band Our nature s=
hall
entwine.
My love has sworn, with sealing ki=
ss,
With me to live- to die; I have at last my nameless bliss. As I love- loved=
am
I!’
He rose and came towards me, and I=
saw
his face all kindled, and his full falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and
passion in every lineament. I quailed momentarily- then I rallied. Soft sce=
ne,
daring demonstration, I would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a wea=
pon
of defence must be prepared- I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I asked
with asperity, ‘whom he was going to marry now?’
‘That was a strange question=
to
be put by his darling Jane.’
‘Indeed! I considered it a v=
ery
natural and necessary one: he had talked of his future wife dying with him.
What did he mean by such a pagan idea? I
had no intention of dying with him- he might depend on that.’
‘Oh, all he longed, all he
prayed for, was that I might live with him! Death was not for such as I.=
217;
‘Indeed it was: I had as goo=
d a
right to die when my time came as he had: but I should bide that time, and =
not
be hurried away in a suttee.’
‘Would I forgive him for the
selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a reconciling kiss?’
‘No: I would rather be excus=
ed.’
Here I heard myself apostrophised =
as a
‘hard little thing;’ and it was added, ‘any other woman w=
ould
have been melted to marrow at hearing such stanzas crooned in her praise.=
8217;
I assured him I was naturally hard=
- very
flinty, and that he would often find me so; and that, moreover, I was
determined to show him divers rugged points in my character before the ensu=
ing
four weeks elapsed: he should know fully what sort of a bargain he had made,
while there was yet time to rescind it.
‘Would I be quiet and talk
rationally?’
‘I would be quiet if he like=
d,
and as to talking rationally, I flattered myself I was doing that now.̵=
7;
He fretted, pished, and pshawed. &=
#8216;Very
good,’ I thought; ‘you may fume and fidget as you please: but t=
his
is the best plan to pursue with you, I am certain. I like you more than I c=
an
say; but I'll not sink into a bathos of sentiment: and with this needle of
repartee I'll keep you from the edge of the gulf too; and, moreover, mainta=
in
by its pungent aid that distance between you and myself most conducive to o=
ur
real mutual advantage.’
From less to more, I worked him up=
to
considerable irritation; then, after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to t=
he
other end of the room, I got up, and saying, ‘I wish you good-night, =
sir,’
in my natural and wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door =
and
got away.
The system thus entered on, I purs=
ued
during the whole season of probation; and with the best success. He was kep=
t,
to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was
excellently entertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove
sensibility, while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his
judgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less.
In other people's presence I was, =
as
formerly, deferential and quiet; any other line of conduct being uncalled f=
or:
it was only in the evening conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He
continued to send for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; thou=
gh
when I appeared before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as ‘love=
’
and ‘darling’ on his lips: the best words at my service were =
8216;provoking
puppet,’ ‘malicious elf,’ ‘sprite,’ ‘ch=
angeling,’
&c. For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a
pinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It was
all right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anything
more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my account
vanished; therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr. Rochester affir=
med
I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful vengeance for my
present conduct at some period fast coming. I laughed in my sleeve at his
menaces. ‘I can keep you in reasonable check now,’ I reflected;=
‘and
I don't doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its vir=
tue,
another must be devised.’
Yet after all my task was not an e=
asy
one; often I would rather have pleased than teased him. My future husband w=
as
becoming to me my whole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of
heaven. He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse
intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see G=
od
for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.
The month of courtship had wasted:=
its
very last hours were being numbered. There was no putting off the day that
advanced- the bridal day; and all preparations for its arrival were complet=
e. I, at least, had nothing more to d=
o:
there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in a row along the wal=
l of
my little chamber; to-morrow, at this time, they would be far on their road=
to
London: and so should I (D.V.),- or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester, a
person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remained to nail =
on:
they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr. Rochester had himself wri=
tten
the direction, ‘Mrs. Rochester, - - Hotel, London,’ on each: I
could not persuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed. Mrs.
Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till to-morrow, some ti=
me
after eight o'clock a.m.; and I would wait to be assured she had come into =
the
world alive before I assigned to her all that property. It was enough that =
in
yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to be hers had alr=
eady
displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet: for not to me
appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the pearl-coloured robe, the vapo=
ury
veil pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet to conceal the
strange, wraith-like apparel it contained; which, at this evening hour- nine
o'clock- gave out certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my
apartment. ‘I will leave you by yourself, white dream,’ I said.=
‘I
am feverish: I hear the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it.=
8217;
It was not only the hurry of
preparation that made me feverish; not only the anticipation of the great
change- the new life which was to commence to-morrow: both these circumstan=
ces
had their share, doubtless, in producing that restless, excited mood which
hurried me forth at this late hour into the darkening grounds: but a third
cause influenced my mind more than they.
I had at heart a strange and anxio=
us
thought. Something had happened which I could not comprehend; no one knew o=
f or
had seen the event but myself: it had taken place the preceding night. Mr.
Rochester that night was absent from home; nor was he yet returned: business
had called him to a small estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty
miles off- business it was requisite he should settle in person, previous to
his meditated departure from England. I waited now his return; eager to
disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution of the enigma that
perplexed me. Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I disclose my secret to
him, you shall share the confidence.
I sought the orchard, driven to its
shelter by the wind, which all day had blown strong and full from the south,
without, however, bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night d=
rew
on, it seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew
steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their
boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the strain bending their branchy
heads northward- the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass=
on
mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that July day.
It was not without a certain wild
pleasure I ran before the wind, delivering my trouble of mind to the
measureless air-torrent thundering through space. Descending the laurel wal=
k, I
faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trun=
k,
split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken fr=
om
each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below;
though community of vitality was destroyed- the sap could flow no more: the=
ir
great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter's tempests would be su=
re
to fell one or both to earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form o=
ne
tree- a ruin, but an entire ruin.
‘You did right to hold fast =
to
each other,’ I said: as if the monster- splinters were living things,=
and
could hear me. ‘I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorche=
d,
there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesio=
n at
the faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves more- never mo=
re
see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasu=
re
and love is over with you: but you are not desolate: each of you has a comr=
ade
to sympathise with him in his decay.’ As I looked up at them, the moon
appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her
disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewilde=
red,
dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of clou=
d.
The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and
water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, and I ran o=
ff
again.
Here and there I strayed through t=
he
orchard, gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree roots w=
as
thickly strewn; then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe=
; I
carried them into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I
repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though
summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a
cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been kindled some time, =
and
burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner: I wheeled the tab=
le
near it: I let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for
lighting. More restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I
could not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a little time-piece in t=
he
room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten.
‘How late it grows!’ I
said. ‘I will run down to the gates: it is moonlight at intervals; I =
can
see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meet him will save
some minutes of suspense.’
The wind roared high in the great
trees which embowered the gates; but the road as far as I could see, to the
right hand and the left, was all still and solitary: save for the shadows of
clouds crossing it at intervals as the moon looked out, it was but a long p=
ale
line, unvaried by one moving speck.
A puerile tear dimmed my eye while=
I
looked- a tear of disappointment and impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it
away. I lingered; the moon shut herself wholly within her chamber, and drew
close her curtain of dense cloud: the night grew dark; rain came driving fa=
st
on the gale.
‘I wish he would come! I wis=
h he
would come!’ I exclaimed, seized with hypochondriac foreboding. I had
expected his arrival before tea; now it was dark: what could keep him? Had =
an
accident happened? The event of last night again recurred to me. I interpre=
ted
it as a warning of disaster. I feared my hopes were too bright to be realis=
ed;
and I had enjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed
its meridian, and must now decline.
‘Well, I cannot return to the
house,’ I thought; ‘I cannot sit by the fireside, while he is
abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs than strain my heart; I w=
ill
go forward and meet him.’
I set out; I walked fast, but not =
far:
ere I had measured a quarter of a mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horse=
man
came on, full gallop; a dog ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment! It
was he: here he was, mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me; for =
the
moon had opened a blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright: he t=
ook
his hat off, and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet him.
‘There!’ he exclaimed,=
as
he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle: ‘You can't do wit=
hout
me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe; give me both hands: mount!’=
I obeyed: joy made me agile: I spr=
ang
up before him. A hearty kissing I got for a welcome, and some boastful triu=
mph,
which I swallowed as well as I could. He checked himself in his exultation =
to
demand, ‘But is there anything the matter, Janet, that you come to me=
et
me at such an hour? Is there anything wrong?’
‘No, but I thought you would
never come. I could not bear to wait in the house for you, especially with =
this
rain and wind.’
‘Rain and wind, indeed! Yes,=
you
are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak round you: but I think you are
feverish, Jane: both your cheek and hand are burning hot. I ask again, is t=
here
anything the matter?’
‘Nothing now; I am neither
afraid nor unhappy.’
‘Then you have been both?=
217;
‘Rather: but I'll tell you a=
ll
about it by-and-bye, sir; and I daresay you will only laugh at me for my pa=
ins.’
‘I'll laugh at you heartily =
when
to-morrow is past; till then I dare not: my prize is not certain. This is y=
ou,
who have been as slippery as an eel this last month, and as thorny as a
briar-rose? I could not lay a finger anywhere but I was pricked; and now I =
seem
to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms. You wandered out of the fold to
seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?’
‘I wanted you: but don't boa=
st.
Here we are at Thornfield: now let me get down.’
He landed me on the pavement. As J=
ohn
took his horse, and he followed me into the hall, he told me to make haste =
and
put something dry on, and then return to him in the library; and he stopped=
me,
as I made for the staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be long: =
nor
was I long; in five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper.
‘Take a seat and bear me
company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal but one you will eat at
Thornfield Hall for a long time.’
I sat down near him, but told him I
could not eat. ‘Is it because you have the prospect of a journey befo=
re
you, Jane? Is it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appet=
ite?’
‘I cannot see my prospects
clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know what thoughts I have in my head.
Everything in life seems unreal.’
‘Except me: I am substantial
enough- touch me.’
‘You, sir, are the most
phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream.’
He held out his hand, laughing. =
8216;Is
that a dream?’ said he, placing it close to my eyes. He had a rounded,
muscular, and vigorous hand, as well as a long, strong arm.
‘Yes; though I touch it, it =
is a
dream,’ said I, as I put it down from before my face. ‘Sir, have
you finished supper?’
‘Yes, Jane.’
I rang the bell and ordered away t=
he
tray. When we were again alone, I stirred the fire, and then took a low sea=
t at
my master's knee.
‘It is near midnight,’=
I
said.
‘Yes: but remember, Jane, you
promised to wake with me the night before my wedding.’
‘I did; and I will keep my
promise, for an hour or two at least: I have no wish to go to bed.’
‘Are all your arrangements
complete?’
‘All, sir.’
‘And on my part likewise,=
217;
he returned, ‘I have settled everything; and we shall leave Thornfield
to-morrow, within half-an-hour after our return from church.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘With what an extraordinary
smile you uttered that word- 'very well,' Jane! What a bright spot of colour
you have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?&=
#8217;
‘I believe I am.’
‘Believe! What is the matter?
Tell me what you feel.’
‘I could not, sir: no words
could tell you what I feel. I wish this present hour would never end: who k=
nows
with what fate the next may come charged?’
‘This is hypochondria, Jane.=
You
have been over-excited, or over-fatigued.’
‘Do you, sir, feel calm and
happy?’
‘Calm?- no: but happy- to th=
e heart's
core.’
I looked up at him to read the sig=
ns
of bliss in his face: it was ardent and flushed.
‘Give me your confidence, Ja= ne,’ he said: ‘relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses it, by impar= ting it to me. What do you fear?- that I shall not prove a good husband?’<= o:p>
‘It is the idea farthest fro=
m my
thoughts.’
‘Are you apprehensive of the=
new
sphere you are about to enter?- of the new life into which you are passing?=
’
‘No.’
‘You puzzle me, Jane: your l=
ook
and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain me. I want an explanation.&=
#8217;
‘Then, sir, listen. You were
from home last night?’
‘I was: I know that; and you
hinted a while ago at something which had happened in my absence:- nothing,
probably, of consequence; but, in short, it has disturbed you. Let me hear =
it.
Mrs. Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants
talk?- your sensitive self-respect has been wounded?’
‘No, sir.’ It struck
twelve- I waited till the time-piece had concluded its silver chime, and the
clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I proceeded.
‘All day yesterday I was very
busy, and very happy in my ceaseless bustle; for I am not, as you seem to
think, troubled by any haunting fears about the new sphere, et cetera: I th=
ink
it a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, because I love you.
No, sir, don't caress me now- let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted =
well
in Providence, and believed that events were working together for your good=
and
mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect- the calmness of the air and sky
forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on your journey. I
walked a little while on the pavement after tea, thinking of you; and I beh=
eld
you in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence. I th=
ought
of the life that lay before me- you=
r
life, sir- an existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much mo=
re
so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of
its own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary
wilderness: for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned
cold and the sky cloudy: I went in, Sophie called me upstairs to look at my
wedding-dress, which they had just brought; and under it in the box I found
your present- the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for f=
rom
London: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into
accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised how I
would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to masque =
your
plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I would carry =
down
to you the square of unembroidered blond I had myself prepared as a covering
for my low-born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who c=
ould
bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly h=
ow
you would look; and heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haugh=
ty
disavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate =
your
standing, by marrying either a purse or a coronet.’
‘How well you read me, you
witch!’ interposed Mr. Rochester: ‘but what did you find in the
veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, that you loo=
k so
mournful now?’
‘No, no, sir; besides the
delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester=
's
pride; and that did not scare me, because I am used to the sight of the dem=
on.
But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose: it blew yesterday evening, not as=
it
blows now- wild and high- but 'with a sullen, moaning sound' far more eerie=
. I
wished you were at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty
chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I went to bed, I
could not sleep- a sense of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale still
rising, seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the h=
ouse
or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful yet doleful =
at
every lull; at last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance. I=
was
glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark =
and
gusty night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a
strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my=
first
sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total obscurity
environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a little ch=
ild:
a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk, and which shivered in =
my
cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I thought, sir, that you were on=
the
road a long way before me; and I strained every nerve to overtake you, and =
made
effort on effort to utter your name and entreat you to stop- but my movemen=
ts
were fettered, and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt,
withdrew farther and farther every moment.’
‘And these dreams weigh on y=
our
spirits now, Jane, when I am close to you? Little nervous subject! Forget
visionary woe, and think only of real happiness! You say you love me, Janet:
yes- I will not forget that; and you cannot deny it. Those words did not die inarticulate on your lips. I heard them
clear and soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music- 'I think =
it
is a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, Edward, because I =
love
you.' Do you love me, Jane?- repeat it.’
‘I do, sir- I do, with my wh=
ole
heart.’
‘Well,’ he said, after
some minutes' silence, ‘it is strange; but that sentence has penetrat=
ed
my breast painfully. Why? I think because you said it with such an earnest,
religious energy, and because your upward gaze at me now is the very sublim=
e of
faith, truth, and devotion: it is too much as if some spirit were near me. =
Look
wicked, Jane: as you know well how to look: coin one of your wild, shy, pro=
voking
smiles; tell me you hate me- tease me, vex me; do anything but move me: I w=
ould
rather be incensed than saddened.’
‘I will tease you and vex yo=
u to
your heart's content, when I have finished my tale: but hear me to the end.=
’
‘I thought, Jane, you had to=
ld
me all. I thought I had found the source of your melancholy in a dream.R=
17;
I shook my head. ‘What! is t=
here
more? But I will not believe it to be anything important. I warn you of
incredulity beforehand. Go on.’
The disquietude of his air, the
somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner, surprised me: but I proceed=
ed.
‘I dreamt another dream, sir:
that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I tho=
ught
that of all the stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very =
high
and very fragile-looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the gra=
ss-
grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there ove=
r a
fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried the unkn=
own
little child: I might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms-=
however
much its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop o=
f a
horse at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and you were depart=
ing
for many years and for a distant country. I climbed the thin wall with fran=
tic
perilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones
rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child c=
lung
round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I gained the summ=
it.
I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening every moment. The blast =
blew
so strong I could not stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the
scared infant in my lap: you turned an angle of the road: I bent forward to
take a last look; the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my
knee, I lost my balance, fell, and woke.’
‘Now, Jane, that is all.R=
17;
‘All the preface, sir; the t=
ale
is yet to come. On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought- Oh, it is da=
ylight!
But I was mistaken; it was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come i=
n.
There was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where,
before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I he=
ard
a rustling there. I asked, 'Sophie, what are you doing?' No one answered; b=
ut a
form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed
the garments pendent from the portmanteau. 'Sophie! Sophie!' I again cried:=
and
still it was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise,
then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my ve=
ins.
Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfa=
x:
it was not- no, I was sure of it, and am still- it was not even that strange
woman, Grace Poole.’
‘It must have been one of th=
em,’
interrupted my master.
‘No, sir, I solemnly assure =
you
to the contrary. The shape standing before me had never crossed my eyes wit=
hin
the precincts of Thornfield Hall before; the height, the contour were new to
me.’
‘Describe it, Jane.’
‘It seemed, sir, a woman, ta=
ll
and large, with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back. I know not =
what
dress she had on: it was white and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or
shroud, I cannot tell.’
‘Did you see her face?’=
;
‘Not at first. But presently=
she
took my veil from its place; she held it up, gazed at it long, and then she
threw it over her own head, and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw =
the
reflection of the visage and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong
glass.’
‘And how were they?’
‘Fearful and ghastly to me- =
oh,
sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a discoloured face- it was a savage
face. I wish I could forget the roll of the red eyes and the fearful blacke=
ned
inflation of the lineaments!’
‘Ghosts are usually pale, Ja=
ne.’
‘This, sir, was purple: the =
lips
were swelled and dark; the brow furrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised =
over
the bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?’
‘You may.’
‘Of the foul German spectre-=
the
Vampyre.’
‘Ah!- what did it do?’=
‘Sir, it removed my veil from
its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and flinging both on the floor, tramp=
led
on them.’
‘Afterwards?’
‘It drew aside the
window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawn approaching, for, taking=
the
candle, it retreated to the door. Just at my bedside, the figure stopped: t=
he
fiery eyes glared upon me- she thrust up her candle close to my face, and
extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over min=
e,
and I lost consciousness: for the second time in my life- only the second t=
ime-
I became insensible from terror.’
‘Who was with you when you
revived?’
‘No one, sir, but the broad =
day.
I rose, bathed my head and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that
though enfeebled I was not ill, and determined that to none but you would I
impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what that woman was?’
‘The creature of an
over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be careful of you, my treasu=
re:
nerves like yours were not made for rough handling.’
‘Sir, depend on it, my nerves
were not in fault; the thing was real: the transaction actually took place.=
’
‘And your previous dreams, w=
ere
they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insupera=
ble
obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear- without a kiss- without a word?=
’
‘Not yet.’
‘Am I about to do it? Why, t=
he
day is already commenced which is to bind us indissolubly; and when we are =
once
united, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee t=
hat.’
‘Mental terrors, sir! I wish=
I
could believe them to be only such: I wish it more now than ever; since even
you cannot explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant.’
‘And since I cannot do it, J=
ane,
it must have been unreal.’
‘But, sir, when I said so to
myself on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather
courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full
daylight, there- on the carpet- I saw what gave the distinct lie to my
hypothesis,- the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!’
I felt Mr. Rochester start and
shudder; he hastily flung his arms round me. ‘Thank God!’ he
exclaimed, ‘that if anything malignant did come near you last night, =
it
was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have happened!=
8217;
He drew his breath short, and stra=
ined
me so close to him, I could scarcely pant. After some minutes' silence, he
continued, cheerily-
‘Now, Janet, I'll explain to=
you
all about it. It was half dream, half reality. A woman did, I doubt not, en=
ter
your room: and that woman was- must have been- Grace Poole. You call her a
strange being yourself: from all you know, you have reason so to call her- =
what
did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you
noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you
were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own: the l=
ong
dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were
figments of imagination; results of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the =
veil
was real: and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman i=
n my
house: when we have been married a year and a day, I will tell you; but not
now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?R=
17;
I reflected, and in truth it appea=
red
to me the only possible one: satisfied I was not, but to please him I
endeavoured to appear so- relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him
with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to lea=
ve
him.
‘Does not Sophie sleep with
Adele in the nursery?’ he asked, as I lit my candle.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And there is room enough in
Adele's little bed for you. You must share it with her to-night, Jane: it i=
s no
wonder that the incident you have related should make you nervous, and I wo=
uld
rather you did not sleep alone: promise me to go to the nursery.’
‘I shall be very glad to do =
so,
sir.’
‘And fasten the door securel=
y on
the inside. Wake Sophie when you go upstairs, under pretence of requesting =
her
to rouse you in good time to- morrow; for you must be dressed and have fini=
shed
breakfast before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care a=
way,
Janet. Don't you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there =
is
no more beating of rain against the window-panes: look here’ (he lift=
ed
up the curtain)- ’it is a lovely night!’
It was. Half heaven was pure and
stainless: the clouds, now trooping before the wind, which had shifted to t=
he
west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone
peacefully.
‘Well,’ said Mr.
Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, ‘how is my Janet now?R=
17;
‘The night is serene, sir; a=
nd
so am I.’
‘And you will not dream of
separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy love and blissful union.’=
;
This prediction was but half
fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream of j=
oy;
for I never slept at all. With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumb=
er
of childhood- so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent- and waited for the
coming day: all my life was awake and astir in my frame: and as soon as the=
sun
rose I rose too. I remember Adele clung to me as I left her: I remember I
kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck; and I cried over her
with strange emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs would break =
her
still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past life; and here I was n=
ow
to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future d=
ay.
Sophie came at seven to dress me: =
she
was very long indeed in accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester,
grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come.=
She
was just fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair
with a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could.
‘Stop!’ she cried in
French. ‘Look at yourself in the mirror: you have not taken one peep.=
’
So I turned at the door: I saw a r=
obed
and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image =
of a
stranger. ‘Jane!’ called a voice, and I hastened down. I was
received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester.
‘Lingerer!’ he said, &=
#8216;my
brain is on fire with impatience, and you tarry so long!’
He took me into the dining-room,
surveyed me keenly all over, pronounced me ‘fair as a lily, and not o=
nly
the pride of his life, but the desire of his eyes,’ and then telling =
me
he would give me but ten minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. O=
ne
of his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it.
‘Is John getting the carriage
ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is the luggage brought down=
?’
‘They are bringing it down, =
sir.’
‘Go you to the church: see if
Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk are there: return and tell me.’=
;
The church, as the reader knows, w=
as
but just beyond the gates; the footman soon returned.
‘Mr. Wood is in the vestry, =
sir,
putting on his surplice.’
‘And the carriage?’
‘The horses are harnessing.&=
#8217;
‘We shall not want it to go =
to
church; but it must be ready the moment we return: all the boxes and luggage
arranged and strapped on, and the coachman in his seat.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jane, are you ready?’=
I rose. There were no groomsmen, no
bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester an=
d I.
Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to he=
r,
but my hand was held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I
could hardly follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester's face was to feel that n=
ot a
second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other
bridegroom ever looked as he did- so bent up to a purpose, so grimly resolu=
te:
or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing
eyes.
I know not whether the day was fai=
r or
foul; in descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart w=
as
with my eyes; and both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted=
to
see the invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a
glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed
breasting and resisting.
At the churchyard wicket he stoppe=
d:
he discovered I was quite out of breath. ‘Am I cruel in my love?̵=
7;
he said. ‘Delay an instant: lean on me, Jane.’
And now I can recall the picture of
the grey old house of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round t=
he
steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the g=
reen
grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers
straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes graven on the f=
ew
mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they saw us, they passed rou=
nd
to the back of the church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the
side-aisle door and witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not
observed; he was earnestly looking at my face from which the blood had, I
daresay, momentarily fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and l=
ips
cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the pat=
h to
the porch.
We entered the quiet and humble
temple; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar, the cle=
rk
beside him. All was still: two shadows only moved in a remote corner. My
conjecture had been correct: the strangers had slipped in before us, and th=
ey
now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing
through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel
guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the tim=
e of
the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife.
Our place was taken at the communi=
on
rails. Hearing a cautious step behind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of
the strangers- a gentleman, evidently- was advancing up the chancel. The
service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through;=
and
then the clergyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly towar=
ds
Mr. Rochester, went on.
‘I require and charge you bo=
th
(as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all
hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye
may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for=
be
ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's W=
ord
doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawf=
ul.’
He paused, as the custom is. When =
is
the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a
hundred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book=
, and
had held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already
stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, ‘Wilt t=
hou
have this woman for thy wedded wife?’- when a distinct and near voice
said-
‘The marriage cannot go on: I
declare the existence of an impediment.’
The clergyman looked up at the spe=
aker
and stood mute; the clerk did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if=
an
earthquake had rolled under his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turn=
ing
his head or eyes, he said, ‘Proceed.’
Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said- <= o:p>
‘I cannot proceed without so=
me
investigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or
falsehood.’
‘The ceremony is quite broken
off,’ subjoined the voice behind us. ‘I am in a condition to pr=
ove
my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists.’
Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded no=
t:
he stood stubborn and rigid, making no movement but to possess himself of my
hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was =
his
pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still watchful,
and yet wild beneath!
Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. ‘=
What
is the nature of the impediment?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps it may be =
got
over- explained away?’
‘Hardly,’ was the answ=
er. ‘I
have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly.’
The speaker came forward and leane=
d on
the rails. He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, b=
ut
not loudly-
‘It simply consists in the
existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.̵=
7;
My nerves vibrated to those low-sp=
oken
words as they had never vibrated to thunder- my blood felt their subtle
violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no
danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His w=
hole
face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed
nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without
smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my
waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.
‘Who are you?’ he aske=
d of
the intruder.
‘My name is Briggs, a solici=
tor
of - - Street, London.’
‘And you would thrust on me a
wife?’
‘I would remind you of your
lady's existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not.’
‘Favour me with an account of
her- with her name, her parentage, her place of abode.’
‘Certainly.’ Mr. Briggs
calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, na=
sal
voice:-
‘'I affirm and can prove tha=
t on
the 20th of October A.D. - - (a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax
Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of - -, and of Ferndean Manor,=
in -
-shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughte=
r of
Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at - - church,
Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the regi=
ster
of that church- a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason=
.'‘
‘That- if a genuine document=
- may
prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned
therein as my wife is still living.’
‘She was living three months
ago,’ returned the lawyer.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have a witness to the fac=
t,
whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert.’
‘Produce him- or go to hell.=
’
‘I will produce him first- h=
e is
on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward.’
Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name,
set his teeth; he experienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; nea=
r to
him as I was, I felt the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through =
his
frame. The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now
drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder- yes, it was Ma=
son
himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I have often s=
aid,
was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and =
his
face flushed- olive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as from
spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong arm- he
could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor, shocked by ruthless
blow the breath from his body- but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, =
8216;Good
God!’ Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rochester- his passion died as if a
blight had shrivelled it up: he only asked- ’What have you to say?’
An inaudible reply escaped Mason's
white lips.
‘The devil is in it if you
cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?’
‘Sir- sir,’ interrupted
the clergyman, ‘do not forget you are in a sacred place.’ Then
addressing Mason, he inquired gently, ‘Are you aware, sir, whether or=
not
this gentleman's wife is still living?’
‘Courage,’ urged the
lawyer,- ’speak out.’
‘She is now living at Thornf=
ield
Hall,’ said Mason, in more articulate tones: ‘I saw her there l=
ast
April. I am her brother.’
‘At Thornfield Hall!’
ejaculated the clergyman. ‘Impossible! I am an old resident in this
neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hal=
l.’
I saw a grim smile contort Mr.
Rochester's lips, and he muttered-
‘No, by God! I took care that
none should hear of it- or of her under that name.’ He mused- for ten
minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed his resolve, and announced =
it-
‘Enough! all shall bolt out =
at
once, like the bullet from the barrel. Wood, close your book and take off y=
our
surplice; John Green (to the clerk), leave the church: there will be no wed=
ding
to-day.’ The man obeyed.
Mr. Rochester continued, hardily a= nd recklessly: ‘Bigamy is an ugly word!- I meant, however, to be a bigam= ist; but fate has out-manoeuvred me, or Providence has checked me,- perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at this moment; and, as my pastor the= re would tell me, deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up:- what = this lawyer and his client say is true: I have been married, and the woman to wh= om I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house= up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister: some, my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago,- Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage, who is now, = with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick!- never fear me!- I'd almost as soon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman and a drunkard!- as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they were silen= t on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in b= oth points. I had a charming partner- pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly,= if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason= , I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and = my wife! You shall see what sort o= f a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right = to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This gi= rl,’ he continued, looking at me, ‘knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal and never dreamt she = was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come all of you- follow!’<= o:p>
Still holding me fast, he left the
church: the three gentlemen came after. At the front door of the hall we fo=
und
the carriage.
‘Take it back to the
coach-house, John,’ said Mr. Rochester coolly; ‘it will not be
wanted to-day.’
At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Ade=
le,
Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and greet us.
‘To the right-about- every s=
oul!’
cried the master; ‘away with your congratulations! Who wants them? No=
t I!-
they are fifteen years too late!’
He passed on and ascended the stai=
rs,
still holding my hand, and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, whi=
ch
they did. We mounted the first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded =
to
the third storey: the low, black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master-key,
admitted us to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial
cabinet.
‘You know this place, Mason,=
’
said our guide; ‘she bit and stabbed you here.’
He lifted the hangings from the wa=
ll,
uncovering the second door: this, too, he opened. In a room without a windo=
w,
there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended
from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently coo=
king
something in a saucepan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room,=
a
figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human bein=
g,
one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours;=
it
snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with
clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its he=
ad
and face.
‘Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!=
217;
said Mr. Rochester. ‘How are you? and how is your charge to-day?̵=
7;
‘We're tolerable, sir, I tha=
nk
you,’ replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob=
: ‘rather
snappish, but not 'rageous.’
A fierce cry seemed to give the li=
e to
her favourable report: the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its
hind-feet.
‘Ah! sir, she sees you!̵=
7;
exclaimed Grace: ‘you'd better not stay.’
‘Only a few moments, Grace: =
you
must allow me a few moments.’
‘Take care then, sir!- for G=
od's
sake, take care!’
The maniac bellowed: she parted her
shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised
well that purple face,- those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.
‘Keep out of the way,’
said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: ‘she has no knife now, I
suppose, and I'm on my guard.’
‘One never knows what she ha=
s,
sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft.=
’
‘We had better leave her,=
217;
whispered Mason.
‘Go to the devil!’ was=
his
brother-in-law's recommendation.
‘'Ware!’ cried Grace. =
The
three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him:
the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to=
his
cheek: they struggled. She was a big woman, in stature almost equalling her
husband, and corpulent besides: she showed virile force in the contest- more
than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settl=
ed
her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only wrestl=
e.
At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned =
them
behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The
operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive
plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them wit=
h a
smile both acrid and desolate.
‘That is my wife,’ sai=
d he. ‘Such
is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know- such are the endearments wh=
ich
are to solace my leisure hours! And this
is what I wished to have’ (laying his hand on my shoulder): ‘th=
is
young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking
collectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her just as a change after =
that
fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these clear
eyes with the red balls yonder- this face with that mask- this form with th=
at
bulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and remember =
with
what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up=
my
prize.’
We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester sta=
yed
a moment behind us, to give some further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor
addressed me as he descended the stair.
‘You, madam,’ said he,=
‘are
cleared from all blame: your uncle will be glad to hear it- if, indeed, he
should be still living- when Mr. Mason returns to Madeira.’
‘My uncle! What of him? Do y=
ou
know him?’
‘Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has
been the Funchal correspondent of his house for some years. When your uncle
received your letter intimating the contemplated union between yourself and=
Mr.
Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on =
his
way back to Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the
intelligence; for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentlem=
an
of the name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you may
suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say,=
is
now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his disease- decli=
ne- and
the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He could not th=
en
hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare into which you h=
ad
fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in taking steps to prevent
the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance. I used all despat=
ch,
and am thankful I was not too late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I=
not
morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would
advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better
remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Ha=
ve
we anything else to stay for?’ he inquired of Mr. Mason.
‘No, no- let us be gone,R=
17;
was the anxious reply; and without waiting to take leave of Mr. Rochester, =
they
made their exit at the hall door. The clergyman stayed to exchange a few
sentences, either of admonition or reproof, with his haughty parishioner; t=
his
duty done, he too departed.
I heard him go as I stood at the
half-open door of my own room, to which I had now withdrawn. The house clea=
red,
I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded-=
not
to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but- mechanically to ta=
ke
off the wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn yesterda=
y,
as I thought, for the last time. I then sat down: I felt weak and tired. I
leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them. And now I thought: =
till
now I had only heard, seen, moved- followed up and down where I was led or
dragged- watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: bu=
t now, I
thought.
The morning had been a quiet morni=
ng
enough- all except the brief scene with the lunatic: the transaction in the
church had not been noisy; there was no explosion of passion, no loud
altercation, no dispute, no defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few
words had been spoken, a calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; =
some
stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given,
evidence adduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my mas=
ter;
then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all was o=
ver.
I was in my own room as usual- just
myself, without obvious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or
maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?- where was her lif=
e?- where
were her prospects?
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent,
expectant woman- almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life =
was
pale; her prospects were desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer;=
a
white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, dri=
fts
crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: l=
anes
which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodd=
en
snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as
groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-fore=
sts
in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead- struck with a subtle doom, such a=
s,
in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on =
my
cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill,
livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love: that feeling wh=
ich
was my master's- which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suff=
ering
child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not se=
ek
Mr. Rochester's arms- it could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, never
more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted- confidence destroyed! Mr.
Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I had thought
him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me; b=
ut
the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his prese=
nce
I must go: that I perceived wel=
l.
When- how- whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not,
would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, he could not have
for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me =
no
more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to =
him.
Oh, how blind had been my eyes! How weak my conduct!
My eyes were covered and closed:
eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black a=
nd
confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have =
laid
me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in
remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee=
I
had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only still throb=
bed
life-like within me- a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: th=
ese
words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that shou=
ld
be whispered, but no energy was found to express them-
‘Be not far from me, for tro=
uble
is near: there is none to help.’
It was near: and as I had lifted no
petition to Heaven to avert it- as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent =
my
knees, nor moved my lips- it came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured o=
ver
me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched=
, my
faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That
bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, ‘the waters came into my s=
oul;
I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods
overflowed me.’
Some time in the afternoon I raise=
d my
head, and looking round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its
decline on the wall, I asked, ‘What am I to do?’
But the answer my mind gave- ̵=
7;Leave
Thornfield at once’- was so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears.=
I
said I could not bear such words now. ‘That I am not Edward Rochester=
's
bride is the least part of my woe,’ I alleged: ‘that I have wak=
ened
out of most glorious dreams, and found them all void and vain, is a horror I
could bear and master; but that I must leave him decidedly, instantly,
entirely, is intolerable. I cannot do it.’
But, then, a voice within me averr=
ed
that I could do it and foretold that I should do it. I wrestled with my own=
resolution:
I wanted to be weak that I might avoid the awful passage of further sufferi=
ng I
saw laid out for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the thr=
oat,
told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in the slough, =
and
swore that with that arm of iron he would thrust her down to unsounded dept=
hs
of agony.
‘Let me be torn away,’
then I cried. ‘Let another help me!’
‘No; you shall tear yourself
away, none shall help you: you shall yourself pluck out your right eye;
yourself cut off your right hand: your heart shall be the victim, and you t=
he
priest to transfix it.’
I rose up suddenly, terror-struck =
at
the solitude which so ruthless a judge haunted,- at the silence which so aw=
ful
a voice filled. My head swam as I stood erect. I perceived that I was sicke=
ning
from excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my lips th=
at
day, for I had taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected
that, long as I had been shut up here, no message had been sent to ask how I
was, or to invite me to come down: not even little Adele had tapped at the
door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me. ‘Friends always forget tho=
se
whom fortune forsakes,’ I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed o=
ut.
I stumbled over an obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and=
my
limbs were feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to t=
he
ground: an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up- I was supported by Mr.
Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold.
‘You come out at last,’=
; he
said. ‘Well, I have been waiting for you long, and listening: yet not=
one
movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that death-like hu=
sh,
and I should have forced the lock like a burglar. So you shun me?- you shut
yourself up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me =
with
vehemence. You are passionate. I expected a scene of some kind. I was prepa=
red
for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast: now a
senseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err:
you have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace=
of
tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?’
‘Well, Jane! not a word of
reproach? Nothing bitter- nothing poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sti=
ng a
passion? You sit quietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a wear=
y,
passive look.’
‘Jane, I never meant to wound
you thus. If the man who had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him a=
s a
daughter, that ate of his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom,=
had
by some mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his
bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?’
Reader, I forgave him at the momen=
t and
on the spot. There was such deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his
tone, such manly energy in his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged
love in his whole look and mien- I forgave him all: yet not in words, not
outwardly; only at my heart's core.
‘You know I am a scoundrel,
Jane?’ ere long he inquired wistfully- wondering, I suppose, at my
continued silence and tameness, the result rather of weakness than of will.=
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then tell me so roundly and
sharply- don't spare me.’
‘I cannot: I am tired and si=
ck.
I want some water.’ He heaved a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking m=
e in
his arms, carried me downstairs. At first I did not know to what room he had
borne me; all was cloudy to my glazed sight: presently I felt the reviving
warmth of a fire; for, summer as it was, I had become icy cold in my chambe=
r.
He put wine to my lips; I tasted it and revived; then I ate something he
offered me, and was soon myself. I was in the library- sitting in his chair=
- he
was quite near. ‘If I could go out of life now, without too sharp a p=
ang,
it would be well for me,’ I thought; ‘then I should not have to
make the effort of cracking my heart-strings in rending them from among Mr.
Rochester's. I must leave him, it appears. I do not want to leave him- I ca=
nnot
leave him.’
‘How are you now, Jane?̵=
7;
‘Much better, sir; I shall be
well soon.’
‘Taste the wine again, Jane.=
’
I obeyed him; then he put the glas=
s on
the table, stood before me, and looked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned
away, with an inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some
kind; he walked fast through the room and came back; he stooped towards me =
as
if to kiss me; but I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my fa=
ce
away and put his aside.
‘What!- How is this?’ =
he
exclaimed hastily. ‘Oh, I know! you won't kiss the husband of Bertha
Mason? You consider my arms filled and my embraces appropriated?’
‘At any rate, there is neith=
er
room nor claim for me, sir.’
‘Why, Jane? I will spare you=
the
trouble of much talking; I will answer for you- Because I have a wife alrea=
dy,
you would reply.- I guess rightly?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you think so, you must h=
ave
a strange opinion of me; you must regard me as a plotting profligate- a base
and low rake who has been simulating disinterested love in order to draw you
into a snare deliberately laid, and strip you of honour and rob you of
self-respect. What do you say to that? I see you can say nothing in the fir=
st
place, you are faint still, and have enough to do to draw your breath; in t=
he
second place, you cannot yet accustom yourself to accuse and revile me, and
besides, the flood-gates of tears are opened, and they would rush out if you
spoke much; and you have no desire to expostulate, to upbraid, to make a sc=
ene:
you are thinking how to act- talking you consider is of no use.=
I
know you- I am on my guard.’
‘Sir, I do not wish to act
against you,’ I said; and my unsteady voice warned me to curtail my
sentence.
‘Not in your sense of the wo=
rd,
but in mine you are scheming to destroy me. You have as good as said that I=
am
a married man- as a married man you will shun me, keep out of my way: just =
now
you have refused to kiss me. You intend to make yourself a complete strange=
r to
me: to live under this roof only as Adele's governess; if ever I say a frie=
ndly
word to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to me, you will =
say,-
'That man had nearly made me his mistress: I must be ice and rock to him;' =
and
ice and rock you will accordingly become.’
I cleared and steadied my voice to
reply: ‘All is changed about me, sir; I must change too- there is no
doubt of that; and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats =
with
recollections and associations, there is only one way- Adele must have a new
governess, sir.’
‘Oh, Adele will go to school=
- I
have settled that already; nor do I mean to torment you with the hideous
associations and recollections of Thornfield Hall- this accursed place- this
tent of Achan- this insolent vault, offering the ghastliness of living deat=
h to
the light of the open sky- this narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend,
worse than a legion of such as we imagine. Jane, you shall not stay here, n=
or
will I. I was wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield Hall, knowing as I did =
how
it was haunted. I charged them to conceal from you, before I ever saw you, =
all
knowledge of the curse of the place; merely because I feared Adele never wo=
uld
have a governess to stay if she knew with what inmate she was housed, and my
plans would not permit me to remove the maniac elsewhere- though I possess =
an
old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than this, where I
could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthin=
ess
of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the
arrangement. Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her char=
ge:
but to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect
assassination, even of what I most hate.
‘Concealing the mad-woman's
neighbourhood from you, however, was something like covering a child with a
cloak and laying it down near a upas-tree: that demon's vicinage is poisone=
d,
and always was. But I'll shut up Thornfield Hall: I'll nail up the front do=
or
and board the lower windows: I'll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live
here with my wife, as you term =
that
fearful hag: Grace will do much for money, and she shall have her son, the
keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to bear her company and be at hand to give her a=
id
in the paroxysms, when my wife =
is
prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at night, to stab the=
m,
to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on- ’
‘Sir,’ I interrupted h=
im, ‘you
are inexorable for that unfortunate lady: you speak of her with hate- with
vindictive antipathy. It is cruel- she cannot help being mad.’
‘Jane, my little darling (so=
I
will call you, for so you are), you don't know what you are talking about; =
you
misjudge me again: it is not because she is mad I hate her. If you were mad=
, do
you think I should hate you?’
‘I do indeed, sir.’
‘Then you are mistaken, and =
you
know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am
capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and
sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were b=
roken,
it would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and
not a strait waistcoat- your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me=
: if
you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive y=
ou
in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not sh=
rink
from you with disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should h=
ave
no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring
tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing
into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.- But=
why
do I follow that train of ideas? I was talking of removing you from Thornfi=
eld.
All, you know, is prepared for prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go. I =
only
ask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then, farewell =
to
its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair to, which will =
be a
secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from unwelcome intrusion- even=
from
falsehood and slander.’
‘And take Adele with you, si=
r,’
I interrupted; ‘she will be a companion for you.’
‘What do you mean, Jane? I t=
old
you I would send Adele to school; and what do I want with a child for a
companion, and not my own child,- a French dancer's bastard? Why do you
importune me about her! I say, why do you assign Adele to me for a companio=
n?’
‘You spoke of a retirement, =
sir;
and retirement and solitude are dull: too dull for you.’
‘Solitude! solitude!’ =
he
reiterated with irritation. ‘I see I must come to an explanation. I d=
on't
know what sphynx-like expression is forming in your countenance. You are to
share my solitude. Do you understand?’
I shook my head: it required a deg=
ree
of courage, excited as he was becoming, even to risk that mute sign of diss=
ent.
He had been walking fast about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly roo=
ted
to one spot. He looked at me long and hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed
them on the fire, and tried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspec=
t.
‘Now for the hitch in Jane's character,’ he said at last, speaking more calmly than from his look I had expected him to speak. ‘The reel of silk has run smoothly enough = so far; but I always knew there would come a knot and a puzzle: here it is. Now for vexation, and exasperation, and endless trouble! By God! I long to exer= t a fraction of Samson's strength, and break the entanglement like tow!’<= o:p>
He recommenced his walk, but soon
again stopped, and this time just before me.
‘Jane! will you hear reason?=
’
(he stooped and approached his lips to my ear); ‘because, if you won'=
t,
I'll try violence.’ His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who =
is
just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild lice=
nse.
I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should=
be
able to do nothing with him. The present- the passing second of time- was a=
ll I
had in which to control and restrain him- a movement of repulsion, flight, =
fear
would have sealed my doom,- and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least=
. I
felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis =
was
perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels whe=
n he
slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand, loosen=
ed
the contorted fingers, and said to him, soothingly-
‘Sit down; I'll talk to you =
as
long as you like, and hear all you have to say, whether reasonable or
unreasonable.’
He sat down: but he did not get le=
ave
to speak directly. I had been struggling with tears for some time: I had ta=
ken
great pains to repress them, because I knew he would not like to see me wee=
p.
Now, however, I considered it well to let them flow as freely and as long as
they liked. If the flood annoyed him, so much the better. So I gave way and
cried heartily.
Soon I heard him earnestly entreat=
ing
me to be composed. I said I could not while he was in such a passion.
‘But I am not angry, Jane: I
only love you too well; and you had steeled your little pale face with such=
a
resolute, frozen look, I could not endure it. Hush, now, and wipe your eyes=
.’
His softened voice announced that =
he
was subdued; so I, in my turn, became calm. Now he made an effort to rest h=
is
head on my shoulder, but I would not permit it. Then he would draw me to hi=
m:
no.
‘Jane! Jane!’ he said,=
in
such an accent of bitter sadness it thrilled along every nerve I had; ̵=
6;you
don't love me, then? It was only my station, and the rank of my wife, that =
you
valued? Now that you think me disqualified to become your husband, you reco=
il
from my touch as if I were some toad or ape.’
These words cut me: yet what could=
I
do or I say? I ought probably to have done or said nothing; but I was so
tortured by a sense of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, I could not
control the wish to drop balm where I had wounded.
‘I do love you,’ I said, ‘more than ever: but I must n=
ot
show or indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it.=
8217;
‘The last time, Jane! What! =
do
you think you can live with me, and see me daily, and yet, if you still love
me, be always cold and distant?’
‘No, sir; that I am certain I
could not; and therefore I see there is but one way: but you will be furiou=
s if
I mention it.’
‘Oh, mention it! If I storm,=
you
have the art of weeping.’
‘Mr. Rochester, I must leave
you.’
‘For how long, Jane? For a f=
ew
minutes, while you smooth your hair- which is somewhat dishevelled; and bat=
he
your face- which looks feverish?’
‘I must leave Adele and
Thornfield. I must part with you for my whole life: I must begin a new
existence among strange faces and strange scenes.’
‘Of course: I told you you
should. I pass over the madness about parting from me. You mean you must be=
come
a part of me. As to the new existence, it is all right: you shall yet be my
wife: I am not married. You shall be Mrs. Rochester- both virtually and
nominally. I shall keep only to you so long as you and I live. You shall go=
to
a place I have in the south of France: a whitewashed villa on the shores of=
the
Mediterranean. There you shall live a happy, and guarded, and most innocent
life. Never fear that I wish to lure you into error- to make you my mistres=
s.
Why did you shake your head? Jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth I sh=
all
again become frantic.’
His voice and hand quivered: his l=
arge
nostrils dilated; his eye blazed: still I dared to speak.
‘Sir, your wife is living: t=
hat
is a fact acknowledged this morning by yourself. If I lived with you as you
desire, I should then be your mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical- is
false.’
‘Jane, I am not a gentle-tem=
pered
man- you forget that: I am not long- enduring; I am not cool and dispassion=
ate.
Out of pity to me and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it
throbs, and- beware!’
He bared his wrist, and offered it=
to
me: the blood was forsaking his cheek and lips, they were growing livid; I =
was
distressed on all hands. To agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so
abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of the question. I did what human bei=
ngs
do instinctively when they are driven to utter extremity- looked for aid to=
one
higher than man: the words ‘God help me!’ burst involuntarily f=
rom
my lips.
‘I am a fool!’ cried M=
r.
Rochester suddenly. ‘I keep telling her I am not married, and do not
explain to her why. I forget she knows nothing of the character of that wom=
an,
or of the circumstances attending my infernal union with her. Oh, I am cert=
ain
Jane will agree with me in opinion, when she knows all that I know! Just put
your hand in mine, Janet- that I may have the evidence of touch as well as
sight, to prove you are near me- and I will in a few words show you the real
state of the case. Can you listen to me?’
‘Yes, sir; for hours if you
will.’
‘I ask only minutes. Jane, d=
id
you ever hear or know that I was not the eldest son of my house: that I had=
once
a brother older than I?’
‘I remember Mrs. Fairfax tol=
d me
so once.’
‘And did you ever hear that =
my
father was an avaricious, grasping man?’
‘I have understood something=
to
that effect.’
‘Well, Jane, being so, it was
his resolution to keep the property together; he could not bear the idea of
dividing his estate and leaving me a fair portion: all, he resolved, should=
go
to my brother, Rowland. Yet as little could he endure that a son of his sho=
uld
be a poor man. I must be provided for by a wealthy marriage. He sought me a
partner betimes. Mr. Mason, a West India planter and merchant, was his old
acquaintance. He was certain his possessions were real and vast: he made
inquiries. Mr. Mason, he found, had a son and daughter; and he learned from=
him
that he could and would give the latter a fortune of thirty thousand pounds:
that sufficed. When I left college, I was sent out to Jamaica, to espouse a
bride already courted for me. My father said nothing about her money; but he
told me Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this w=
as
no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram: tall, dar=
k,
and majestic. Her family wished to secure me because I was of a good race; =
and
so did she. They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom =
saw
her alone, and had very little private conversation with her. She flattered=
me,
and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All =
the
men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimulat=
ed:
my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thoug=
ht I
loved her. There is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of soci=
ety,
the prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to
its commission. Her relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she all=
ured
me: a marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no
respect for myself when I think of that act!- an agony of inward contempt
masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even know her. I was=
not
sure of the existence of one virtue in her nature: I had marked neither
modesty, nor benevolence, nor candour, nor refinement in her mind or manner=
s- and,
I married her:- gross, grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I was! With less
sin I might have- But let me remember to whom I am speaking.’
‘My bride's mother I had nev=
er
seen: I understood she was dead. The honeymoon over, I learned my mistake; =
she
was only mad, and shut up in a lunatic asylum. There was a younger brother,=
too-
a complete dumb idiot. The elder one, whom you have seen (and whom I cannot
hate, whilst I abhor all his kindred, because he has some grains of affecti=
on
in his feeble mind, shown in the continued interest he takes in his wretched
sister, and also in a dog-like attachment he once bore me), will probably b=
e in
the same state one day. My father and my brother Rowland knew all this; but
they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds, and joined in the plot aga=
inst
me.’
‘These were vile discoveries=
; but
except for the treachery of concealment, I should have made them no subject=
of
reproach to my wife, even when I found her nature wholly alien to mine, her
tastes obnoxious to me, her cast of mind common, low, narrow, and singularly
incapable of being led to anything higher, expanded to anything larger- whe=
n I
found that I could not pass a single evening, nor even a single hour of the=
day
with her in comfort; that kindly conversation could not be sustained between
us, because whatever topic I started, immediately received from her a turn =
at
once coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile- when I perceived that I should
never have a quiet or settled household, because no servant would bear the
continued outbreaks of her violent and unreasonable temper, or the vexation=
s of
her absurd, contradictory, exacting orders- even then I restrained myself: I
eschewed upbraiding, I curtailed remonstrance; I tried to devour my repenta=
nce
and disgust in secret; I repressed the deep antipathy I felt.
‘Jane, I will not trouble you
with abominable details: some strong words shall express what I have to say=
. I
lived with that woman upstairs four years, and before that time she had tri=
ed
me indeed: her character ripened and developed with frightful rapidity; her
vices sprang up fast and rank: they were so strong, only cruelty could check
them, and I would not use cruelty. What a pigmy intellect she had, and what
giant propensities! How fearful were the curses those propensities entailed=
on
me! Bertha Mason, the true daughter of an infamous mother, dragged me throu=
gh
all the hideous and degrading agonies which must attend a man bound to a wi=
fe
at once intemperate and unchaste.
‘My brother in the interval =
was
dead, and at the end of the four years my father died too. I was rich enough
now- yet poor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross, impure, deprav=
ed I
ever saw, was associated with mine, and called by the law and by society a =
part
of me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the
doctors now discovered that my wife=
was mad- her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of insanity. Jane,
you don't like my narrative; you look almost sick- shall I defer the rest to
another day?’
‘No, sir, finish it now; I p=
ity
you- I do earnestly pity you.’
‘Pity, Jane, from some peopl=
e is
a noxious and insulting sort of tribute, which one is justified in hurling =
back
in the teeth of those who offer it; but that is the sort of pity native to
callous, selfish hearts; it is a hybrid, egotistical pain at hearing of woe=
s,
crossed with ignorant contempt for those who have endured them. But that is=
not
your pity, Jane; it is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at =
this
moment- with which your eyes are now almost overflowing- with which your he=
art
is heaving- with which your hand is trembling in mine. Your pity, my darlin=
g,
is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the
divine passion. I accept it, Jane; let the daughter have free advent- my ar=
ms
wait to receive her.’
‘Now, sir, proceed; what did=
you
do when you found she was mad?’
‘Jane, I approached the verg=
e of
despair; a remnant of self-respect was all that intervened between me and t=
he
gulf. In the eyes of the world, I was doubtless covered with grimy dishonou=
r;
but I resolved to be clean in my own sight- and to the last I repudiated the
contamination of her crimes, and wrenched myself from connection with her
mental defects. Still, society associated my name and person with hers; I y=
et
saw her and heard her daily: something of her breath (faugh!) mixed with the
air I breathed; and besides, I remembered I had once been her husband- that
recollection was then, and is now, inexpressibly odious to me; moreover, I =
knew
that while she lived I could never be the husband of another and better wif=
e;
and, though five years my senior (her family and her father had lied to me =
even
in the particular of her age), she was likely to live as long as I, being as
robust in frame as she was infirm in mind. Thus, at the age of twenty-six, I
was hopeless.
‘One night I had been awaken=
ed
by her yells- (since the medical men had pronounced her mad, she had, of
course, been shut up)- it was a fiery West Indian night; one of the descrip=
tion
that frequently precede the hurricanes of those climates. Being unable to s=
leep
in bed, I got up and opened the window. The air was like sulphur-steams- I
could find no refreshment anywhere. Mosquitoes came buzzing in and hummed
sullenly round the room; the sea, which I could hear from thence, rumbled d=
ull
like an earthquake- black clouds were casting up over it; the moon was sett=
ing
in the waves, broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball- she threw her last blo=
ody
glance over a world quivering with the ferment of tempest. I was physically
influenced by the atmosphere and scene, and my ears were filled with the cu=
rses
the maniac still shrieked out; wherein she momentarily mingled my name with
such a tone of demon-hate, with such language!- no professed harlot ever ha=
d a
fouler vocabulary than she: though two rooms off, I heard every word- the t=
hin
partitions of the West India house opposing but slight obstruction to her
wolfish cries.
‘'This life,' said I at last,
'is hell: this is the air- those are the sounds of the bottomless pit! I ha=
ve a
right to deliver myself from it if I can. The sufferings of this mortal sta=
te
will leave me with the heavy flesh that now cumbers my soul. Of the fanatic=
's
burning eternity I have no fear: there is not a future state worse than this
present one- let me break away, and go home to God!'
‘I said this whilst I knelt =
down
at, and unlocked a trunk which contained a brace of loaded pistols: I mean =
to
shoot myself. I only entertained the intention for a moment; for, not being
insane, the crisis of exquisite and unalloyed despair, which had originated=
the
wish and design of self-destruction, was past in a second.
‘A wind fresh from Europe bl=
ew
over the ocean and rushed through the open casement: the storm broke, strea=
med,
thundered, blazed, and the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolut=
ion.
While I walked under the dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst
its drenched pomegranates and pine-apples, and while the refulgent dawn of =
the
tropics kindled round me- I reasoned thus, Jane- and now listen; for it was
true Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and showed me the right path to
follow.
‘The sweet wind from Europe =
was
still whispering in the refreshed leaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in
glorious liberty; my heart, dried up and scorched for a long time, swelled =
to
the tone, and filled with living blood- my being longed for renewal- my soul
thirsted for a pure draught. I saw hope revive- and felt regeneration possi=
ble.
From a flowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea- bluer =
than
the sky: the old world was beyond; clear prospects opened thus:-
‘'Go,' said Hope, 'and live
again in Europe: there it is not known what a sullied name you bear, nor wh=
at a
filthy burden is bound to you. You may take the maniac with you to England;
confine her with due attendance and precautions at Thornfield: then travel
yourself to what clime you will, and form what new tie you like. That woman,
who has so abused your long- suffering, so sullied your name, so outraged y=
our
honour, so blighted your youth, is not your wife, nor are you her husband. =
See
that she is cared for as her condition demands, and you have done all that =
God
and humanity require of you. Let her identity, her connection with yourself=
, be
buried in oblivion: you are bound to impart them to no living being. Place =
her
in safety and comfort: shelter her degradation with secrecy, and leave her.=
'
‘I acted precisely on this
suggestion. My father and brother had not made my marriage known to their
acquaintance; because, in the very first letter I wrote to apprise them of =
the
union- having already begun to experience extreme disgust of its consequenc=
es,
and, from the family character and constitution, seeing a hideous future
opening to me- I added an urgent charge to keep it secret: and very soon the
infamous conduct of the wife my father had selected for me was such as to m=
ake
him blush to own her as his daughter-in-law. Far from desiring to publish t=
he
connection, he became as anxious to conceal it as myself.
‘To England, then, I conveyed
her; a fearful voyage I had with such a monster in the vessel. Glad was I w=
hen
I at last got her to Thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in that third-st=
orey
room, of whose secret inner cabinet she has now for ten years made a wild
beast's den- a goblin's cell. I had some trouble in finding an attendant for
her, as it was necessary to select one on whose fidelity dependence could be
placed; for her ravings would inevitably betray my secret: besides, she had
lucid intervals of days- sometimes weeks- which she filled up with abuse of=
me.
At last I hired Grace Poole from the Grimbsy Retreat. She and the surgeon,
Carter (who dressed Mason's wounds that night he was stabbed and worried), =
are
the only two I have ever admitted to my confidence. Mrs. Fairfax may indeed
have suspected something, but she could have gained no precise knowledge as=
to
facts. Grace has, on the whole, proved a good keeper; though, owing partly =
to a
fault of her own, of which it appears nothing can cure her, and which is
incident to her harassing profession, her vigilance has been more than once
lulled and baffled. The lunatic is both cunning and malignant; she has never
failed to take advantage of her guardian's temporary lapses; once to secrete
the knife with which she stabbed her brother, and twice to possess herself =
of
the key of her cell, and issue therefrom in the night-time. On the first of
these occasions, she perpetrated the attempt to burn me in my bed; on the
second, she paid that ghastly visit to you. I thank Providence, who watched
over you, that she then spent her fury on your wedding apparel, which perha=
ps
brought back vague reminiscences of her own bridal days: but on what might =
have
happened, I cannot endure to reflect. When I think of the thing which flew =
at
my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarlet visage over the nest =
of
my dove, my blood curdles- ’
‘And what, sir,’ I ask=
ed,
while he paused, ‘did you do when you had settled her here? Where did=
you
go?’
‘What did I do, Jane? I
transformed myself into a will-o'-the-wisp. Where did I go? I pursued
wanderings as wild as those of the March-spirit. I sought the Continent, and
went devious through all its lands. My fixed desire was to seek and find a =
good
and intelligent woman, whom I could love: a contrast to the fury I left at
Thornfield- ’
‘But you could not marry, si=
r.’
‘I had determined and was
convinced that I could and ought. It was not my original intention to decei=
ve,
as I have deceived you. I meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my propos=
als
openly: and it appeared to me so absolutely rational that I should be
considered free to love and be loved, I never doubted some woman might be f=
ound
willing and able to understand my case and accept me, in spite of the curse
with which I was burdened.’
‘Well, sir?’
‘When you are inquisitive, J=
ane,
you always make me smile. You open your eyes like an eager bird, and make e=
very
now and then a restless movement, as if answers in speech did not flow fast
enough for you, and you wanted to read the tablet of one's heart. But befor=
e I
go on, tell me what you mean by your 'Well, sir?' It is a small phrase very
frequent with you; and which many a time has drawn me on and on through
interminable talk: I don't very well know why.’
‘I mean,- What next? How did=
you
proceed? What came of such an event?’
‘Precisely! and what do you =
wish
to know now?’
‘Whether you found any one y=
ou
liked: whether you asked her to marry you; and what she said.’
‘I can tell you whether I fo=
und
any one I liked, and whether I asked her to marry me: but what she said is =
yet
to be recorded in the book of Fate. For ten long years I roved about, living
first in one capital, then another: sometimes in St. Petersburg; oftener in
Paris; occasionally in Rome, Naples, and Florence. Provided with plenty of
money and the passport of an old name, I could choose my own society: no
circles were closed against me. I sought my ideal of a woman amongst English
ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras, and German grafinnen. I could =
not
find her. Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glance, he=
ard
a tone, beheld a form, which announced the realisation of my dream: but I w=
as
presently undeserved. You are not to suppose that I desired perfection, eit=
her
of mind or person. I longed only for what suited me- for the antipodes of t=
he
Creole: and I longed vainly. Amongst them all I found not one whom, had I b=
een
ever so free, I- warned as I was of the risks, the horrors, the loathings of
incongruous unions- would have asked to marry me. Disappointment made me
reckless. I tried dissipation- never debauchery: that I hated, and hate. Th=
at
was my Indian Messalina's attribute: rooted disgust at it and her restraine=
d me
much, even in pleasure. Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to appro=
ach
me to her and her vices, and I eschewed it.
‘Yet I could not live alone;=
so
I tried the companionship of mistresses. The first I chose was Celine Varen=
s- another
of those steps which make a man spurn himself when he recalls them. You alr=
eady
know what she was, and how my liaison with her terminated. She had two
successors: an Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered
singularly handsome. What was their beauty to me in a few weeks? Giacinta w=
as
unprincipled and violent: I tired of her in three months. Clara was honest =
and
quiet; but heavy, mindless, and unimpressible: not one whit to my taste. I =
was
glad to give her a sufficient sum to set her up in a good line of business,=
and
so get decently rid of her. But, Jane, I see by your face you are not formi=
ng a
very favourable opinion of me just now. You think me an unfeeling,
loose-principled rake: don't you?’
‘I don't like you so well as=
I
have done sometimes, indeed, sir. Did it not seem to you in the least wrong=
to
live in that way, first with one mistress and then another? You talk of it =
as a
mere matter of course.’
‘It was with me; and I did n=
ot
like it. It was a grovelling fashion of existence: I should never like to
return to it. Hiring a mistress is the next worse thing to buying a slave: =
both
are often by nature, and always by position, inferior: and to live familiar=
ly
with inferiors is degrading. I now hate the recollection of the time I pass=
ed
with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara.’
I felt the truth of these words; a=
nd I
drew from them the certain inference, that if I were so far to forget myself
and all the teaching that had ever been instilled into me, as- under any
pretext- with any justification- through any temptation- to become the
successor of these poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same fee=
ling
which now in his mind desecrated their memory. I did not give utterance to =
this
conviction: it was enough to feel it. I impressed it on my heart, that it m=
ight
remain there to serve me as aid in the time of trial.
‘Now, Jane, why don't you say
'Well, sir?' I have not done. You are looking grave. You disapprove of me
still, I see. But let me come to the point. Last January, rid of all mistre=
sses-
in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely l=
ife-
corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and especial=
ly
against all womankind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual,
faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by business, I came back =
to
England.
‘On a frosty winter afternoo=
n, I
rode in sight of Thornfield Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace- no
pleasure there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting =
by
itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to =
it:
I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the
arbitress of my life- my genius for good or evil- waited there in humble gu=
ise.
I did not know it, even when, on the occasion of Mesrour's accident, it cam=
e up
and gravely offered me help. Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if=
a
linnet had hopped to my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was
surly; but the thing would not go: it stood by me with strange perseverance,
and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be aided, and by that
hand: and aided I was.
‘When once I had pressed the
frail shoulder, something new- a fresh sap and sense- stole into my frame. =
It
was well I had learnt that this elf must return to me- that it belonged to =
my
house down below- or I could not have felt it pass away from under my hand,=
and
seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you c=
ome
home that night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I thought of=
you
or watched for you. The next day I observed you- myself unseen- for half-an-
hour, while you played with Adele in the gallery. It was a snowy day, I
recollect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my room; the door was
ajar: I could both listen and watch. Adele claimed your outward attention f=
or a
while; yet I fancied your thoughts were elsewhere: but you were very patien=
t with
her, my little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. When at =
last
she left you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook yourself slo=
wly
to pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out at
the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again you pac=
ed
gently on and dreamed. I think those day visions were not dark: there was a
pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your
aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your look
revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when its spirit follows on willi=
ng
wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal heaven. The voice of Mrs.
Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the hall, wakened you: and how curiously =
you
smiled to and at yourself, Janet! There was much sense in your smile: it was
very shrewd, and seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to=
say-
'My fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are absolute=
ly
unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain; but without=
, I
am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and around me
gather black tempests to encounter.' You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs.
Fairfax some occupation: the weekly house accounts to make up, or something=
of
that sort, I think it was. I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight=
.
‘Impatiently I waited for
evening, when I might summon you to my presence. An unusual- to me- a perfe=
ctly
new character I suspected was yours: I desired to search it deeper and know=
it
better. You entered the room with a look and air at once shy and independen=
t:
you were quaintly dressed- much as you are now. I made you talk: ere long I
found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were restricted by
rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined by
nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making
herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet when
addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your
interlocutor's face: there was penetration and power in each glance you gav=
e;
when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon=
you
seemed to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence of sympathy betw=
een
you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how
quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your manner: snarl as I would,
you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; y=
ou
watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace=
I
cannot describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw: I li=
ked
what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time, I treated you
distantly, and sought your company rarely. I was an intellectual epicure, a=
nd
wished to prolong the gratification of making this novel and piquant
acquaintance: besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that=
if
I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade- the sweet charm of freshn=
ess
would leave it. I did not then know that it was no transitory blossom, but
rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreov=
er,
I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you- but you did not;
you kept in the schoolroom as still as your own desk and easel; if by chanc=
e I
met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of recognition, as=
was
consistent with respect. Your habitual expression in those days, Jane, was =
a thoughtful
look; not despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had
little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me, or =
if
you ever thought of me, and resolved to find this out.
‘I resumed my notice of you.
There was something glad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you
conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent schoolroom- it w=
as
the tedium of your life- that made you mournful. I permitted myself the del=
ight
of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft =
in
expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a
grateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at =
this
time: there was a curious hesitation in your manner: you glanced at me with=
a
slight trouble- a hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might be=
- whether
I was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant=
. I
was now too fond of you often to simulate the first whim; and, when I stret=
ched
my hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young,
wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and ther=
e to
my heart.’
‘Don't talk any more of those
days, sir,’ I interrupted, furtively dashing away some tears from my
eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew what I must do- and do soo=
n- and
all these reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings only made my
work more difficult.
‘No, Jane,’ he returne=
d: ‘what
necessity is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so much surer-=
the
Future so much brighter?’
I shuddered to hear the infatuated
assertion.
‘You see now how the case st= ands- do you not?’ he continued. ‘After a youth and manhood passed ha= lf in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love- I have found you. You are my sympathy- my bett= er self- my good angel. I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart;= it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.<= o:p>
‘It was because I felt and k=
new
this, that I resolved to marry you. To tell me that I had already a wife is
empty mockery: you know now that I had but a hideous demon. I was wrong to
attempt to deceive you; but I feared a stubbornness that exists in your
character. I feared early instilled prejudice: I wanted to have you safe be=
fore
hazarding confidences. This was cowardly: I should have appealed to your
nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I do now- opened to you plainly my l=
ife
of agony- described to you my hunger and thirst after a higher and worthier=
existence-
shown to you, not my resolution=
(that
word is weak), but my resistless be=
nt
to love faithfully and well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return.
Then I should have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me
yours. Jane- give it me now.’
A pause.
‘Why are you silent, Jane?=
8217;
I was experiencing an ordeal: a ha=
nd
of fiery iron grasped my vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackne=
ss,
burning! Not a human being that ever lived could wish to be loved better th=
an I
was loved; and him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must
renounce love and idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty- ̵=
7;Depart!’
‘Jane, you understand what I
want of you? Just this promise- 'I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.'‘
‘Mr. Rochester, I will not be yours.’
Another long silence.
‘Jane!’ recommenced he,
with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold w=
ith
ominous terror- for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising- ’=
Jane,
do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me go another?’
‘I do.’
‘Jane’ (bending towards
and embracing me), ‘do you mean it now?’
‘I do.’
‘And now?’ softly kiss=
ing
my forehead and cheek.
‘I do,’ extricating my=
self
from restraint rapidly and completely.
‘Oh, Jane, this is bitter! T=
his-
this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me.’
‘It would to obey you.’=
;
A wild look raised his brows- cros=
sed
his features: he rose; but he forebore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a
chair for support: I shook, I feared- but I resolved.
‘One instant, Jane. Give one
glance to my horrible life when you are gone. All happiness will be torn aw=
ay
with you. What then is left? For a wife I have but the maniac upstairs: as =
well
might you refer me to some corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Ja=
ne?
Where turn for a companion and for some hope?’
‘Do as I do: trust in God and
yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet again there.’
‘Then you will not yield?=
217;
‘No.’
‘Then you condemn me to live
wretched and to die accursed?’ His voice rose.
‘I advise you to live sinles=
s,
and I wish you to die tranquil.’
‘Then you snatch love and
innocence from me? You fling me back on lust for a passion- vice for an
occupation?’
‘Mr. Rochester, I no more as=
sign
this fate to you than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and
endure- you as well as I: do so. You will forget me before I forget you.=
217;
‘You make me a liar by such
language: you sully my honour. I declared I could not change: you tell me t=
o my
face I shall change soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, what a
perversity in your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a
fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being
injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom
you need fear to offend by living with me?’
This was true: and while he spoke =
my
very conscience and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with
crime in resisting him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that
clamoured wildly. ‘Oh, comply!’ it said. ‘Think of his
misery; think of his danger- look at his state when left alone; remember his
headlong nature; consider the recklessness following on despair- soothe him;
save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the world
cares for you? or who will be i=
njured
by what you do?’
Still indomitable was the reply- &=
#8217;I care for myself. The more solita=
ry,
the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect mys=
elf.
I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the
principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad- as I am now. Laws a=
nd
principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for =
such
moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour;
stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenienc=
e I
might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth- so I have
always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane-=
quite
insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can
count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I
have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.’
I did. Mr. Rochester, reading my
countenance, saw I had done so. His fury was wrought to the highest: he must
yield to it for a moment, whatever followed; he crossed the floor and seize=
d my
arm and grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance:
physically, I felt, at the moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the drau=
ght
and glow of a furnace: mentally, I still possessed my soul, and with it the
certainty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter- of=
ten
an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter- in the eye. My eye rose to
his; and while I looked in his fierce face I gave an involuntary sigh; his
gripe was painful, and my over-taxed strength almost exhausted.
‘Never,’ said he, as he
ground his teeth, ‘never was anything at once so frail and so
indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!’ (And he shook me with=
the
force of his hold.) ‘I could bend her with my finger and thumb: and w=
hat
good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? Consider that ey=
e:
consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of it, defying me, with
more than courage- with a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I can=
not
get at it- the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight
prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of=
the
house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself
possessor of its clay dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit- with will and
energy, and virtue and purity- that I want: not alone your brittle frame. Of
yourself you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart, if you
would: seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence- =
you
will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!’
As he said this, he released me fr=
om
his clutch, and only looked at me. The look was far worse to resist than the
frantic strain: only an idiot, however, would have succumbed now. I had dar=
ed
and baffled his fury; I must elude his sorrow: I retired to the door.
‘You are going, Jane?’=
‘I am going, sir.’
‘You are leaving me?’<= o:p>
‘Yes.’
‘You will not come? You will=
not
be my comforter, my rescuer? My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, =
are
all nothing to you?’
What unutterable pathos was in his
voice! How hard it was to reiterate firmly, ‘I am going.’
‘Jane!’
‘Mr. Rochester!’
‘Withdraw, then,- I consent;=
but
remember, you leave me here in anguish. Go up to your own room; think over =
all
I have said, and, Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings- think of me.’=
He turned away; he threw himself on
his face on the sofa. ‘Oh, Jane! my hope- my love- my life!’ br=
oke
in anguish from his lips. Then came a deep, strong sob.
I had already gained the door; but,
reader, I walked back- walked back as determinedly as I had retreated. I kn=
elt
down by him; I turned his face from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I
smoothed his hair with my hand.
‘God bless you, my dear mast=
er!’
I said. ‘God keep you from harm and wrong- direct you, solace you- re=
ward
you well for your past kindness to me.’
‘Little Jane's love would ha=
ve
been my best reward,’ he answered; ‘without it, my heart is bro=
ken.
But Jane will give me her love: yes- nobly, generously.’
Up the blood rushed to his face; f=
orth
flashed the fire from his eyes; erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I
evaded the embrace, and at once quitted the room.
‘Farewell!’ was the cr=
y of
my heart as I left him. Despair added, ‘Farewell for ever!’
* * * * *
That night I never thought to slee=
p;
but a slumber fell on me as soon as I lay down in bed. I was transported in
thought to the scenes of childhood: I dreamt I lay in the red-room at
Gateshead; that the night was dark, and my mind impressed with strange fear=
s.
The light that long ago had struck me into syncope, recalled in this vision,
seemed glidingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause in the centre =
of
the obscured ceiling. I lifted up my head to look: the roof resolved to clo=
uds,
high and dim; the gleam was such as the moon imparts to vapours she is abou=
t to
sever. I watched her come- watched with the strangest anticipation; as thou=
gh
some word of doom were to be written on her disk. She broke forth as never =
moon
yet burst from cloud: a hand first penetrated the sable folds and waved them
away; then, not a moon, but a white human form shone in the azure, inclinin=
g a
glorious brow earthward. It gazed and gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit: i=
mmeasurably
distant was the tone, yet so near, it whispered in my heart-
‘My daughter, flee temptatio=
n.’
‘Mother, I will.’
So I answered after I had waked fr=
om
the trance-like dream. It was yet night, but July nights are short: soon af=
ter
midnight, dawn comes. ‘It cannot be too early to commence the task I =
have
to fulfil,’ thought I. I rose: I was dressed; for I had taken off not=
hing
but my shoes. I knew where to find in my drawers some linen, a locket, a ri=
ng.
In seeking these articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl necklace Mr.
Rochester had forced me to accept a few days ago. I left that; it was not m=
ine:
it was the visionary bride's who had melted in air. The other articles I ma=
de
up in a parcel; my purse, containing twenty shillings (it was all I had), I=
put
in my pocket: I tied on my straw bonnet, pinned my shawl, took the parcel a=
nd
my slippers, which I would not put on yet, and stole from my room.
‘Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax=
!’
I whispered, as I glided past her door. ‘Farewell, my darling Adele!&=
#8217;
I said, as I glanced towards the nursery. No thought could be admitted of
entering to embrace her. I had to deceive a fine ear: for aught I knew it m=
ight
now be listening.
I would have got past Mr. Rocheste=
r's
chamber without a pause; but my heart momentarily stopping its beat at that
threshold, my foot was forced to stop also. No sleep was there: the inmate =
was
walking restlessly from wall to wall; and again and again he sighed while I
listened. There was a heaven- a temporary heaven- in this room for me, if I
chose: I had but to go in and to say-
‘Mr. Rochester, I will love =
you
and live with you through life till death,’ and a fount of rapture wo=
uld
spring to my lips. I thought of this.
That kind master, who could not sl=
eep
now, was waiting with impatience for day. He would send for me in the morni=
ng;
I should be gone. He would have me sought for: vainly. He would feel himself
forsaken; his love rejected: he would suffer; perhaps grow desperate. I tho=
ught
of this too. My hand moved towards the lock: I caught it back, and glided o=
n.
Drearily I wound my way downstairs=
: I
knew what I had to do, and I did it mechanically. I sought the key of the
side-door in the kitchen; I sought, too, a phial of oil and a feather; I oi=
led
the key and the lock. I got some water, I got some bread: for perhaps I sho=
uld
have to walk far; and my strength, sorely shaken of late, must not break do=
wn.
All this I did without one sound. I opened the door, passed out, shut it
softly. Dim dawn glimmered in the yard. The great gates were closed and loc=
ked;
but a wicket in one of them was only latched. Through that I departed: it, =
too,
I shut; and now I was out of Thornfield.
A mile off, beyond the fields, lay=
a
road which stretched in the contrary direction to Millcote; a road I had ne=
ver
travelled, but often noticed, and wondered where it led: thither I bent my
steps. No reflection was to be allowed now: not one glance was to be cast b=
ack;
not even one forward. Not one thought was to be given either to the past or=
the
future. The first was a page so heavenly sweet- so deadly sad- that to read=
one
line of it would dissolve my courage and break down my energy. The last was=
an
awful blank: something like the world when the deluge was gone by.
I skirted fields, and hedges, and
lanes till after sunrise. I believe it was a lovely summer morning: I know =
my
shoes, which I had put on when I left the house, were soon wet with dew. Bu=
t I
looked neither to rising sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. He who =
is
taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the
flowers that smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the
disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I though=
t of
drear flight and homeless wandering- and oh! with agony I thought of what I
left. I could not help it. I thought of him now- in his room- watching the
sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would stay with him and be his.=
I
longed to be his; I panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare
him the bitter pang of bereavement. As yet my flight, I was sure, was
undiscovered. I could go back and be his comforter- his pride; his redeemer
from misery, perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of his self-abandonment- far
worse than my abandonment- how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrow-head in =
my
breast; it tore me when I tried to extract it; it sickened me when remembra=
nce
thrust it farther in. Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were
faithful to their mates; birds were emblems of love. What was I? In the mid=
st
of my pain of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. I h=
ad
no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect. I had injured=
- wounded-
left my master. I was hateful in my own eyes. Still I could not turn, nor
retrace one step. God must have led me on. As to my own will or conscience,
impassioned grief had trampled one and stifled the other. I was weeping wil=
dly
as I walked along my solitary way: fast, fast I went like one delirious. A
weakness, beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell=
: I
lay on the ground some minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I had some
fear- or hope- that here I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards=
on
my hands and knees, and then again raised to my feet- as eager and as deter=
mined
as ever to reach the road.
When I got there, I was forced to =
sit
to rest me under the hedge; and while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach
come on. I stood up and lifted my hand; it stopped. I asked where it was go=
ing:
the driver named a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester=
had
no connections. I asked for what sum he would take me there; he said thirty
shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to make it do. He
further gave me leave to get into the inside, as the vehicle was empty: I
entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way.
Gentle reader, may you never feel =
what
I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung te=
ars
as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless =
and
so agonised as in that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread=
to
be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.
Two days are passed. It is a summer
evening; the coachman has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could
take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of anot=
her
shilling in the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At
this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of=
the
coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it must
remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a
hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed,=
I
suppose, to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring
from its summit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to the
inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-k=
nown
names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland
shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great
moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond
that deep valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see no
passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south- w=
hite,
broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and
wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish =
no
eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at
the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could
give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Not a =
tie
holds me to human society at this moment- not a charm or hope calls me wher=
e my
fellow-creatures are- none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good =
wish
for me. I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her
breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I
held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown moorside; I waded
knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a
moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it. High ba=
nks
of moor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that.
Some time passed before I felt
tranquil even here: I had a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or =
that
some sportsman or poacher might discover me. If a gust of wind swept the wa=
ste,
I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled, I
imagined it a man. Finding my apprehensions unfounded, however, and calmed =
by
the deep silence that reigned as evening declined at nightfall, I took
confidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened, watched, dreaded;
now I regained the faculty of reflection.
What was I to do? Where to go? Oh,
intolerable questions, when I could do nothing and go nowhere!- when a long=
way
must yet be measured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach human
habitation- when cold charity must be entreated before I could get a lodgin=
g:
reluctant sympathy importuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before my t=
ale
could be listened to, or one of my wants relieved!
I touched the heath: it was dry, a=
nd
yet warm with the heat of the summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure:=
a
kindly star twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with
propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and go=
od;
I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticip=
ate
only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fondness. To-nig=
ht,
at least, I would be her guest, as I was her child: my mother would lodge me
without money and without price. I had one morsel of bread yet: the remnant=
of
a roll I had bought in a town we passed through at
Beside the crag the heath was very
deep: when I lay down my feet were buried in it; rising high on each side, =
it
left only a narrow space for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl dou=
ble,
and spread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow. Thus
lodged, I was not, at least- at the commencement of the night, cold.
My rest might have been blissful
enough, only a sad heart broke it. It plained of its gaping wounds, its inw=
ard
bleeding, its riven chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it
bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and,
impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered its shattered
pinions in vain attempts to seek him.
Worn out with this torture of thou=
ght,
I rose to my knees. Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, sti=
ll
night: too serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everyw=
here;
but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest
scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His wor=
lds
wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His
omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr.
Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky- way.
Remembering what it was- what countless systems there swept space like a so=
ft
trace of light- I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His
efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth sh=
ould
perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgivi=
ng:
the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe;=
he
was God's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of=
the
hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow.
But next day, Want came to me pale=
and
bare. Long after the little birds had left their nests; long after bees had
come in the sweet prime of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was
dried- when the long morning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled ear=
th
and sky- I got up, and I looked round me.
What a still, hot, perfect day! Wh=
at a
golden desert this spreading moor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could li=
ve
in it and on it. I saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among t=
he
sweet bilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or lizard, tha=
t I
might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I was a hum=
an
being, and had a human being's wants: I must not linger where there was not=
hing
to supply them. I rose; I looked back at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the
future, I wished but this- that my Maker had that night thought good to req=
uire
my soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved by death f=
rom
further conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle in pea=
ce
with the soil of this wilderness. Life, however, was yet in my possession, =
with
all its requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden must be
carried; the want provided for; the suffering endured; the responsibility
fulfilled. I set out.
Whitcross regained, I followed a r=
oad
which led from the sun, now fervent and high. By no other circumstance had I
will to decide my choice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had ne=
arly
done enough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almost
overpowered me- might relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a ston=
e I
saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart and limb- I
heard a bell chime- a church bell.
I turned in the direction of the
sound, and there, amongst the romantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had
ceased to note an hour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my
right hand was full of pasture- fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a
glittering stream ran zig-zag through the varied shades of green, the mello=
wing
grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbli=
ng
of wheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily-laden waggon labouring up =
the
hill, and not far beyond were two cows and their drover. Human life and hum=
an
labour were near. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil like =
the
rest.
About two o'clock p.m. I entered t=
he
village. At the bottom of its one street there was a little shop with some
cakes of bread in the window. I coveted a cake of bread. With that refreshm=
ent
I could perhaps regain a degree of energy: without it, it would be difficul=
t to
proceed. The wish to have some strength and some vigour returned to me as s=
oon
as I was amongst my fellow-beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint wi=
th
hunger on the causeway of a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in
exchange for one of these rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerch=
ief
tied round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how men and wome=
n in
extremities of destitution proceeded. I did not know whether either of these
articles would be accepted: probably they would not; but I must try.
I entered the shop: a woman was th=
ere.
Seeing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as she supposed, she came forwa=
rd
with civility. How could she serve me? I was seized with shame: my tongue w=
ould
not utter the request I had prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn
gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides, I felt it would be absurd. I only
begged permission to sit down a moment, as I was tired. Disappointed in the
expectation of a customer, she coolly acceded to my request. She pointed to=
a
seat; I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious how
unseasonable such a manifestation would be, I restrained it. Soon I asked h=
er ‘if
there were any dressmaker or plain-workwoman in the village?’
‘Yes; two or three. Quite as
many as there was employment for.’
I reflected. I was driven to the p=
oint
now. I was brought face to face with Necessity. I stood in the position of =
one
without a resource, without a friend, without a coin. I must do something.
What? I must apply somewhere. Where?
‘Did she know of any place in
the neighbourhood where a servant was wanted?’
‘Nay; she couldn't say.̵=
7;
‘What was the chief trade in
this place? What did most of the people do?’
‘Some were farm labourers; a
good deal worked at Mr. Oliver's needle-factory, and at the foundry.’=
‘Did Mr. Oliver employ women=
?’
‘Nay; it was men's work.R=
17;
‘And what do the women do?=
8217;
‘I knawn't,’ was the
answer. ‘Some does one thing, and some another. Poor folk mun get on =
as
they can.’
She seemed to be tired of my
questions: and, indeed, what claim had I to importune her? A neighbour or t=
wo
came in; my chair was evidently wanted. I took leave.
I passed up the street, looking as=
I
went at all the houses to the right hand and to the left; but I could disco=
ver
no pretext, nor see an inducement to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet,
going sometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an hour or mo=
re.
Much exhausted, and suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside =
into
a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed, I was ag=
ain
on my feet, however, and again searching something- a resource, or at least=
an
informant. A pretty little house stood at the top of the lane, with a garden
before it, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. What
business had I to approach the white door or touch the glittering knocker? =
In
what way could it possibly be the interest of the inhabitants of that dwell=
ing
to serve me? Yet I drew near and knocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired y=
oung
woman opened the door. In such a voice as might be expected from a hopeless
heart and fainting frame- a voice wretchedly low and faltering- I asked if a
servant was wanted here?
‘No,’ said she; ‘=
;we
do not keep a servant.’
‘Can you tell me where I cou=
ld
get employment of any kind?’ I continued. ‘I am a stranger, wit=
hout
acquaintance in this place. I want some work: no matter what.’
But it was not her business to thi=
nk
for me, or to seek a place for me: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must =
have
appeared my character, position, tale. She shook her head, she ‘was s=
orry
she could give me no information,’ and the white door closed, quite
gently and civilly: but it shut me out. If she had held it open a little
longer, I believe I should have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brou=
ght
low.
I could not bear to return to the
sordid village, where, besides, no prospect of aid was visible. I should ha=
ve
longed rather to deviate to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its
thick shade to offer inviting shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed
with nature's cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes where there w=
as a
chance of food. Solitude would be no solitude- rest no rest- while the vult=
ure,
hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side.
I drew near houses; I left them, a=
nd
came back again, and again I wandered away: always repelled by the
consciousness of having no claim to ask- no right to expect interest in my
isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about
like a lost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire
before me: I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, and in the middle of=
a
garden, stood a well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was the
parsonage. I remembered that strangers who arrive at a place where they hav=
e no
friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for
introduction and aid. It is the clergyman's function to help- at least with
advice- those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to have something lik=
e a
right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my courage, and gathering my feeb=
le
remains of strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, and knocked at the
kitchen-door. An old woman opened: I asked was this the parsonage?
‘Yes.’
‘Was the clergyman in?’=
;
‘No.’
‘Would he be in soon?’=
‘No, he was gone from home.&=
#8217;
‘To a distance?’
‘Not so far- happen three mi=
le.
He had been called away by the sudden death of his father: he was at Marsh =
End
now, and would very likely stay there a fortnight longer.’
‘Was there any lady of the
house?’
‘Nay, there was naught but h=
er,
and she was housekeeper;’ and of her, reader, I could not bear to ask=
the
relief for want of which I was sinking; I could not yet beg; and again I
crawled away.
Once more I took off my handkerchi=
ef- once
more I thought of the cakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crus=
t!
for but one mouthful to allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I turned my
face again to the village; I found the shop again, and I went in; and though
others were there besides the woman I ventured the request- ’Would she
give me a roll for this handkerchief?’
She looked at me with evident
suspicion: ‘Nay, she never sold stuff i' that way.’
Almost desperate, I asked for half=
a
cake; she again refused. ‘How could she tell where I had got the
handkerchief?’ she said.
‘Would she take my gloves?=
8217;
‘No! what could she do with
them?’
Reader, it is not pleasant to dwel=
l on
these details. Some say there is enjoyment in looking back to painful
experience past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to
which I allude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering, f=
orm
too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none=
of
those who repulsed me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what could
not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object of suspicion; a
well-dressed beggar inevitably so. To be sure, what I begged was employment;
but whose business was it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, th=
at
of persons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothing about my
character. And as to the woman who would not take my handkerchief in exchan=
ge
for her bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sinister or=
the
exchange unprofitable. Let me condense now. I am sick of the subject.
A little before dark I passed a
farm-house, at the open door of which the farmer was sitting, eating his su=
pper
of bread and cheese. I stopped and said-
‘Will you give me a piece of
bread? for I am very hungry.’ He cast on me a glance of surprise; but
without answering, he cut a thick slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I
imagine he did not think I was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady,
who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of h=
is
house, I sat down and ate it.
I could not hope to get a lodging
under a roof, and sought it in the wood I have before alluded to. But my ni=
ght
was wretched, my rest broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides,
intruders passed near me more than once, and I had again and again to chang=
e my
quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards morning=
it
rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask me, reader, to g=
ive
a minute account of that day; as before, I sought work; as before, I was
repulsed; as before, I starved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door=
of
a cottage I saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a=
pig
trough. ‘Will you give me that?’ I asked.
She stared at me. ‘Mother!=
8217;
she exclaimed, ‘there is a woman wants me to give her these porridge.=
’
‘Well lass,’ replied a
voice within, ‘give it her if she's a beggar. T' pig doesn't want it.=
’
The girl emptied the stiffened mou=
ld
into my hand, and I devoured it ravenously.
As the wet twilight deepened, I
stopped in a solitary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or mor=
e.
‘My strength is quite failing
me,’ I said in a soliloquy. ‘I feel I cannot go much farther. S=
hall
I be an outcast again this night? While the rain descends so, must I lay my
head on the cold, drenched ground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who wi=
ll
receive me? But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger,
faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation- this total prostration of h=
ope.
In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning. And why cannot I
reconcile myself to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to retain a
valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and th=
en,
to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. =
Oh,
Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid!- direct me!’
My glazed eye wandered over the dim
and misty landscape. I saw I had strayed far from the village: it was quite=
out
of sight. The very cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by
cross-ways and by- paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland; and n=
ow,
only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from which =
they
were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the dusky hill.
‘Well, I would rather die yo=
nder
than in a street or on a frequented road,’ I reflected. ‘And far
better that crows and ravens- if any ravens there be in these regions- shou=
ld
pick my flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhou=
se
coffin and moulder in a pauper's grave.’
To the hill, then, I turned. I rea=
ched
it. It remained now only to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel =
at
least hidden, if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level.=
It
showed no variation but of tint: green, where rush and moss overgrew the
marshes; black, where the dry soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting,=
I
could still see these changes, though but as mere alternations of light and
shade; for colour had faded with the daylight.
My eye still roved over the sullen
swell and along the moor-edge, vanishing amidst the wildest scenery, when at
one dim point, far in among the marshes and the ridges, a light sprang up. =
‘That
is an ignis fatuus,’ was =
my
first thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, q=
uite
steadily, neither receding nor advancing. ‘Is it, then, a bonfire just
kindled?’ I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread: but=
no;
as it did not diminish, so it did not enlarge. ‘It may be a candle in=
a
house,’ I then conjectured; ‘but if so, I can never reach it. I=
t is
much too far away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? I
should but knock at the door to have it shut in my face.’
And I sank down where I stood, and=
hid
my face against the ground. I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over =
the
hill and over me, and died moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wet=
ting
me afresh to the skin. Could I but have stiffened to the still frost- the
friendly numbness of death- it might have pelted on; I should not have felt=
it;
but my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere lon=
g.
The light was yet there, shining d=
im
but constant through the rain. I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted
limbs slowly towards it. It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog,
which would have been impassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking even
now, in the height of summer. Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and
rallied my faculties. This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it.
Having crossed the marsh, I saw a
trace of white over the moor. I approached it; it was a road or a track: it=
led
straight up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a c=
lump
of trees- firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of the character =
of
their forms and foliage through the gloom. My star vanished as I drew near:
some obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my hand to feel t=
he
dark mass before me: I discriminated the rough stones of a low wall- above =
it,
something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on.
Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate- a wicket; it moved=
on
its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a sable bush-holly or yew.
Entering the gate and passing the
shrubs, the silhouette of a house rose to view, black, low, and rather long;
but the guiding light shone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates
retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In seeking the door, I turned an
angle: there shot out the friendly gleam again, from the lozenged panes of a
very small latticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller=
by
the growth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whose leaves clustered thick
over the portion of the house wall in which it was set. The aperture was so
screened and narrow, that curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary; a=
nd
when I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, I
could see all within. I could see clearly a room with a sanded floor, clean
scoured; a dresser of walnut, with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting=
the
redness and radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white d=
eal
table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on the
table; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but
scrupulously clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking.
I noticed these objects cursorily =
only-
in them there was nothing extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared =
near
the hearth, sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two
young, graceful women- ladies in every point- sat, one in a low rocking-cha=
ir,
the other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and bombazeen,
which sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks and faces: a large old
pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of one girl- in the lap of =
the
other was cushioned a black cat.
A strange place was this humble
kitchen for such occupants! Who were they? They could not be the daughters =
of
the elderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustic, and they were
all delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and =
yet,
as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot call t=
hem
handsome- they were too pale and grave for the word: as they each bent over=
a
book, they looked thoughtful almost to severity. A stand between them suppo=
rted
a second candle and two great volumes, to which they frequently referred,
comparing them, seemingly, with the smaller books they held in their hands,
like people consulting a dictionary to aid them in the task of translation.
This scene was as silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the fir=
elit
apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall from t=
he
grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could
distinguish the click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When, therefor=
e, a
voice broke the strange stillness at last, it was audible enough to me.
‘Listen, Diana,’ said =
one
of the absorbed students; ‘Franz and old Daniel are together in the
night-time, and Franz is telling a dream from which he has awakened in terr=
or- listen!’
And in a low voice she read something, of which not one word was intelligib=
le
to me; for it was in an unknown tongue- neither French nor Latin. Whether it
were Greek or German I could not tell.
‘That is strong,’ she
said, when she had finished: ‘I relish it.’ The other girl, who=
had
lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, while she gazed at the f=
ire,
a line of what had been read. At a later day, I knew the language and the b=
ook;
therefore, I will here quote the line: though, when I first heard it, it was
only like a stroke on sounding brass to me- conveying no meaning:-
‘'Da trat hervor Einer,
anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.' Good! good!=
8217;
she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. ‘There you have a
dim and mighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages of fust=
ian.
'Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem
Gewichte meines Grimms.' I like it!=
217;
Both were again silent.
‘Is there ony country where =
they
talk i' that way?’ asked the old woman, looking up from her knitting.=
‘Yes, Hannah- a far larger
country than England, where they talk in no other way.’
‘Well, for sure case, I knaw=
n't
how they can understand t' one t'other: and if either o' ye went there, ye
could tell what they said, I guess?’
‘We could probably tell
something of what they said, but not all- for we are not as clever as you t=
hink
us, Hannah. We don't speak German, and we cannot read it without a dictiona=
ry
to help us.’
‘And what good does it do yo=
u?’
‘We mean to teach it some ti=
me- or
at least the elements, as they say; and then we shall get more money than w=
e do
now.’
‘Varry like: but give ower
studying; ye've done enough for to-night.’
‘I think we have: at least I=
'm
tired. Mary, are you?’
‘Mortally: after all, it's t=
ough
work fagging away at a language with no master but a lexicon.’
‘It is, especially such a
language as this crabbed but glorious Deutsch. I wonder when St. John will =
come
home.’
‘Surely he will not be long =
now:
it is just ten (looking at a little gold watch she drew from her girdle). It
rains fast, Hannah: will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the
parlour?’
The woman rose: she opened a door,
through which I dimly saw a passage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inn=
er
room; she presently came back.
‘Ah, childer!’ said sh=
e, ‘it
fair troubles me to go into yond' room now: it looks so lonesome wi' the ch=
air
empty and set back in a corner.’
She wiped her eyes with her apron:=
the
two girls, grave before, looked sad now.
‘But he is in a better place=
,’
continued Hannah: ‘we shouldn't wish him here again. And then, nobody
need to have a quieter death nor he had.’
‘You say he never mentioned =
us?’
inquired one of the ladies.
‘He hadn't time, bairn: he w=
as
gone in a minute, was your father. He had been a bit ailing like the day
before, but naught to signify; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would like=
either
o' ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. He began again with a bit of a
heaviness in his head the next day- that is, a fortnight sin'- and he went =
to
sleep and niver wakened: he wor a'most stark when your brother went into t'
chamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that's t' last o' t' old stock- for ye a=
nd
Mr. St. John is like of different soart to them 'at's gone; for all your mo=
ther
wor mich i' your way, and a'most as book-learned. She wor the pictur' o' ye,
Mary: Diana is more like your father.’
I thought them so similar I could =
not
tell where the old servant (for such I now concluded her to be) saw the
difference. Both were fair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed
faces full of distinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a sha=
de
darker than the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing=
it;
Mary's pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana's duskier tre=
sses
covered her neck with thick curls. The clock struck ten.
‘Ye'll want your supper, I am
sure,’ observed Hannah; ‘and so will Mr. St. John when he comes=
in.’
And she proceeded to prepare the m=
eal.
The ladies rose; they seemed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this
moment, I had been so intent on watching them, their appearance and convers=
ation
had excited in me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched
position: now it recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate than ever, it
seemed from contrast. And how impossible did it appear to touch the inmates=
of
this house with concern on my behalf; to make them believe in the truth of =
my
wants and woes- to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings! As I
groped out the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea =
to
be a mere chimera. Hannah opened.
‘What do you want?’ she
inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she surveyed me by the light of the ca=
ndle
she held.
‘May I speak to your mistres=
ses?’
I said.
‘You had better tell me what=
you
have to say to them. Where do you come from?’
‘I am a stranger.’
‘What is your business here =
at
this hour?’
‘I want a night's shelter in=
an
out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of bread to eat.’
Distrust, the very feeling I dread=
ed,
appeared in Hannah's face. ‘I'll give you a piece of bread,’ she
said, after a pause; ‘but we can't take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn=
't
likely.’
‘Do let me speak to your
mistresses.’
‘No, not I. What can they do=
for
you? You should not be roving about now; it looks very ill.’
‘But where shall I go if you
drive me away? What shall I do?’
‘Oh, I'll warrant you know w=
here
to go and what to do. Mind you don't do wrong, that's all. Here is a penny;=
now
go- ’
‘A penny cannot feed me, and=
I
have no strength to go farther. Don't shut the door:- oh, don't, for God's
sake!’
‘I must; the rain is driving=
in-
’
‘Tell the young ladies. Let =
me
see them- ’ ‘Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to =
be,
or you wouldn't make such a noise. Move off.’
‘But I must die if I am turn=
ed
away.’
‘Not you. I'm fear'd you have
some ill plans agate, that bring you about folk's houses at this time o' ni=
ght.
If you've any followers- housebreakers or such like- anywhere near, you may
tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and do=
gs,
and guns.’ Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to=
and
bolted it within.
This was the climax. A pang of
exquisite suffering- a throe of true despair- rent and heaved my heart. Worn
out, indeed, I was; not another step could I stir. I sank on the wet doorst=
ep:
I groaned- I wrung my hands- I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of
death! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation=
- this
banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of
fortitude was gone- at least for a moment; but the last I soon endeavoured =
to regain.
‘I can but die,’ I sai=
d, ‘and
I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will in silence.’
These words I not only thought, but
uttered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to
compel it to remain there- dumb and still.
‘All men must die,’ sa=
id a
voice quite close at hand; ‘but all are not condemned to meet a linge=
ring
and premature doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want.=
217;
‘Who or what speaks?’ I
asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapable now of deriving from
any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was near- what form, the pitch-dark ni=
ght
and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud long
knock, the new-comer appealed to the door.
‘Is it you, Mr. St. John?=
217;
cried Hannah.
‘Yes- yes; open quickly.R=
17;
‘Well, how wet and cold you =
must
be, such a wild night as it is! Come in- your sisters are quite uneasy about
you, and I believe there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman=
- I
declare she is not gone yet!- laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off,=
I
say!’
‘Hush, Hannah! I have a word=
to
say to the woman. You have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine =
in
admitting her. I was near, and listened to both you and her. I think this i=
s a
peculiar case- I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass
before me into the house.’
With difficulty I obeyed him.
Presently I stood within that clean, bright kitchen- on the very hearth- tr=
embling,
sickening; conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and
weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servan=
t,
were all gazing at me.
‘St. John, who is it?’=
I
heard one ask.
‘I cannot tell: I found her =
at
the door,’ was the reply.
‘She does look white,’
said Hannah.
‘As white as clay or death,&=
#8217;
was responded. ‘She will fall: let her sit.’
And indeed my head swam: I dropped,
but a chair received me. I still possessed my senses, though just now I cou=
ld
not speak.
‘Perhaps a little water would
restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But she is worn to nothing. How very thin,=
and
how very bloodless!’
‘A mere spectre!’
‘Is she ill, or only famishe=
d?’
‘Famished, I think. Hannah, =
is
that milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread.’
Diana (I knew her by the long curls
which I saw drooping between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some
bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I =
saw
there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her
simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: ‘Try to eat.R=
17;
‘Yes- try,’ repeated M=
ary
gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tast=
ed
what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon.
‘Not too much at first- rest=
rain
her,’ said the brother; ‘she has had enough.’ And he with=
drew
the cup of milk and the plate of bread.
‘A little more, St. John- lo=
ok
at the avidity in her eyes.’
‘No more at present, sister.=
Try
if she can speak now- ask her her name.’
I felt I could speak, and I answer=
ed- ’My
name is Jane Elliott.’ Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had befo=
re
resolved to assume an alias.
‘And where do you live? Where
are your friends?’
I was silent.
‘Can we send for any one you
know?’
I shook my head.
‘What account can you give of
yourself?’
Somehow, now that I had once cross=
ed
the threshold of this house, and once was brought face to face with its own=
ers,
I felt no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared =
to
put off the mendicant- to resume my natural manner and character. I began o=
nce
more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account- which at
present I was far too weak to render- I said after a brief pause-
‘Sir, I can give you no deta=
ils
to-night.’
‘But what, then,’ said=
he,
‘do you expect me to do for you?’
‘Nothing,’ I replied. =
My
strength sufficed for but short answers. Diana took the word-
‘Do you mean,’ she ask=
ed, ‘that
we have now given you what aid you require? and that we may dismiss you to =
the
moor and the rainy night?’
I looked at her. She had, I though=
t, a
remarkable countenance, instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden
courage. Answering her compassionate gaze with a smile, I said- ’I wi=
ll
trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know that you would not =
turn
me from your hearth to-night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me a=
nd
for me as you like; but excuse me from much discourse- my breath is short- I
feel a spasm when I speak.’ All three surveyed me, and all three were
silent.
‘Hannah,’ said Mr. St.
John, at last, ‘let her sit there at present, and ask her no question=
s;
in ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and
Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the matter over.’
They withdrew. Very soon one of the
ladies returned- I could not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stea=
ling
over me as I sat by the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some directio=
ns
to Hannah. Ere long, with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount a stairca=
se;
my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I thank=
ed
God- experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy- and
slept.
The recollection of about three da=
ys
and nights succeeding this is very dim in my mind. I can recall some sensat=
ions
felt in that interval; but few thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I
knew I was in a small room and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have
grown; I lay on it motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from it would
have been almost to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time- of the ch=
ange
from morning to noon, from
‘It is very well we took her=
in.’
‘Yes; she would certainly ha=
ve
been found dead at the door in the morning had she been left out all night.=
I
wonder what she has gone through?’
‘Strange hardships, I imagin=
e- poor,
emaciated, pallid wanderer?’
‘She is not an uneducated
person, I should think, by her manner of speaking; her accent was quite pur=
e;
and the clothes she took off, though splashed and wet, were little worn and
fine.’
‘She has a peculiar face;
fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like it; and when in good health a=
nd
animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would be agreeable.’
Never once in their dialogues did I
hear a syllable of regret at the hospitality they had extended to me, or of
suspicion of, or aversion to, myself. I was comforted.
Mr. St. John came but once: he loo=
ked
at me, and said my state of lethargy was the result of reaction from excess=
ive
and protracted fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nat=
ure,
he was sure, would manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve had be=
en
overstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. T=
here
was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once
commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet, low voic=
e;
and added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansi=
ve
comment, ‘Rather an unusual physiognomy; certainly, not indicative of
vulgarity or degradation.’
‘Far otherwise,’ respo=
nded
Diana. ‘To speak truth, St. John, my heart rather warms to the poor
little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit her permanently.’
‘That is hardly likely,̵=
7;
was the reply. ‘You will find she is some young lady who has had a
misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably injudiciously left them=
. We
may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them, if she is not obstinate: bu=
t I
trace lines of force in her face which make me sceptical of her tractabilit=
y.’
He stood considering me some minutes; then added, ‘She looks sensible,
but not at all handsome.’
‘She is so ill, St. John.=
217;
‘Ill or well, she would alwa=
ys
be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those featur=
es.’
On the third day I was better; on =
the
fourth, I could speak, move, rise in bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me s=
ome
gruel and dry toast, about, as I supposed, the dinner-hour. I had eaten with
relish: the food was good- void of the feverish flavour which had hitherto
poisoned what I had swallowed. When she left me, I felt comparatively strong
and revived: ere long satiety of repose and desire for action stirred me. I
wished to rise; but what could I put on? Only my damp and bemired apparel; =
in
which I had slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed to
appear before my benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation.
On a chair by the bedside were all=
my
own things, clean and dry. My black silk frock hung against the wall. The
traces of the bog were removed from it; the creases left by the wet smoothed
out: it was quite decent. My very shoes and stockings were purified and
rendered presentable. There were the means of washing in the room, and a co=
mb
and brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and resting every five =
minutes,
I succeeded in dressing myself. My clothes hung loose on me; for I was much
wasted, but I covered deficiencies with a shawl, and once more, clean and
respectable looking- no speck of the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so ha=
ted,
and which seemed so to degrade me, left- I crept down a stone staircase with
the aid of the banisters, to a narrow low passage, and found my way present=
ly
to the kitchen.
It was full of the fragrance of new
bread and the warmth of a generous fire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it =
is
well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has n=
ever
been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds am=
ong
stones. Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she =
had
begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in tidy and well-dressed,
she even smiled.
‘What, you have got up!̵=
7;
she said. ‘You are better, then. You may sit you down in my chair on =
the
hearthstone, if you will.’
She pointed to the rocking-chair: I
took it. She bustled about, examining me every now and then with the corner=
of
her eye. Turning to me, as she took some loaves from the oven, she asked
bluntly-
‘Did you ever go a-begging a=
fore
you came here?’
I was indignant for a moment; but
remembering that anger was out of the question, and that I had indeed appea=
red
as a beggar to her, I answered quietly, but still not without a certain mar=
ked
firmness-
‘You are mistaken in supposi=
ng
me a beggar. I am no beggar; any more than yourself or your young ladies.=
8217;
After a pause she said, ‘I
dunnut understand that: you've like no house, nor no brass, I guess?’=
‘The want of house or brass =
(by
which I suppose you mean money) does not make a beggar in your sense of the
word.’
‘Are you book-learned?’
she inquired presently.
‘Yes, very.’
‘But you've never been to a
boarding-school?’
‘I was at a boarding-school
eight years.’
She opened her eyes wide. ‘W=
hatever
cannot ye keep yourself for, then?’
‘I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What are you going to do with these gooseberries?’ I inquired, as she brought out a basket of the fruit.<= o:p>
‘Mak' 'em into pies.’<= o:p>
‘Give them to me and I'll pi=
ck
them.’
‘Nay; I dunnut want ye to do
nought.’
‘But I must do something. Le=
t me
have them.’
She consented; and she even brough=
t me
a clean towel to spread over my dress, ‘lest,’ as she said, =
216;I
should mucky it.’
‘Ye've not been used to
sarvant's wark, I see by your hands,’ she remarked. ‘Happen ye'=
ve
been a dressmaker?’
‘No, you are wrong. And now,
never mind what I have been: don't trouble your head further about me; but =
tell
me the name of the house where we are.’
‘Some calls it Marsh End, and
some calls it Moor House.’
‘And the gentleman who lives
here is called Mr. St. John?’
‘Nay; he doesn't live here: =
he
is only staying a while. When he is at home, he is in his own parish at Mor=
ton.’
‘That village a few miles of=
f?
‘Aye.’
‘And what is he?’
‘He is a parson.’
I remembered the answer of the old
housekeeper at the parsonage, when I had asked to see the clergyman. ‘=
;This,
then, was his father's residence?’
‘Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived h=
ere,
and his father, and grandfather, and gurt (great) grandfather afore him.=
217;
‘The name, then, of that
gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers?’
‘Aye; St. John is like his
kirstened name.’
‘And his sisters are called
Diana and Mary Rivers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Their father is dead?’=
;
‘Dead three weeks sin' of a
stroke.’
‘They have no mother?’=
‘The mistress has been dead =
this
mony a year.’
‘Have you lived with the fam=
ily
long?’
‘I've lived here thirty year=
. I
nursed them all three.’
‘That proves you must have b=
een
an honest and faithful servant. I will say so much for you, though you have=
had
the incivility to call me a beggar.’
She again regarded me with a surpr=
ised
stare. ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘I was quite mista'en in my
thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats goes about, you mun forgie me.=
’
‘And though,’ I contin=
ued,
rather severely, ‘you wished to turn me from the door, on a night when
you should not have shut out a dog.’
‘Well, it was hard: but what=
can
a body do? I thought more o' th' childer nor of mysel: poor things! They've
like nobody to tak' care on 'em but me. I'm like to look sharpish.’
I maintained a grave silence for s=
ome
minutes.
‘You munnut think too hardly=
of
me,’ she again remarked.
‘But I do think hardly of yo=
u,’
I said; ‘and I'll tell you why- not so much because you refused to gi=
ve
me shelter, or regarded me as an impostor, as because you just now made it a
species of reproach that I had no 'brass' and no house. Some of the best pe=
ople
that ever lived have been as destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian,=
you
ought not to consider poverty a crime.’
‘No more I ought,’ said
she: ‘Mr. St. John tells me so too; and I see I wor wrang- but I've c=
lear
a different notion on you now to what I had. You look a raight down dacent
little crater.’
‘That will do- I forgive you
now. Shake hands.’
She put her floury and horny hand =
into
mine; another and heartier smile illumined her rough face, and from that mo=
ment
we were friends.
Hannah was evidently fond of talki=
ng.
While I picked the fruit, and she made the paste for the pies, she proceede=
d to
give me sundry details about her deceased master and mistress, and ‘t=
he
childer,’ as she called the young people.
Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a pl=
ain
man enough, but a gentleman, and of as ancient a family as could be found.
Marsh End had belonged to the Rivers ever since it was a house: and it was,=
she
affirmed, ‘aboon two hundred year old- for all it looked but a small,
humble place, naught to compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand hall down i' Morton
Vale. But she could remember Bill Oliver's father a journeyman needlemaker;=
and
th' Rivers wor gentry i' th' owd days o' th' Henrys, as onybody might see by
looking into th' registers i' Morton Church vestry.’ Still, she allow=
ed, ‘the
owd maister was like other folk- naught mich out o' t' common way: stark ma=
d o'
shooting, and farming, and sich like.’ The mistress was different. She
was a great reader, and studied a deal; and the ‘bairns’ had ta=
ken
after her. There was nothing like them in these parts, nor ever had been; t=
hey
had liked learning, all three, almost from the time they could speak; and t=
hey
had always been ‘of a mak' of their own.’ Mr. St. John, when he
grew up, would go to college and be a parson; and the girls, as soon as they
left school, would seek places as governesses: for they had told her their
father had some years ago lost a great deal of money by a man he had trusted
turning bankrupt; and as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, =
they
must provide for themselves. They had lived very little at home for a long
while, and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of their fathe=
r's
death; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and all these moors and h=
ills
about. They had been in London, and many other grand towns; but they always
said there was no place like home; and then they were so agreeable with each
other- never fell out nor ‘threaped.’ She did not know where th=
ere
was such a family for being united.
Having finished my task of goosebe=
rry
picking, I asked where the two ladies and their brother were now.
‘Gone over to Morton for a w=
alk;
but they would be back in half-an-hour to tea.’
They returned within the time Hann=
ah
had allotted them: they entered by the kitchen door. Mr. St. John, when he =
saw
me, merely bowed and passed through; the two ladies stopped: Mary, in a few
words, kindly and calmly expressed the pleasure she felt in seeing me well
enough to be able to come down; Diana took my hand: she shook her head at m=
e.
‘You should have waited for =
my
leave to descend,’ she said. ‘You still look very pale- and so
thin! Poor child!- poor girl!’
Diana had a voice toned, to my ear,
like the cooing of a dove. She possessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to
encounter. Her whole face seemed to me full of charm. Mary's countenance was
equally intelligent- her features equally pretty; but her expression was mo=
re
reserved, and her manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana looked and sp=
oke
with a certain authority: she had a will, evidently. It was my nature to fe=
el
pleasure in yielding to an authority supported like hers, and to bend, wher=
e my
conscience and self-respect permitted, to an active will.
‘And what business have you
here?’ she continued. ‘It is not your place. Mary and I sit in =
the
kitchen sometimes, because at home we like to be free, even to license- but=
you
are a visitor, and must go into the parlour.’
‘I am very well here.’=
‘Not at all, with Hannah
bustling about and covering you with flour.’
‘Besides, the fire is too hot
for you,’ interposed Mary.
‘To be sure,’ added her
sister. ‘Come, you must be obedient.’ And still holding my hand=
she
made me rise, and led me into the inner room.
‘Sit there,’ she said,
placing me on the sofa, ‘while we take our things off and get the tea
ready; it is another privilege we exercise in our little moorland home- to
prepare our own meals when we are so inclined, or when Hannah is baking,
brewing, washing, or ironing.’
She closed the door, leaving me so=
lus
with Mr. St. John, who sat opposite, a book or newspaper in his hand. I
examined first, the parlour, and then its occupant.
The parlour was rather a small roo=
m,
very plainly furnished, yet comfortable, because clean and neat. The
old-fashioned chairs were very bright, and the walnut-wood table was like a
looking-glass. A few strange, antique portraits of the men and women of oth=
er
days decorated the stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained some
books and an ancient set of china. There was no superfluous ornament in the
room- not one modern piece of furniture, save a brace of workboxes and a la=
dy's
desk in rosewood, which stood on a side-table: everything- including the ca=
rpet
and curtains- looked at once well worn and well saved.
Mr. St. John- sitting as still as =
one
of the dusty pictures on the walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he
perused, and his lips mutely sealed- was easy enough to examine. Had he bee=
n a
statue instead of a man, he could not have been easier. He was young- perha=
ps
from twenty- eight to thirty- tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it w=
as
like a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic nose; qu=
ite
an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an English face comes so =
near
the antique models as did his. He might well be a little shocked at the
irregularity of my lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes were l=
arge
and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was
partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.
This is a gentle delineation, is it
not, reader? Yet he whom it describes scarcely impressed one with the idea =
of a
gentle, a yielding, an impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent a=
s he
now sat, there was something about his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which,=
to
my perceptions, indicated elements within either restless, or hard, or eage=
r.
He did not speak to me one word, nor even direct to me one glance, till his
sisters returned. Diana, as she passed in and out, in the course of prepari=
ng
tea, brought me a little cake, baked on the top of the oven.
‘Eat that now,’ she sa=
id: ‘you
must be hungry. Hannah says you have had nothing but some gruel since
breakfast.’
I did not refuse it, for my appeti=
te
was awakened and keen. Mr. Rivers now closed his book, approached the table,
and, as he took a seat, fixed his blue pictorial-looking eyes full on me. T=
here
was an unceremonious directness, a searching, decided steadfastness in his =
gaze
now, which told that intention, and not diffidence, had hitherto kept it
averted from the stranger.
‘You are very hungry,’=
he
said.
‘I am, sir.’ It is my =
way-
it always was my way, by instinct- ever to meet the brief with brevity, the
direct with plainness.
‘It is well for you that a l=
ow
fever has forced you to abstain for the last three days: there would have b=
een danger
in yielding to the cravings of your appetite at first. Now you may eat, tho=
ugh
still not immoderately.’
‘I trust I shall not eat lon=
g at
your expense, sir,’ was my very clumsily- contrived, unpolished answe=
r.
‘No,’ he said coolly: =
‘when
you have indicated to us the residence of your friends, we can write to the=
m,
and you may be restored to home.’
‘That, I must plainly tell y=
ou,
is out of my power to do; being absolutely without home and friends.’=
The three looked at me, but not
distrustfully; I felt there was no suspicion in their glances: there was mo=
re
of curiosity. I speak particularly of the young ladies. St. John's eyes, th=
ough
clear enough in a literal sense, in a figurative one were difficult to fath=
om.
He seemed to use them rather as instruments to search other people's though=
ts,
than as agents to reveal his own: the which combination of keenness and res=
erve
was considerably more calculated to embarrass than to encourage.
‘Do you mean to say,’ =
he
asked, ‘that you are completely isolated from every connection?’=
;
‘I do. Not a tie links me to=
any
living thing: not a claim do I possess to admittance under any roof in Engl=
and.’
‘A most singular position at
your age!’
Here I saw his glance directed to =
my
hands, which were folded on the table before me. I wondered what he sought
there: his words soon explained the quest.
‘You have never been married?
You are a spinster?’
Diana laughed. ‘Why, she can=
't
be above seventeen or eighteen years old, St. John,’ said she.
‘I am near nineteen: but I am
not married. No.’
I felt a burning glow mount to my
face; for bitter and agitating recollections were awakened by the allusion =
to
marriage. They all saw the embarrassment and the emotion. Diana and Mary
relieved me by turning their eyes elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but
the colder and sterner brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he had
excited forced out tears as well as colour.
‘Where did you last reside?&=
#8217;
he now asked.
‘You are too inquisitive, St.
John,’ murmured Mary in a low voice; but he leaned over the table and
required an answer by a second firm and piercing look.
‘The name of the place where,
and of the person with whom I lived, is my secret,’ I replied concise=
ly.
‘Which, if you like, you hav=
e,
in my opinion, a right to keep, both from St. John and every other question=
er,’
remarked Diana.
‘Yet if I know nothing about=
you
or your history, I cannot help you,’ he said. ‘And you need hel=
p,
do you not?’
‘I need it, and I seek it so
far, sir, that some true philanthropist will put me in the way of getting w=
ork
which I can do, and the remuneration for which will keep me, if but in the
barest necessaries of life.’
‘I know not whether I am a t=
rue
philanthropist; yet I am willing to aid you to the utmost of my power in a
purpose so honest. First, then, tell me what you have been accustomed to do,
and what you can do.’
I had now swallowed my tea. I was
mightily refreshed by the beverage; as much so as a giant with wine: it gave
new tone to my unstrung nerves, and enabled me to address this penetrating
young judge steadily.
‘Mr. Rivers,’ I said,
turning to him, and looking at him, as he looked at me, openly and without
diffidence, ‘you and your sisters have done me a great service- the
greatest man can do his fellow-being; you have rescued me, by your noble ho=
spitality,
from death. This benefit conferred gives you an unlimited claim on my
gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent, on my confidence. I will tell =
you
as much of the history of the wanderer you have harboured, as I can tell
without compromising my own peace of mind- my own security, moral and physi=
cal,
and that of others.
‘I am an orphan, the daughte=
r of
a clergyman. My parents died before I could know them. I was brought up a
dependant; educated in a charitable institution. I will even tell you the n=
ame
of the establishment, where I passed six years as a pupil, and two as a tea=
cher-
Lowood Orphan Asylum, - -shire: you will have heard of it, Mr. Rivers?- the
Rev. Robert Brocklehurst is the treasurer.’
‘I have heard of Mr.
Brocklehurst, and I have seen the school.’
‘I left Lowood nearly a year
since to become a private governess. I obtained a good situation, and was
happy. This place I was obliged to leave four days before I came here. The
reason of my departure I cannot and ought not to explain: it would be usele=
ss,
dangerous, and would sound incredible. No blame attached to me: I am as free
from culpability as any one of you three. Miserable I am, and must be for a
time; for the catastrophe which drove me from a house I had found a paradise
was of a strange and direful nature. I observed but two points in planning =
my
departure- speed, secrecy: to secure these, I had to leave behind me everyt=
hing
I possessed except a small parcel; which, in my hurry and trouble of mind, I
forgot to take out of the coach that brought me to Whitcross. To this
neighbourhood, then, I came, quite destitute. I slept two nights in the open
air, and wandered about two days without crossing a threshold: but twice in
that space of time did I taste food; and it was when brought by hunger,
exhaustion, and despair almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, forb=
ade
me to perish of want at your door, and took me under the shelter of your ro=
of.
I know all your sisters have done for me since- for I have not been insensi=
ble
during my seeming torpor- and I owe to their spontaneous, genuine, genial
compassion as large a debt as to your evangelical charity.’
‘Don't make her talk any more
now, St. John,’ said Diana, as I paused; ‘she is evidently not =
yet
fit for excitement. Come to the sofa and sit down now, Miss Elliott.’=
I gave an involuntary half start at
hearing the alias: I had forgot=
ten my
new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at once.
‘You said your name was Jane
Elliott?’ he observed.
‘I did say so; and it is the
name by which I think it expedient to be called at present, but it is not my
real name, and when I hear it, it sounds strange to me.’
‘Your real name you will not
give?’
‘No: I fear discovery above =
all
things; and whatever disclosure would lead to it, I avoid.’
‘You are quite right, I am s=
ure,’
said Diana. ‘Now do, brother, let her be at peace a while.’
But when St. John had mused a few
moments he recommenced as imperturbably and with as much acumen as ever.
‘You would not like to be lo=
ng
dependent on our hospitality- you would wish, I see, to dispense as soon as=
may
be with my sisters' compassion, and, above all, with my charity (I am quite sensible of the distinction drawn, nor do I
resent it- it is just): you desire to be independent of us?’
‘I do: I have already said s=
o.
Show me how to work, or how to seek work: that is all I now ask; then let me
go, if it be but to the meanest cottage; but till then, allow me to stay he=
re:
I dread another essay of the horrors of homeless destitution.’
‘Indeed you shall stay here,’ said Diana, putting her white hand on my
head. ‘You shall,’
repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrative sincerity which seemed natura=
l to
her.
‘My sisters, you see, have a
pleasure in keeping you,’ said Mr. St. John, ‘as they would hav=
e a
pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen bird, some wintry wind mig=
ht
have driven through their casement. I feel more inclination to put you in t=
he
way of keeping yourself, and shall endeavour to do so; but observe, my sphe=
re
is narrow. I am but the incumbent of a poor country parish: my aid must be =
of
the humblest sort. And if you are inclined to despise the day of small thin=
gs,
seek some more efficient succour than such as I can offer.’
‘She has already said that s=
he
is willing to do anything honest she can do,’ answered Diana for me; =
‘and
you know, St. John, she has no choice of helpers: she is forced to put up w=
ith
such crusty people as you.’
‘I will be a dressmaker; I w=
ill
be a plain-workwoman; I will be a servant, a nurse-girl, if I can be no bet=
ter,’
I answered.
‘Right,’ said Mr. St.
John, quite coolly. ‘If such is your spirit, I promise to aid you, in=
my
own time and way.’
He now resumed the book with which=
he
had been occupied before tea. I soon withdrew, for I had talked as much, and
sat up as long, as my present strength would permit.
The more I knew of the inmates of =
Moor
House, the better I liked them. In a few days I had so far recovered my hea=
lth
that I could sit up all day, and walk out sometimes. I could join with Diana
and Mary in all their occupations; converse with them as much as they wishe=
d,
and aid them when and where they would allow me. There was a reviving pleas=
ure
in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me for the first time- the
pleasure arising from perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and
principles.
I liked to read what they liked to
read: what they enjoyed, delighted me; what they approved, I reverenced. Th=
ey
loved their sequestered home. I, too, in the grey, small, antique structure,
with its low roof, its latticed casements, its mouldering walls, its avenue=
of
aged firs- all grown aslant under the stress of mountain winds; its garden,
dark with yew and holly- and where no flowers but of the hardiest species w=
ould
bloom- found a charm both potent and permanent. They clung to the purple mo=
ors
behind and around their dwelling- to the hollow vale into which the pebbly
bridle-path leading from their gate descended, and which wound between
fern-banks first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture-fiel=
ds
that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of =
grey
moorland sheep, with their little mossy- faced lambs:- they clung to this
scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment. I could comprehend t=
he
feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I saw the fascination of the
locality. I felt the consecration of its loneliness: my eye feasted on the
outline of swell and sweep- on the wild colouring communicated to ridge and
dell by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken,
and mellow granite crag. These details were just to me what they were to th=
em- so
many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast and the soft bree=
ze;
the rough and the halcyon day; the hours of sunrise and sunset; the moonlig=
ht
and the clouded night, developed for me, in these regions, the same attract=
ion
as for them- wound round my faculties the same spell that entranced theirs.=
Indoors we agreed equally well. Th=
ey
were both more accomplished and better read than I was; but with eagerness I
followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden before me. I devoured the
books they lent me: then it was full satisfaction to discuss with them in t=
he
evening what I had perused during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion =
met
opinion: we coincided, in short, perfectly.
If in our trio there was a superior
and a leader, it was Diana. Physically, she far excelled me: she was handso=
me;
she was vigorous. In her animal spirits there was an affluence of life and
certainty of flow, such as excited my wonder, while it baffled my
comprehension. I could talk a while when the evening commenced, but the fir=
st
gush of vivacity and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at Diana's
feet, to rest my head on her knee, and listen alternately to her and Mary,
while they sounded thoroughly the topic on which I had but touched. Diana
offered to teach me German. I liked to learn of her: I saw the part of
instructress pleased and suited her; that of scholar pleased and suited me =
no less.
Our natures dovetailed: mutual affection- of the strongest kind- was the
result. They discovered I could draw: their pencils and colour-boxes were
immediately at my service. My skill, greater in this one point than theirs,
surprised and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch me by the hour togethe=
r:
then she would take lessons; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil she
made. Thus occupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and
weeks like days.
As to Mr. St John, the intimacy wh=
ich had
arisen so naturally and rapidly between me and his sisters did not extend to
him. One reason of the distance yet observed between us was, that he was
comparatively seldom at home: a large proportion of his time appeared devot=
ed
to visiting the sick and poor among the scattered population of his parish.=
No weather seemed to hinder him in
these pastoral excursions: rain or fair, he would, when his hours of morning
study were over, take his hat, and, followed by his father's old pointer,
Carlo, go out on his mission of love or duty- I scarcely know in which ligh=
t he
regarded it. Sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable, his sisters wou=
ld
expostulate. He would then say, with a peculiar smile, more solemn than
cheerful-
‘And if I let a gust of wind=
or
a sprinkling of rain turn me aside from these easy tasks, what preparation
would such sloth be for the future I propose to myself?’
Diana and Mary's general answer to
this question was a sigh, and some minutes of apparently mournful meditatio=
n.
But besides his frequent absences,
there was another barrier to friendship with him: he seemed of a reserved, =
an
abstracted, and even of a brooding nature. Zealous in his ministerial labou=
rs,
blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental
serenity, that inward content, which should be the reward of every sincere
Christian and practical philanthropist. Often, of an evening, when he sat at
the window, his desk and papers before him, he would cease reading or writi=
ng,
rest his chin on his hand, and deliver himself up to I know not what course=
of
thought; but that it was perturbed and exciting might be seen in the freque=
nt
flash and changeful dilation of his eye.
I think, moreover, that Nature was=
not
to him that treasury of delight it was to his sisters. He expressed once, a=
nd
but once in my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, an=
d an
inborn affection for the dark roof and hoary walls he called his home; but
there was more of gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in which the
sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roam the moors for the s=
ake
of their soothing silence- never seek out or dwell upon the thousand peacef=
ul
delights they could yield.
Incommunicative as he was, some ti=
me
elapsed before I had an opportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an ide=
a of
its calibre when I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I c=
ould
describe that sermon: but it is past my power. I cannot even render faithfu=
lly
the effect it produced on me.
It began calm- and indeed, as far =
as
delivery and pitch of voice went, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt,
yet strictly restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, and
prompted the nervous language. This grew to force- compressed, condensed,
controlled. The heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by the power of the
preacher: neither were softened. Throughout there was a strange bitterness;=
an
absence of consolatory gentleness; stern allusions to Calvinistic doctrines=
- election,
predestination, reprobation- were frequent; and each reference to these poi=
nts
sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he had done, instead of
feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, I experienced an
inexpressible sadness; for it seemed to me- I know not whether equally so to
others- that the eloquence to which I had been listening had sprung from a
depth where lay turbid dregs of disappointment- where moved troubling impul=
ses
of insatiate yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Riv=
ers-
pure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he was- had not yet found that peace =
of
God which passeth all understanding: he had no more found it, I thought, th=
an
had I with my concealed and racking regrets for my broken idol and lost ely=
sium-
regrets to which I have latterly avoided referring, but which possessed me =
and
tyrannised over me ruthlessly.
Meantime a month was gone. Diana a=
nd
Mary were soon to leave Moor House, and return to the far different life and
scene which awaited them, as governesses in a large, fashionable,
south-of-England city, where each held a situation in families by whose wea=
lthy
and haughty members they were regarded only as humble dependants, and who
neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, and appreciated only
their acquired accomplishments as they appreciated the skill of their cook =
or
the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr. St. John had said nothing to me yet a=
bout
the employment he had promised to obtain for me; yet it became urgent that I
should have a vocation of some kind. One morning, being left alone with him=
a
few minutes in the parlour, I ventured to approach the window-recess- which=
his
table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study- and I was going to
speak, though not very well knowing in what words to frame my inquiry- for =
it
is at all times difficult to break the ice of reserve glassing over such
natures as his- when he saved me the trouble by being the first to commence=
a
dialogue.
Looking up as I drew near- ’=
You
have a question to ask of me?’ he said.
‘Yes; I wish to know whether=
you
have heard of any service I can offer myself to undertake?’
‘I found or devised something
for you three weeks ago; but as you seemed both useful and happy here- as my
sisters had evidently become attached to you, and your society gave them
unusual pleasure- I deemed it inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort
till their approaching departure from Marsh End should render yours necessa=
ry.’
‘And they will go in three d=
ays
now?’ I said.
‘Yes; and when they go, I sh=
all
return to the parsonage at Morton: Hannah will accompany me; and this old h=
ouse
will be shut up.’
I waited a few moments, expecting =
he
would go on with the subject first broached: but he seemed to have entered
another train of reflection: his look denoted abstraction from me and my
business. I was obliged to recall him to a theme which was of necessity one=
of
close and anxious interest to me.
‘What is the employment you =
had
in view, Mr. Rivers? I hope this delay will not have increased the difficul=
ty
of securing it.’
‘Oh, no; since it is an
employment which depends only on me to give, and you to accept.’
He again paused: there seemed a
reluctance to continue. I grew impatient: a restless movement or two, and an
eager and exacting glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to him=
as
effectually as words could have done, and with less trouble.
‘You need be in no hurry to
hear,’ he said: ‘let me frankly tell you, I have nothing eligib=
le
or profitable to suggest. Before I explain, recall, if you please, my notic=
e,
clearly given, that if I helped you, it must be as the blind man would help=
the
lame. I am poor; for I find that, when I have paid my father's debts, all t=
he
patrimony remaining to me will be this crumbling grange, the row of scathed
firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, with the yew-trees and holly-bu=
shes
in front. I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; but of the three sole
descendants of the race, two earn the dependant's crust among strangers, and
the third considers himself an alien from his native country- not only for
life, but in death. Yes, and deems, and is bound to deem, himself honoured =
by
the lot, and aspires but after the day when the cross of separation from
fleshly ties shall be laid on his shoulders, and when the Head of that chur=
ch-militant
of whose humblest members he is one, shall give the word, 'Rise, follow Me!=
'‘
St. John said these words as he
pronounced his sermons, with a quiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, =
and
a coruscating radiance of glance. He resumed-
‘And since I am myself poor =
and
obscure, I can offer you but a service of poverty and obscurity. You may even think it degrading- f=
or I
see now your habits have been what the world calls refined: your tastes lea=
n to
the ideal, and your society has at least been amongst the educated; but I consider that no service degrades
which can better our race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the so=
il
where the Christian labourer's task of tillage is appointed him- the scanti=
er
the meed his toil brings- the higher the honour. His, under such circumstan=
ces,
is the destiny of the pioneer; and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the
Apostles- their captain was Jesus, the Redeemer, Himself.’
‘Well?’ I said, as he
again paused- ’proceed.’
He looked at me before he proceede=
d:
indeed, he seemed leisurely to read my face, as if its features and lines w=
ere
characters on a page. The conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially
expressed in his succeeding observations.
‘I believe you will accept t=
he
post I offer you,’ said he, ‘and hold it for a while: not
permanently, though: any more than I could permanently keep the narrow and
narrowing- the tranquil, hidden office of English country incumbent; for in
your nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as that in mine, though of=
a
different kind.’
‘Do explain,’ I urged,
when he halted once more.
‘I will; and you shall hear =
how
poor the proposal is,- how trivial- how cramping. I shall not stay long at
Morton, now that my father is dead, and that I am my own master. I shall le=
ave
the place probably in the course of a twelve-month; but while I do stay, I =
will
exert myself to the utmost for its improvement. Morton, when I came to it t=
wo
years ago, had no school: the children of the poor were excluded from every
hope of progress. I established one for boys: I mean now to open a second
school for girls. I have hired a building for the purpose, with a cottage of
two rooms attached to it for the mistress's house. Her salary will be thirty
pounds a year: her house is already furnished, very simply, but sufficientl=
y,
by the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the only daughter of the sole rich =
man
in my parish- Mr. Oliver, the proprietor of a needle- factory and iron-foun=
dry
in the valley. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an orph=
an
from the workhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in such me=
nial
offices connected with her own house and the school as her occupation of
teaching will prevent her having time to discharge in person. Will you be t=
his
mistress?’
He put the question rather hurried=
ly;
he seemed half to expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of
the offer: not knowing all my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, =
he
could not tell in what light the lot would appear to me. In truth it was hu=
mble-
but then it was sheltered, and I wanted a safe asylum: it was plodding- but
then, compared with that of a governess in a rich house, it was independent;
and the fear of servitude with strangers entered my soul like iron: it was =
not
ignoble- not unworthy- not mentally degrading, I made my decision.
‘I thank you for the proposa=
l,
Mr. Rivers, and I accept it with all my heart.’
‘But you comprehend me?̵=
7;
he said. ‘It is a village school: your scholars will be only poor gir=
ls- cottagers'
children- at the best, farmers' daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writi=
ng,
ciphering, will be all you will have to teach. What will you do with your
accomplishments? What, with the largest portion of your mind- sentiments- t=
astes?’
‘Save them till they are wan=
ted.
They will keep.’
‘You know what you undertake,
then?’
‘I do.’
He now smiled: and not a bitter or=
a
sad smile, but one well pleased and deeply gratified.
‘And when will you commence =
the
exercise of your function?’
‘I will go to my house
to-morrow, and open the school, if you like, next week.’
‘Very well: so be it.’=
He rose and walked through the roo=
m.
Standing still, he again looked at me. He shook his head.
‘What do you disapprove of, =
Mr.
Rivers?’ I asked.
‘You will not stay at Morton
long: no, no!’
‘Why? What is your reason for
saying so?’
‘I read it in your eye; it is
not of that description which promises the maintenance of an even tenor in
life.’
‘I am not ambitious.’<= o:p>
He started at the word ‘ambi=
tious.’
He repeated, ‘No. What made you think of ambition? Who is ambitious? I
know I am: but how did you find it out?’
‘I was speaking of myself.=
8217;
‘Well, if you are not ambiti=
ous,
you are- ’ He paused.
‘What?’
‘I was going to say,
impassioned: but perhaps you would have misunderstood the word, and been di=
spleased.
I mean, that human affections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on y=
ou.
I am sure you cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude, and =
to
devote your working hours to a monotonous labour wholly void of stimulus: a=
ny
more than I can be content,’ he added, with emphasis, ‘to live =
here
buried in morass, pent in with mountains- my nature, that God gave me,
contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed, paralysed- made useless. You he=
ar
now how I contradict myself. I, who preached contentment with a humble lot,=
and
justified the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God's
service- I, His ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well,
propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.’
He left the room. In this brief ho=
ur I
had learnt more of him than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzl=
ed
me.
Diana and Mary Rivers became more =
sad
and silent as the day approached for leaving their brother and their home. =
They
both tried to appear as usual; but the sorrow they had to struggle against =
was
one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated that
this would be a different parting from any they had ever yet known. It would
probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a parting for years: it migh=
t be
a parting for life.
‘He will sacrifice all to his
long-framed resolves,’ she said: ‘natural affection and feelings
more potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his
vitals. You would think him gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as
death; and the worst of it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissu=
ade
him from his severe decision: certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for
it. It is right, noble, Christian: yet it breaks my heart!’ And the t=
ears
gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work.
‘We are now without father: =
we
shall soon be without home and brother,’ she murmured.
At that moment a little accident
supervened, which seemed decreed by fate purposely to prove the truth of the
adage, that ‘misfortunes never come singly,’ and to add to their
distresses the vexing one of the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John
passed the window reading a letter. He entered.
‘Our uncle John is dead,R=
17;
said he.
Both the sisters seemed struck: not
shocked or appalled; the tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous th=
an
afflicting.
‘Dead?’ repeated Diana=
.
‘Yes.’
She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. ‘And what then?’ she demanded, in a low voice.<= o:p>
‘What then, Die?’ he r=
eplied,
maintaining a marble immobility of feature. ‘What then? Why- nothing.
Read.’
He threw the letter into her lap. =
She
glanced over it, and handed it to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and
returned it to her brother. All three looked at each other, and all three
smiled- a dreary, pensive smile enough.
‘Amen! We can yet live,̵=
7;
said Diana at last.
‘At any rate, it makes us no
worse off than we were before,’ remarked Mary.
‘Only it forces rather stron=
gly
on the mind the picture of what mig=
ht
have been,’ said Mr. Rivers, ‘and contrasts it somewhat too
vividly with what is.’
He folded the letter, locked it in=
his
desk, and again went out.
For some minutes no one spoke. Dia=
na
then turned to me.
‘Jane, you will wonder at us=
and
our mysteries,’ she said, ‘and think us hard-hearted beings not=
to
be more moved at the death of so near a relation as an uncle; but we have n=
ever
seen him or known him. He was my mother's brother. My father and he quarrel=
led
long ago. It was by his advice that my father risked most of his property in
the speculation that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between them: =
they
parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in =
more
prosperous undertakings: it appears he realised a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds. He was never married, and had no near kindred but ourselves and one
other person, not more closely related than we. My father always cherished =
the
idea that he would atone for his error by leaving his possessions to us; th=
at
letter informs us that he has bequeathed every penny to the other relation,
with the exception of thirty guineas, to be divided between St. John, Diana,
and Mary Rivers, for the purchase of three mourning rings. He had a right, =
of
course, to do as he pleased: and yet a momentary damp is cast on the spirit=
s by
the receipt of such news. Mary and I would have esteemed ourselves rich wit=
h a
thousand pounds each; and to St. John such a sum would have been valuable, =
for
the good it would have enabled him to do.’
This explanation given, the subject
was dropped, and no further reference made to it by either Mr. Rivers or his
sisters. The next day I left Marsh End for Morton. The day after, Diana and
Mary quitted it for distant B-. In a week, Mr. Rivers and Hannah repaired to
the parsonage: and so the old grange was abandoned.
My home, then, when I at last find=
a
home,- is a cottage; a little room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floo=
r,
containing four painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or
three plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber =
of
the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawe=
rs;
small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe: though the kindn=
ess
of my gentle and generous friends has increased that, by a modest stock of =
such
things as are necessary.
It is evening. I have dismissed, w=
ith
the fee of an orange, the little orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am
sitting alone on the hearth. This morning, the village school opened. I had=
twenty
scholars. But three of the number can read: none write or cipher. Several k=
nit,
and a few sew a little. They speak with the broadest accent of the district=
. At
present, they and I have a difficulty in understanding each other's languag=
e.
Some of them are unmannered, rough, intractable, as well as ignorant; but
others are docile, have a wish to learn, and evince a disposition that plea=
ses
me. I must not forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh=
and
blood as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy; and that the germs of na=
tive
excellence, refinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to exist =
in
their hearts as in those of the best-born. My duty will be to develop these
germs: surely I shall find some happiness in discharging that office. Much
enjoyment I do not expect in the life opening before me: yet it will,
doubtless, if I regulate my mind, and exert my powers as I ought, yield me
enough to live on from day to day.
Was I very gleeful, settled, conte=
nt,
during the hours I passed in yonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning and
afternoon? Not to deceive myself, I must reply- No: I felt desolate to a
degree. I felt- yes, idiot that I am- I felt degraded. I doubted I had take=
n a
step which sank instead of raising me in the scale of social existence. I w=
as
weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty, the coarseness of all I heard
and saw round me. But let me not hate and despise myself too much for these
feelings; I know them to be wrong- that is a great step gained; I shall str=
ive
to overcome them. To-morrow, I trust, I shall get the better of them partia=
lly;
and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a few months, i=
t is
possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and a change for the better in =
my
scholars may substitute gratification for disgust.
Meantime, let me ask myself one
question- Which is better?- To have surrendered to temptation; listened to
passion; made no painful effort- no struggle;- but to have sunk down in the
silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southe=
rn
clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in
France, Mr. Rochester's mistress; delirious with his love half my time- for=
he
would- oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He did love me- no one will ever love=
me so
again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and
grace- for never to any one else shall I seem to possess these charms. He w=
as
fond and proud of me- it is what no man besides will ever be.- But where am=
I
wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it bett=
er,
I ask, to be a slave in a fool's paradise at Marseilles- fevered with delus=
ive
bliss one hour- suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame t=
he
next- or to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mount=
ain
nook in the healthy heart of England?
Yes; I feel now that I was right w=
hen
I adhered to principle and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptin=
gs
of a frenzied moment. God directed me to a correct choice: I thank His
providence for the guidance!
Having brought my eventide musings=
to
this point, I rose, went to my door, and looked at the sunset of the
harvest-day, and at the quiet fields before my cottage, which, with the sch=
ool,
was distant half a mile from the village. The birds were singing their last
strains-
‘The air was mild, the dew w=
as
balm.’
While I looked, I thought myself
happy, and was surprised to find myself ere long weeping- and why? For the =
doom
which had reft me from adhesion to my master: for him I was no more to see;=
for
the desperate grief and fatal fury- consequences of my departure- which mig=
ht
now, perhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too far to leave hope=
of
ultimate restoration thither. At this thought, I turned my face aside from =
the
lovely sky of eve and lonely vale of Morton- I say lonely, for in that bend of it visible to me there was no build=
ing
apparent save the church and the parsonage, half-hid in trees, and, quite at
the extremity, the roof of Vale Hall, where the rich Mr. Oliver and his
daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head against the stone frame of=
my
door; but soon a slight noise near the wicket which shut in my tiny garden =
from
the meadow beyond it made me look up. A dog- old Carlo, Mr. Rivers' pointer=
, as
I saw in a moment- was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. John himself
leant upon it with folded arms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to
displeasure, fixed on me. I asked him to come in.
‘No, I cannot stay; I have o=
nly
brought you a little parcel my sisters left for you. I think it contains a
colour-box, pencils, and paper.’
I approached to take it: a welcome
gift it was. He examined my face, I thought, with austerity, as I came near:
the traces of tears were doubtless very visible upon it.
‘Have you found your first d=
ay's
work harder than you expected?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no! On the contrary, I
think in time I shall get on with my scholars very well.’
‘But perhaps your accommodat=
ions-
your cottage- your furniture- have disappointed your expectations? They are=
, in
truth, scanty enough; but- ’ I interrupted-
‘My cottage is clean and
weather-proof; my furniture sufficient and commodious. All I see has made me
thankful, not despondent. I am not absolutely such a fool and sensualist as=
to
regret the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five wee=
ks
ago I had nothing- I was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant; now I have
acquaintance, a home, a business. I wonder at the goodness of God; the
generosity of my friends; the bounty of my lot. I do not repine.’
‘But you feel solitude an
oppression? The little house there behind you is dark and empty.’
‘I have hardly had time yet =
to
enjoy a sense of tranquillity, much less to grow impatient under one of lon=
eliness.’
‘Very well; I hope you feel =
the
content you express: at any rate, your good sense will tell you that it is =
too
soon yet to yield to the vacillating fears of Lot's wife. What you had left
before I saw you, of course I do not know; but I counsel you to resist firm=
ly
every temptation which would incline you to look back: pursue your present
career steadily, for some months at least.’
‘It is what I mean to do,=
217;
I answered. St. John continued-
‘It is hard work to control =
the
workings of inclination and turn the bent of nature; but that it may be don=
e, I
know from experience. God has given us, in a measure, the power to make our=
own
fate; and when our energies seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get- wh=
en
our will strains after a path we may not follow- we need neither starve from
inanition, nor stand still in despair: we have but to seek another nourishm=
ent
for the mind, as strong as the forbidden food it longed to taste- and perha=
ps
purer; and to hew out for the adventurous foot a road as direct and broad as
the one Fortune has blocked up against us, if rougher than it.
‘A year ago I was myself
intensely miserable, because I thought I had made a mistake in entering the
ministry: its uniform duties wearied me to death. I burnt for the more acti=
ve
life of the world- for the more exciting toils of a literary career- for the
destiny of an artist, author, orator; anything rather than that of a priest:
yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover=
of
renown, a luster after power, beat under my curate's surplice. I considered=
; my
life was so wretched, it must be changed, or I must die. After a season of
darkness and struggling, light broke and relief fell: my cramped existence =
all
at once spread out to a plain without bounds- my powers heard a call from
heaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings, and mount
beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bear which afar, to deliver it wel=
l,
skill and strength, courage and eloquence, the best qualifications of soldi=
er, statesman,
and orator, were all needed: for these all centre in the good missionary.
‘A missionary I resolved to =
be.
From that moment my state of mind changed; the fetters dissolved and dropped
from every faculty, leaving nothing of bondage but its galling soreness- wh=
ich
time only can heal. My father, indeed, imposed the determination, but since=
his
death, I have not a legitimate obstacle to contend with; some affairs settl=
ed,
a successor for Morton provided, an entanglement or two of the feelings bro=
ken
through or cut asunder- a last conflict with human weakness, in which I kno=
w I
shall overcome, because I have vowed that I will
overcome- and I leave Europe for the East.’
He said this, in his peculiar,
subdued, yet emphatic voice; looking, when he had ceased speaking, not at m=
e,
but at the setting sun, at which I looked too. Both he and I had our backs
towards the path leading up the field to the wicket. We had heard no step on
that grass-grown track; the water running in the vale was the one lulling s=
ound
of the hour and scene; we might well then start when a gay voice, sweet as a
silver bell, exclaimed- ̵=
6;Good
evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to
recognise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged his
tail when I was at the bottom of the field, and you have your back towards =
me
now.’
It was true. Though Mr. Rivers had
started at the first of those musical accents, as if a thunderbolt had spli=
t a
cloud over his head, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the same
attitude in which the speaker had surprised him- his arm resting on the gat=
e,
his face directed towards the west. He turned at last, with measured
deliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me, had risen at his side. There
appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad in pure white- a youthful,
graceful form: full, yet fine in contour; and when, after bending to caress
Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back a long veil, there bloomed und=
er
his glance a face of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression;=
but
I do not retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the temperate cli=
me
of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and
vapoury skies generated and screened, justified, in this instance, the term=
. No
charm was wanting, no defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular and
delicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely
pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash which
encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow which g=
ives
such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds such repose to the
livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh, and smooth; the l=
ips,
fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth with=
out
flaw; the small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses- all
advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty, were fu=
lly
hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: I admired her with my
whole heart. Nature had surely formed her in a partial mood; and, forgetting
her usual stinted step-mother dole of gifts, had endowed this, her darling,
with a grand-dame's bounty.
What did St. John Rivers think of =
this
earthly angel? I naturally asked myself that question as I saw him turn to =
her
and look at her; and, as naturally, I sought the answer to the inquiry in h=
is
countenance. He had already withdrawn his eye from the Peri, and was lookin=
g at
a humble tuft of daisies which grew by the wicket.
‘A lovely evening, but late =
for
you to be out alone,’ he said, as he crushed the snowy heads of the
closed flowers with his foot.
‘Oh, I only came home from S=
-’
(she mentioned the name of a large town some twenty miles distant) ‘t=
his
afternoon. Papa told me you had opened your school, and that the new mistre=
ss
was come; and so I put on my bonnet after tea, and ran up the valley to see
her: this is she?’ pointing to me.
‘It is,’ said St. John=
.
‘Do you think you shall like
Morton?’ she asked of me, with a direct and naive simplicity of tone =
and
manner, pleasing, if child-like.
‘I hope I shall. I have many
inducements to do so.’
‘Did you find your scholars =
as
attentive as you expected?’
‘Quite.’
‘Do you like your house?R=
17;
‘Very much.’
‘Have I furnished it nicely?=
’
‘Very nicely, indeed.’=
‘And made a good choice of an
attendant for you in Alice Wood?’
‘You have indeed. She is
teachable and handy.’ (This then, I thought, is Miss Oliver, the heir=
ess;
favoured, it seems, in the gifts of fortune, as well as in those of nature!
What happy combination of the planets presided over her birth, I wonder?)
‘I shall come up and help yo=
u to
teach sometimes,’ she added. ‘It will be a change for me to vis=
it
you now and then; and I like a change. Mr. Rivers, I have been so gay during my stay at S-. Last =
night,
or rather this morning, I was dancing till two o'clock. The - -th regiment =
are
stationed there since the riots; and the officers are the most agreeable me=
n in
the world: they put all our young knife-grinders and scissor merchants to
shame.’
It seemed to me that Mr. St. John's
under lip protruded, and his upper lip curled a moment. His mouth certainly
looked a good deal compressed, and the lower part of his face unusually ste=
rn
and square, as the laughing girl gave him this information. He lifted his g=
aze,
too, from the daisies, and turned it on her. An unsmiling, a searching, a
meaning gaze it was. She answered it with a second laugh, and laughter well
became her youth, her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes.
As he stood, mute and grave, she a=
gain
fell to caressing Carlo. ‘Poor Carlo loves me,’ said she. ̵=
6;He is not stern and distant to his
friends; and if he could speak, he would not be silent.’
As she patted the dog's head, bend=
ing
with native grace before his young and austere master, I saw a glow rise to
that master's face. I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker
with resistless emotion. Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as
beautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his la=
rge
heart, weary of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the will, and =
made
a vigorous bound for the attainment of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, =
as a
resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded neither by word nor
movement to the gentle advances made him.
‘Papa says you never come to=
see
us now,’ continued Miss Oliver, looking up. ‘You are quite a
stranger at Vale Hall. He is alone this evening, and not very well: will you
return with me and visit him?’
‘It is not a seasonable hour=
to
intrude on Mr. Oliver,’ answered St. John.
‘Not a seasonable hour! But I
declare it is. It is just the hour when papa most wants company: when the w=
orks
are closed and he has no business to occupy him. Now, Mr. Rivers, do come. Why are you so very shy, =
and so
very sombre?’ She filled up the hiatus his silence left by a reply of=
her
own.
‘I forgot!’ she exclai=
med,
shaking her beautiful curled head, as if shocked at herself. ‘I am so
giddy and thoughtless! Do excus=
e me.
It had slipped my memory that you have good reasons to be indisposed for
joining in my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is shut=
up,
and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see papa.’
‘Not to-night, Miss Rosamond,
not to-night.’
Mr. St. John spoke almost like an
automaton: himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to refuse.
‘Well, if you are so obstina=
te,
I will leave you; for I dare not stay any longer: the dew begins to fall. G=
ood
evening!’
She held out her hand. He just tou=
ched
it. ‘Good evening!’ he repeated, in a voice low and hollow as an
echo. She turned, but in a moment returned.
‘Are you well?’ she as=
ked.
Well might she put the question: his face was blanched as her gown.
‘Quite well,’ he
enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went one way; he another.
She turned twice to gaze after him as she tripped fairy-like down the field;
he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at all.
This spectacle of another's suffer=
ing
and sacrifice rapt my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana
Rivers had designated her brother ‘inexorable as death.’ She had
not exaggerated.
I continued the labours of the
village-school as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard wor=
k at
first. Some time elapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my
scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid, th=
ey
seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dull alike: but I so=
on
found I was mistaken. There was a difference amongst them as amongst the
educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, this difference rapidly
developed itself. Their amazement at me, my language, my rules, and ways, o=
nce
subsided, I found some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up into
sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves obliging, and amiable too;
and I discovered amongst them not a few examples of natural politeness, and
innate self-respect, as well as of excellent capacity, that won both my
goodwill and my admiration. These soon took a pleasure in doing their work
well, in keeping their persons neat, in learning their tasks regularly, in
acquiring quiet and orderly manners. The rapidity of their progress, in some
instances, was even surprising; and an honest and happy pride I took in it:=
besides,
I began personally to like some of the best girls; and they liked me. I had
amongst my scholars several farmers' daughters: young women grown, almost.
These could already read, write, and sew; and to them I taught the elements=
of
grammar, geography, history, and the finer kinds of needlework. I found
estimable characters amongst them- characters desirous of information and
disposed for improvement- with whom I passed many a pleasant evening hour in
their own homes. Their parents then (the farmer and his wife) loaded me with
attentions. There was an enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, and =
in
repaying it by a consideration- a scrupulous regard to their feelings- to w=
hich
they were not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, and which both charmed and
benefited them; because, while it elevated them in their own eyes, it made =
them
emulous to merit the deferential treatment they received.
I felt I became a favourite in the
neighbourhood. Whenever I went out, I heard on all sides cordial salutation=
s, and
was welcomed with friendly smiles. To live amidst general regard, though it=
be
but the regard of working people, is like ‘sitting in sunshine, calm =
and
sweet;’ serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray. At this
period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank
with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of this calm,
this useful existence- after a day passed in honourable exertion amongst my
scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedly alone- I used =
to
rush into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured, agitated, full of =
the
ideal, the stirring, the stormy- dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, charg=
ed
with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still again and
again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense=
of
being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and
cheek, loving him, being loved by him- the hope of passing a lifetime at his
side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Th=
en I
recalled where I was, and how situated. Then I rose up on my curtainless be=
d,
trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark night witnessed the
convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion. By nine o'clock the =
next
morning I was punctually opening the school; tranquil, settled, prepared for
the steady duties of the day.
Rosamond Oliver kept her word in
coming to visit me. Her call at the school was generally made in the course=
of
her morning ride. She would canter up to the door on her pony, followed by a
mounted livery servant. Anything more exquisite than her appearance, in her
purple habit, with her Amazon's cap of black velvet placed gracefully above=
the
long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoulders, can scarcely=
be
imagined: and it was thus she would enter the rustic building, and glide
through the dazzled ranks of the village children. She generally came at the
hour when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechising lesson.
Keenly, I fear, did the eye of the visitress pierce the young pastor's hear=
t. A
sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance, even when he did not s=
ee
it; and when he was looking quite away from the door, if she appeared at it,
his cheek would glow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused =
to
relax, changed indescribably, and in their very quiescence became expressiv=
e of
a repressed fervour, stronger than working muscle or darting glance could
indicate.
Of course, she knew her power: ind=
eed,
he did not, because he could not, conceal it from her. In spite of his
Christian stoicism, when she went up and addressed him, and smiled gaily,
encouragingly, even fondly in his face, his hand would tremble and his eye
burn. He seemed to say, with his sad and resolute look, if he did not say it
with his lips, ‘I love you, and I know you prefer me. It is not despa=
ir
of success that keeps me dumb. If I offered my heart, I believe you would
accept it. But that heart is already laid on a sacred altar: the fire is
arranged round it. It will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed.’=
;
And then she would pout like a
disappointed child; a pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity; she
would withdraw her hand hastily from his, and turn in transient petulance f=
rom
his aspect, at once so heroic and so martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would
have given the world to follow, recall, retain her, when she thus left him;=
but
he would not give one chance of heaven, nor relinquish, for the elysium of =
her
love, one hope of the true, eternal Paradise. Besides, he could not bind all
that he had in his nature- the rover, the aspirant, the poet, the priest- in
the limits of a single passion. He could not- he would not- renounce his wi=
ld
field of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace of Vale Hall. I lea=
rnt
so much from himself in an inroad I once, despite his reserve, had the dari=
ng
to make on his confidence.
Miss Oliver already honoured me wi=
th
frequent visits to my cottage. I had learnt her whole character, which was
without mystery or disguise: she was coquettish but not heartless; exacting,
but not worthlessly selfish. She had been indulged from her birth, but was =
not
absolutely spoilt. She was hasty, but good-humoured; vain (she could not he=
lp
it, when every glance in the glass showed her such a flush of loveliness), =
but
not affected; liberal-handed; innocent of the pride of wealth; ingenuous;
sufficiently intelligent; gay, lively, and unthinking: she was very charmin=
g,
in short, even to a cool observer of her own sex like me; but she was not
profoundly interesting or thoroughly impressive. A very different sort of m=
ind
was hers from that, for instance, of the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked
her almost as I liked my pupil Adele; except that, for a child whom we have
watched over and taught, a closer affection is engendered than we can give =
an
equally attractive adult acquaintance.
She had taken an amiable caprice to
me. She said I was like Mr. Rivers, only, certainly, she allowed, ‘not
one-tenth so handsome, though I was a nice neat little soul enough, but he =
was
an angel.’ I was, however, good, clever, composed, and firm, like him=
. I
was a lusus naturae, she affirm=
ed, as
a village schoolmistress: she was sure my previous history, if known, would
make a delightful romance.
One evening, while, with her usual child-like activity, and thoughtless yet not offensive inquisitiveness, she= was rummaging the cupboard and the table-drawer of my little kitchen, she discovered first two French books, a volume of Schiller, a German grammar a= nd dictionary, and then my drawing-materials and some sketches, including a pencil-head of a pretty little cherub-like girl, one of my scholars, and su= ndry views from nature, taken in the Vale of Morton and on the surrounding moors. She was first transfixed with surprise, and then electrified with delight.<= o:p>
‘Had I done these pictures? =
Did
I know French and German? What a love- what a miracle I was! I drew better =
than
her master in the first school in S-. Would I sketch a portrait of her, to =
show
to papa?’
‘With pleasure,’ I
replied; and I felt a thrill of artist-delight at the idea of copying from =
so
perfect and radiant a model. She had then on a dark-blue silk dress; her ar=
ms
and her neck were bare; her only ornament was her chestnut tresses, which w=
aved
over her shoulders with all the wild grace of natural curls. I took a sheet=
of
fine card-board, and drew a careful outline. I promised myself the pleasure=
of
colouring it; and, as it was getting late then, I told her she must come an=
d sit
another day.
She made such a report of me to her
father, that Mr. Oliver himself accompanied her next evening- a tall,
massive-featured, middle-aged, and grey-headed man, at whose side his lovely
daughter looked like a bright flower near a hoary turret. He appeared a
taciturn, and perhaps a proud personage; but he was very kind to me. The sk=
etch
of Rosamond's portrait pleased him highly: he said I must make a finished
picture of it. He insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spend the eve=
ning
at Vale Hall.
I went. I found it a large, handso=
me
residence, showing abundant evidences of wealth in the proprietor. Rosamond=
was
full of glee and pleasure all the time I stayed. Her father was affable; and
when he entered into conversation with me after tea, he expressed in strong
terms his approbation of what I had done in Morton school, and said he only
feared, from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place, and would
soon quit it for one more suitable.
‘Indeed,’ cried Rosamo=
nd, ‘she
is clever enough to be a governess in a high family, papa.’
I thought I would far rather be wh=
ere
I am than in any high family in the land. Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers- of
the Rivers family- with great respect. He said it was a very old name in th=
at
neighbourhood; that the ancestors of the house were wealthy; that all Morton
had once belonged to them; that even now he considered the representative of
that house might, if he liked, make an alliance with the best. He accounted=
it
a pity that so fine and talented a young man should have formed the design =
of
going out as a missionary; it was quite throwing a valuable life away. It
appeared, then, that her father would throw no obstacle in the way of
Rosamond's union with St. John. Mr. Oliver evidently regarded the young cle=
rgyman's
good birth, old name, and sacred profession as sufficient compensation for =
the
want of fortune.
It was the 5th of November, and a
holiday. My little servant, after helping me to clean my house, was gone, w=
ell
satisfied with the fee of a penny for her aid. All about me was spotless and
bright- scoured floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had also m=
ade
myself neat, and had now the afternoon before me to spend as I would.
The translation of a few pages of
German occupied an hour; then I got my palette and pencils, and fell to the
more soothing, because easier occupation, of completing Rosamond Oliver's
miniature. The head was finished already: there was but the background to t=
int
and the drapery to shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to the ripe l=
ips-
a soft curl here and there to the tresses- a deeper tinge to the shadow of =
the
lash under the azured eyelid. I was absorbed in the execution of these nice
details, when, after one rapid tap, my door unclosed, admitting St. John
Rivers.
‘I am come to see how you are
spending your holiday,’ he said. ‘Not, I hope, in thought? No, =
that
is well: while you draw you will not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust you
still, though you have borne up wonderfully so far. I have brought you a bo=
ok
for evening solace,’ and he laid on the table a new publication- a po=
em:
one of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate publi=
c of
those days- the golden age of modern literature. Alas! the readers of our e=
ra
are less favoured. But courage! I will not pause either to accuse or repine=
. I
know poetry is not dead, nor genius lost; nor has Mammon gained power over
either, to bind or slay: they will both assert their existence, their prese=
nce,
their liberty and strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe in heaven! =
they
smile when sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones weep over their destructio=
n.
Poetry destroyed? Genius banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prom=
pt
you to the thought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and witho=
ut
their divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell- the hell of
your own meanness.
While I was eagerly glancing at the
bright pages of ‘Marmion’ (for ‘Marmion’ it was), S=
t.
John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall figure sprang erect again with=
a
start: he said nothing. I looked up at him: he shunned my eye. I knew his
thoughts well, and could read his heart plainly; at the moment I felt calmer
and cooler than he: I had then temporarily the advantage of him, and I
conceived an inclination to do him some good, if I could.
‘With all his firmness and
self-control,’ thought I, ‘he tasks himself too far: locks every
feeling and pang within- expresses, confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it
would benefit him to talk a little about this sweet Rosamond, whom he think=
s he
ought not to marry: I will make him talk.’
I said first, ‘Take a chair,=
Mr.
Rivers.’ But he answered, as he always did, that he could not stay. &=
#8216;Very
well,’ I responded, mentally, ‘stand if you like; but you shall=
not
go just yet, I am determined: solitude is at least as bad for you as it is =
for
me. I'll try if I cannot discover the secret spring of your confidence, and
find an aperture in that marble breast through which I can shed one drop of=
the
balm of sympathy.’
‘Is this portrait like?̵=
7; I
asked bluntly.
‘Like! Like whom? I did not
observe it closely.’
‘You did, Mr. Rivers.’=
He almost started at my sudden and
strange abruptness: he looked at me astonished. ‘Oh, that is nothing =
yet,’
I muttered within. ‘I don't mean to be baffled by a little stiffness =
on
your part; I'm prepared to go to considerable lengths.’ I continued, =
‘You
observed it closely and distinctly; but I have no objection to your looking=
at
it again,’ and I rose and placed it in his hand.
‘A well-executed picture,=
217;
he said; ‘very soft, clear colouring; very graceful and correct drawi=
ng.’
‘Yes, yes; I know all that. =
But
what of the resemblance? Who is it like?’
Mastering some hesitation, he
answered, ‘Miss Oliver, I presume.’
‘Of course. And now, sir, to
reward you for the accurate guess, I will promise to paint you a careful and
faithful duplicate of this very picture, provided you admit that the gift w=
ould
be acceptable to you. I don't wish to throw away my time and trouble on an
offering you would deem worthless.’
He continued to gaze at the pictur=
e:
the longer he looked, the firmer he held it, the more he seemed to covet it=
. ‘It
is like!’ he murmured; ‘the eye is well managed: the colour, li=
ght,
expression, are perfect. It smiles!’
‘Would it comfort, or would =
it
wound you to have a similar painting? Tell me that. When you are at Madagas=
car,
or at the Cape, or in India, would it be a consolation to have that memento=
in
your possession? or would the sight of it bring recollections calculated to
enervate and distress?’
He now furtively raised his eyes: =
he
glanced at me, irresolute, disturbed: he again surveyed the picture.
‘That I should like to have =
it
is certain: whether it would be judicious or wise is another question.̵=
7;
Since I had ascertained that Rosam=
ond
really preferred him, and that her father was not likely to oppose the matc=
h, I-
less exalted in my views than St. John- had been strongly disposed in my own
heart to advocate their union. It seemed to me that, should he become the
possessor of Mr. Oliver's large fortune, he might do as much good with it a=
s if
he went and laid his genius out to wither, and his strength to waste, under=
a
tropical sun. With this persuasion I now answered-
‘As far as I can see, it wou=
ld
be wiser and more judicious if you were to take to yourself the original at
once.’
By this time he had sat down: he h=
ad
laid the picture on the table before him, and with his brow supported on bo=
th
hands, hung fondly over it. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocke=
d at
my audacity. I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he h=
ad
deemed unapproachable- to hear it thus freely handled- was beginning to be =
felt
by him as a new pleasure- an unhoped-for relief. Reserved people often real=
ly
need the frank discussion of their sentiments and griefs more than the
expansive. The sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to ‘bur=
st’
with boldness and good-will into ‘the silent sea’ of their soul=
s is
often to confer on them the first of obligations.
‘She likes you, I am sure,=
8217;
said I, as I stood behind his chair, ‘and her father respects you.
Moreover, she is a sweet girl- rather thoughtless; but you would have
sufficient thought for both yourself and her. You ought to marry her.’=
;
‘Does she like me?’ he asked.
‘Certainly; better than she =
likes
any one else. She talks of you continually: there is no subject she enjoys =
so
much or touches upon so often.’
‘It is very pleasant to hear
this,’ he said- ’very: go on for another quarter of an hour.=
217;
And he actually took out his watch and laid it upon the table to measure the
time.
‘But where is the use of goi=
ng
on,’ I asked, ‘when you are probably preparing some iron blow of
contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to fetter your heart?’
‘Don't imagine such hard thi=
ngs.
Fancy me yielding and melting, as I am doing: human love rising like a fres=
hly
opened fountain in my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the fi=
eld
I have so carefully and with such labour prepared- so assiduously sown with=
the
seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged with=
a
nectarous flood- the young germs swamped- delicious poison cankering them: =
now
I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall at my
bride Rosamond Oliver's feet: she is talking to me with her sweet voice- ga=
zing
down on me with those eyes your skilful hand has copied so well- smiling at=
me
with these coral lips. She is mine- I am hers- this present life and passing
world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing- my heart is full of delight- my sen=
ses
are entranced- let the time I marked pass in peace.’
I humoured him: the watch ticked o=
n:
he breathed fast and low: I stood silent. Amidst this hush the quartet sped=
; he
replaced the watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.
‘Now,’ said he, ‘=
;that
little space was given to delirium and delusion. I rested my temples on the
breast of temptation, and put my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers=
. I
tasted her cup. The pillow was burning: there is an asp in the garland: the
wine has a bitter taste: her promises are hollow- her offers false: I see a=
nd
know all this.’
I gazed at him in wonder.
‘It is strange,’ pursu=
ed
he, ‘that while I love Rosamond Oliver so wildly- with all the intens=
ity,
indeed, of a first passion, the object of which is exquisitely beautiful,
graceful, fascinating- I experience at the same time a calm, unwarped
consciousness that she would not make me a good wife; that she is not the
partner suited to me; that I should discover this within a year after marri=
age;
and that to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of regret. This=
I
know.’
‘Strange indeed!’ I co=
uld
not help ejaculating.
‘While something in me,̵=
7;
he went on, ‘is acutely sensible to her charms, something else is as
deeply impressed with her defects: they are such that she could sympathise =
in
nothing I aspired to- co-operate in nothing I undertook. Rosamond a suffere=
r, a
labourer, a female apostle? Rosamond a missionary's wife? No!’
‘But you need not be a
missionary. You might relinquish that scheme.’
‘Relinquish! What! my vocati=
on?
My great work? My foundation laid on earth for a mansion in heaven? My hope=
s of
being numbered in the band who have merged all ambitions in the glorious on=
e of
bettering their race- of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance- of
substituting peace for war- freedom for bondage- religion for superstition-=
the
hope of heaven for the fear of hell? Must I relinquish that? It is dearer t=
han
the blood in my veins. It is what I have to look forward to, and to live fo=
r.’
After a considerable pause, I said=
- ’And
Miss Oliver? Are her disappointment and sorrow of no interest to you?’=
;
‘Miss Oliver is ever surroun=
ded
by suitors and flatterers: in less than a month, my image will be effaced f=
rom
her heart. She will forget me; and will marry, probably, some one who will =
make
her far happier than I should do.’
‘You speak coolly enough; but
you suffer in the conflict. You are wasting away.’
‘No. If I get a little thin,=
it
is with anxiety about my prospects, yet unsettled- my departure, continually
procrastinated. Only this morning, I received intelligence that the success=
or,
whose arrival I have been so long expecting, cannot be ready to replace me =
for
three months to come yet; and perhaps the three months may extend to six.=
8217;
‘You tremble and become flus=
hed
whenever Miss Oliver enters the schoolroom.’
Again the surprised expression cro=
ssed
his face. He had not imagined that a woman would dare to speak so to a man.=
For
me, I felt at home in this sort of discourse. I could never rest in
communication with strong, discreet, and refined minds, whether male or fem=
ale,
till I had passed the outworks of conventional reserve, and crossed the
threshold of confidence, and won a place by their heart's very hearthstone.=
‘You are original,’ sa=
id
he, ‘and not timid. There is something brave in your spirit, as well =
as
penetrating in your eye; but allow me to assure you that you partially
misinterpret my emotions. You think them more profound and potent than they
are. You give me a larger allowance of sympathy than I have a just claim to.
When I colour, and when I shade before Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself. I
scorn the weakness. I know it is ignoble: a mere fever of the flesh: not, I
declare, the convulsion of the soul. That
is just as fixed as a rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know =
me
to be what I am- a cold hard man.’
I smiled incredulously.
‘You have taken my confidenc= e by storm,’ he continued, ‘and now it is much at your service. I am simply, in my original state- stripped of that blood-bleached robe with whi= ch Christianity covers human deformity- a cold, hard, ambitious man. Natural affection only, of all the sentiments, has permanent power over me. Reason,= and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desire to rise highe= r, to do more than others, insatiable. I honour endurance, perseverance, indus= try, talent; because these are the means by which men achieve great ends and mou= nt to lofty eminence. I watch your career with interest, because I consider yo= u a specimen of a diligent, orderly, energetic woman: not because I deeply compassionate what you have gone through, or what you still suffer.’<= o:p>
‘You would describe yourself=
as
a mere pagan philosopher,’ I said.
‘No. There is this difference
between me and deistic philosophers: I believe; and I believe the Gospel. Y=
ou
missed your epithet. I am not a pagan, but a Christian philosopher- a follo=
wer
of the sect of Jesus. As His disciple I adopt His pure, His merciful, His
benignant doctrines. I advocate them: I am sworn to spread them. Won in you=
th
to religion, she has cultivated my original qualities thus:- From the minute
germ, natural affection, she has developed the overshadowing tree,
philanthropy. From the wild stringy root of human uprightness, she has rear=
ed a
due sense of the Divine justice. Of the ambition to win power and renown fo=
r my
wretched self, she has formed the ambition to spread my Master's kingdom; to
achieve victories for the standard of the cross. So much has religion done =
for
me; turning the original materials to the best account; pruning and training
nature. But she could not eradicate nature: nor will it be eradicated 'till
this mortal shall put on immortality.'‘
Having said this, he took his hat,
which lay on the table beside my palette. Once more he looked at the portra=
it.
‘She is lovely,’ he murmured. ‘She is well named the Ros=
e of
the World, indeed!’
‘And may I not paint one lik=
e it
for you?’
‘Cui bono? No.’
He drew over the picture the sheet=
of
thin paper on which I was accustomed to rest my hand in painting, to preven=
t the
cardboard from being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, it =
was
impossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. He took it up =
with
a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glance at me, inexpressibly
peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glance that seemed to take and make
note of every point in my shape, face, and dress; for it traversed all, qui=
ck,
keen as lightning. His lips parted, as if to speak: but he checked the comi=
ng
sentence, whatever it was.
‘What is the matter?’ I
asked.
‘Nothing in the world,’
was the reply; and, replacing the paper, I saw him dexterously tear a narrow
slip from the margin. It disappeared in his glove; and, with one hasty nod =
and ‘good-afternoon,’
he vanished.
‘Well!’ I exclaimed, u= sing an expression of the district, ‘that caps the globe, however!’<= o:p>
I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save a few
dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I pondered t=
he
mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and being certain it co=
uld
not be of much moment, I dismissed, and soon forgot it.
When Mr. St. John went, it was
beginning to snow; the whirling storm continued all night. The next day a k=
een
wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up
and almost impassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to
prevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitti=
ng
nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, I
lit a candle, took down ‘Marmion,’ and beginning-
‘Day set on Norham's castled
steep, And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone;=
The
massive towers, the donjon keep, The flanking walls that round them sweep, =
In
yellow lustre shone’-
I soon forgot storm in music.
I heard a noise: the wind, I thoug=
ht,
shook the door. No; it was St. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in=
out
of the frozen hurricane- the howling darkness- and stood before me: the clo=
ak
that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in
consternation, so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale =
that
night.
‘Any ill news?’ I
demanded. ‘Has anything happened?’
‘No. How very easily alarmed=
you
are!’ he answered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the d=
oor,
towards which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had derange=
d.
He stamped the snow from his boots.
‘I shall sully the purity of
your floor,’ said he, ‘but you must excuse me for once.’ =
Then
he approached the fire. ‘I have had hard work to get here, I assure y=
ou,’
he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. ‘One drift took m=
e up
to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet.’
‘But why are you come?’=
; I
could not forbear saying.
‘Rather an inhospitable ques=
tion
to put to a visitor; but since you ask it, I answer simply to have a little
talk with you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since
yesterday I have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has =
been
half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel.’
He sat down. I recalled his singul=
ar
conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If =
he
were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had nev=
er
seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble tha=
n it
did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let t=
he
firelight shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where it grieved m=
e to
discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited,
expecting he would say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand =
was
now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that =
his
hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came =
over
my heart: I was moved to say-
‘I wish Diana or Mary would =
come
and live with you: it is too bad that you should be quite alone; and you are
recklessly rash about your own health.’
‘Not at all,’ said he:=
‘I
care for myself when necessary. I am well now. What do you see amiss in me?=
’
This was said with a careless,
abstracted indifference, which showed that my solicitude was, at least in h=
is
opinion, wholly superfluous. I was silenced.
He still slowly moved his finger o=
ver
his upper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; think=
ing
it urgent to say something, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draug=
ht
from the door, which was behind him.
‘No, no!’ he responded
shortly and somewhat testily.
‘Well,’ I reflected, &=
#8216;if
you won't talk, you may be still; I'll let you alone now, and return to my
book.’
So I snuffed the candle and resumed
the perusal of ‘Marmion.’ He soon stirred; my eye was instantly
drawn to his movements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence prod=
uced
a letter, which he read in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into
meditation. It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture bef=
ore
me; nor could I, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he
liked, but talk I would.
‘Have you heard from Diana a=
nd
Mary lately?’
‘Not since the letter I show=
ed
you a week ago.’
‘There has not been any chan=
ge
made about your own arrangements? You will not be summoned to leave England
sooner than you expected?’
‘I fear not, indeed: such ch=
ance
is too good to befall me.’ Baffled so far, I changed my ground. I
bethought myself to talk about the school and my scholars.
‘Mary Garrett's mother is
better, and Mary came back to the school this morning, and I shall have four
new girls next week from the Foundry Close- they would have come to-day but=
for
the snow.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Mr. Oliver pays for two.=
217;
‘Does he?’
‘He means to give the whole
school a treat at Christmas.’
‘I know.’
‘Was it your suggestion?R=
17;
‘No.’
‘Whose, then?’
‘His daughter's, I think.=
217;
‘It is like her: she is so
good-natured.’
‘Yes.’
Again came the blank of a pause: t=
he
clock struck eight strokes. It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erec=
t,
turned to me.
‘Leave your book a moment, a=
nd
come a little nearer the fire,’ he said.
Wondering, and of my wonder findin=
g no
end, I complied.
‘Half-an-hour ago,’ he
pursued, ‘I spoke of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale: on
reflection, I find the matter will be better managed by my assuming the
narrator's part, and converting you into a listener. Before commencing, it =
is
but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your e=
ars;
but stale details often regain a degree of freshness when they pass through=
new
lips. For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short.
‘Twenty years ago, a poor cu=
rate-
never mind his name at this moment- fell in love with a rich man's daughter;
she fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice of all her
friends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before
two years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by si=
de
under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement of=
a
huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgr=
own
manufacturing town in - -shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very
birth, Charity received in her lap- cold as that of the snow-drift I almost
stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing to the house of
its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in- law, called (I co=
me
to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. You start- did you hear a noise? I
daresay it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining
schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and altered, and barns a=
re
generally haunted by rats.- To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years:
whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told;=
but
at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you know- being no ot=
her
than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. It seems her career
there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher, like yoursel=
f- really
it strikes me there are parallel points in her history and yours- she left =
it
to be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook t=
he
education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester.’
‘Mr. Rivers!’ I
interrupted.
‘I can guess your feelings,&=
#8217;
he said, ‘but restrain them for a while: I have nearly finished; hear=
me
to the end. Of Mr. Rochester's character I know nothing, but the one fact t=
hat
he professed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at t=
he
very altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What h=
is
subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but w=
hen
an event transpired which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it
was discovered she was gone- no one could tell when, where, or how. She had
left Thornfield Hall in the night; every research after her course had been
vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of information
could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found is become a
matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been put in all the papers; I
myself have received a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, communicati=
ng
the details I have just imparted. Is it not an odd tale?’
‘Just tell me this,’ s=
aid
I, ‘and since you know so much, you surely can tell it me- what of Mr.
Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?’
‘I am ignorant of all concer=
ning
Mr. Rochester: the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent =
and
illegal attempt I have adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the
governess- the nature of the event which requires her appearance.’
‘Did no one go to Thornfield
Hall, then? Did no one see Mr. Rochester?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘But they wrote to him?̵=
7;
‘Of course.’
‘And what did he say? Who has
his letters?’
‘Mr. Briggs intimates that t=
he
answer to his application was not from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is
signed 'Alice Fairfax.'‘
I felt cold and dismayed: my worst
fears then were probably true: he had in all probability left England and
rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And w=
hat
opiate for his severe sufferings- what object for his strong passions- had =
he
sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master- once alm=
ost
my husband- whom I had often called ‘my dear Edward!’
‘He must have been a bad man=
,’
observed Mr. Rivers.
‘You don't know him- don't
pronounce an opinion upon him,’ I said, with warmth.
‘Very well,’ he answer= ed quietly: ‘and indeed my head is otherwise occupied than with him: I h= ave my tale to finish. Since you won't ask the governess's name, I must tell it= of my own accord. Stay! I have it here- it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to black and white.’<= o:p>
And the pocket-book was again
deliberately produced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments=
was
extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its tex=
ture
and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished marg=
in
of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, tra=
ced
in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words ‘JANE EYRE’- the
work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.
‘Briggs wrote to me of a Jane
Eyre:’ he said, ‘the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I kne=
w a
Jane Elliott.- I confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday
afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the name and
renounce the alias?’
‘Yes- yes; but where is Mr.
Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do.’
‘Briggs is in London. I shou=
ld
doubt his knowing anything at all about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr.
Rochester he is interested. Meantime, you forget essential points in pursui=
ng
trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you- what he wanted
with you.’
‘Well, what did he want?R=
17;
‘Merely to tell you that you=
r uncle,
Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that he has left you all his property, and th=
at
you are now rich- merely that- nothing more.’
‘I!- rich?’
‘Yes, you, rich- quite an
heiress.’
Silence succeeded.
‘You must prove your identit=
y of
course,’ resumed St. John presently: ‘a step which will offer no
difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession. Your fortune is
vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary document=
s.’
Here was a new card turned up! It =
is a
fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth- a ve=
ry
fine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all=
at
once. And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and
rapture-giving: this is solid, =
an
affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations are
solid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and
spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to
consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady
satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood =
over
our bliss with a solemn brow.
Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest=
, go
side by side with the words, Death, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead-=
my
only relative; ever since being made aware of his existence, I had cherished
the hope of one day seeing him: now, I never should. And then this money ca=
me
only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It w=
as a
grand boon doubtless; and independence would be glorious- yes, I felt that-=
that
thought swelled my heart.
‘You unbend your forehead at
last,’ said Mr. Rivers. ‘I thought Medusa had looked at you, and
that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you will ask how much you are
worth?’
‘How much am I worth?’=
‘Oh, a trifle! Nothing of co=
urse
to speak of- twenty thousand pounds, I think they say- but what is that?=
217;
‘Twenty thousand pounds?R=
17;
Here was a new stunner- I had been
calculating on four or five thousand. This news actually took my breath for=
a
moment: Mr. St. John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now.
‘Well,’ said he, ̵=
6;if
you had committed a murder, and I had told you your crime was discovered, y=
ou
could scarcely look more aghast.’
‘It is a large sum- don't you
think there is a mistake?’
‘No mistake at all.’
‘Perhaps you have read the
figures wrong- it may be two thousand!’
‘It is written in letters, n=
ot
figures,- twenty thousand.’
I again felt rather like an indivi=
dual
of but average gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table
spread with provisions for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak=
on.
‘If it were not such a very =
wild
night,’ he said, ‘I would send Hannah down to keep you company:=
you
look too desperately miserable to be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman! co=
uld
not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I mu=
st
e'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night.’
He was lifting the latch: a sudden
thought occurred to me. ‘Stop one minute!’ I cried.
‘Well?’
‘It puzzles me to know why M=
r.
Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he knew you, or could fancy that you,
living in such an out-of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my discover=
y.’
‘Oh! I am a clergyman,’=
; he
said; ‘and the clergy are often appealed to about odd matters.’
Again the latch rattled.
‘No; that does not satisfy m=
e!’
I exclaimed: and indeed there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory
reply which, instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever.
‘It is a very strange piece =
of
business,’ I added; ‘I must know more about it.’
‘Another time.’
‘No; to-night!- to-night!=
217;
and as he turned from the door, I placed myself between it and him. He look=
ed
rather embarrassed.
‘You certainly shall not go =
till
you have told me all,’ I said.
‘I would rather not just now=
.’
‘You shall!- you must!’=
;
‘I would rather Diana or Mary
informed you.’
Of course these objections wrought=
my
eagerness to a climax: gratified it must be, and that without delay; and I =
told
him so.
‘But I apprised you that I w=
as a
hard man,’ said he, ‘difficult to persuade.’
‘And I am a hard woman,- imp=
ossible
to put off.’
‘And then,’ he pursued=
, ‘I
am cold: no fervour infects me.’
‘Whereas I am hot, and fire
dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed all the snow from your cloak; by =
the
same token, it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled str=
eet.
As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanou=
r of
spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know.’
‘Well, then,’ he said,=
‘I
yield; if not to your earnestness, to your perseverance: as stone is worn by
continual dropping. Besides, you must know some day,- as well now as later.
Your name is Jane Eyre?’
‘Of course: that was all set=
tled
before.’
‘You are not, perhaps, aware
that I am your namesake?- that I was christened St. John Eyre Rivers?’=
;
‘No, indeed! I remember now
seeing the letter E. comprised in your initials written in books you have at
different times lent me; but I never asked for what name it stood. But what
then? Surely- ’
I stopped: I could not trust mysel=
f to
entertain, much less to express, the thought that rushed upon me- that embo=
died
itself,- that, in a second, stood out a strong, solid probability.
Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order: the chain
that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links was drawn out straigh=
t,- every
ring was perfect, the connection complete. I knew, by instinct, how the mat=
ter
stood, before St. John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reade=
r to
have the same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation.
‘My mother's name was Eyre; =
she
had two brothers; one a clergyman, who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead;
the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs,
being Mr. Eyre's solicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of our unc=
le's
death, and to say that he had left his property to his brother the clergyma=
n's
orphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, never forgive=
n,
between him and my father. He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate th=
at
the heiress was lost, and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually
written on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out. You know the res=
t.’
Again he was going, but I set my back against the door.
‘Do let me speak,’ I s=
aid;
‘let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect.’ I paused- =
he
stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed-
‘Your mother was my father's
sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘My aunt, consequently?̵=
7;
He bowed. ‘My uncle John was=
your
uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are his sister's children, as I am his
brother's child?’
‘Undeniably.’
‘You three, then, are my
cousins; half our blood on each side flows from the same source?’
‘We are cousins; yes.’=
I surveyed him. It seemed I had fo=
und
a brother: one I could be proud of,- one I could love; and two sisters, who=
se
qualities were such, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers, they had
inspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom,
kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through the low, latticed wind=
ow
of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and
despair, were my near kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman who had
found me almost dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious
discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed!- wealth to the heart!=
- a
mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, and
exhilarating;- not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich and welcome enough=
in
its way, but sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in sudden joy=
- my
pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.
‘Oh, I am glad!- I am glad!&=
#8217;
I exclaimed.
St. John smiled. ‘Did I not =
say
you neglected essential points to pursue trifles?’ he asked. ‘Y=
ou
were serious when I told you you had got a fortune; and now, for a matter o=
f no
moment, you are excited.’
‘What can you mean? It may b=
e of
no moment to you; you have sisters and don't care for a cousin; but I had
nobody; and now three relations,- or two, if you don't choose to be counted=
,- are
born into my world full-grown. I say again, I am glad!’
I walked fast through the room: I
stopped, half suffocated with the thoughts that rose faster than I could
receive, comprehend, settle them:- thoughts of what might, could, would, and
should be, and that ere long. I looked at the blank wall: it seemed a sky t=
hick
with ascending stars,- every one lit me to a purpose or delight. Those who =
had
saved my life, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now bene=
fit.
They were under a yoke,- I could free them: they were scattered,- I could
reunite them: the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be thei=
rs
too. Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five
thousand each, justice- enough and to spare: justice would be done,- mutual
happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me: now it was not a mere
bequest of coin,- it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment.
How I looked while these ideas were
taking my spirit by storm, I cannot tell; but I perceived soon that Mr. Riv=
ers
had placed a chair behind me, and was gently attempting to make me sit down=
on
it. He also advised me to be composed; I scorned the insinuation of
helplessness and distraction, shook off his hand, and began to walk about
again.
‘Write to Diana and Mary
to-morrow,’ I said, ‘and tell them to come home directly. Diana
said they would both consider themselves rich with a thousand pounds, so wi=
th
five thousand they will do very well.’
‘Tell me where I can get you=
a
glass of water,’ said St. John; ‘you must really make an effort=
to
tranquillise your feelings.’
‘Nonsense! and what sort of =
an
effect will the bequest have on you? Will it keep you in England, induce yo=
u to
marry Miss Oliver, and settle down like an ordinary mortal?’
‘You wander: your head becom=
es
confused. I have been too abrupt in communicating the news; it has excited =
you
beyond your strength.’
‘Mr. Rivers! you quite put me
out of patience: I am rational enough; it is you who misunderstand, or rath=
er
who affect to misunderstand.’
‘Perhaps, if you explained
yourself a little more fully, I should comprehend better.’
‘Explain! What is there to
explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in
question, divided equally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle,
will give five thousand to each? What I want is, that you should write to y=
our
sisters and tell them of the fortune that has accrued to them.’
‘To you, you mean.’
‘I have intimated my view of=
the
case: I am incapable of taking any other. I am not brutally selfish, blindly
unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a home=
and
connections. I like Moor House, and I will live at Moor House; I like Diana=
and
Mary, and I will attach myself for life to Diana and Mary. It would please =
and
benefit me to have five thousand pounds; it would torment and oppress me to
have twenty thousand; which, moreover, could never be mine in justice, thou=
gh
it might in law. I abandon to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to =
me.
Let there be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agree amongst
each other, and decide the point at once.’
‘This is acting on first
impulses; you must take days to consider such a matter, ere your word can be
regarded as valid.’
‘Oh! if all you doubt is my
sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice of the case?’
‘I do see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom.
Besides, the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it by his own
efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would: he left it to you. After
all, justice permits you to keep it: you may, with a clear conscience, cons=
ider
it absolutely your own.’
‘With me,’ said I, =
216;it
is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience: I must indulge my
feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to argu=
e,
object, and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the delicious pleasure =
of
which I have caught a glimpse- that of repaying, in part, a mighty obligati=
on,
and winning to myself lifelong friends.’
‘You think so now,’
rejoined St. John, ‘because you do not know what it is to possess, nor
consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a notion of the importance tw=
enty
thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would enable you to take in
society; of the prospects it would open to you: you cannot- ’
‘And you,’ I interrupt=
ed, ‘cannot
at all imagine the craving I have for fraternal and sisterly love. I never =
had
a home, I never had brothers or sisters; I must and will have them now: you=
are
not reluctant to admit me and own me, are you?’
‘Jane, I will be your brothe=
r- my
sisters will be your sisters- without stipulating for this sacrifice of your
just rights.’
‘Brother? Yes; at the distan=
ce
of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy-=
gorged
with gold I never earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality =
and
fraternisation! Close union! Intimate attachment!’
‘But, Jane, your aspirations
after family ties and domestic happiness may be realised otherwise than by =
the
means you contemplate: you may marry.’
‘Nonsense, again! Marry! I d=
on't
want to marry, and never shall marry.’
‘That is saying too much: su=
ch
hazardous affirmations are a proof of the excitement under which you labour=
.’
‘It is not saying too much: I
know what I feel, and how averse are my inclinations to the bare thought of
marriage. No one would take me for love; and I will not be regarded in the
light of a mere money speculation. And I do not want a stranger- unsympathi=
sing,
alien, different from me; I want my kindred: those with whom I have full
fellow- feeling. Say again you will be my brother: when you uttered the wor=
ds I
was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeat them sincerely.’=
;
‘I think I can. I know I have
always loved my own sisters; and I know on what my affection for them is
grounded,- respect for their worth and admiration of their talents. You too
have principle and mind: your tastes and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's;
your presence is always agreeable to me; in your conversation I have already
for some time found a salutary solace. I feel I can easily and naturally ma=
ke
room in my heart for you, as my third and youngest sister.’
‘Thank you: that contents me=
for
to-night. Now you had better go; for if you stay longer, you will perhaps
irritate me afresh by some mistrustful scruple.’
‘And the school, Miss Eyre? =
It
must now be shut up, I suppose?’
‘No. I will retain my post of
mistress till you get a substitute.’
He smiled approbation: we shook ha=
nds,
and he took leave.
I need not narrate in detail the
further struggles I had, and arguments I used, to get matters regarding the
legacy settled as I wished. My task was a very hard one; but, as I was
absolutely resolved- as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really and
immutably fixed on making a just division of the property- as they must in
their own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, =
have
been innately conscious that in my place they would have done precisely wha=
t I
wished to do- they yielded at length so far as to consent to put the affair=
to
arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able lawyer: both
coincided in my opinion: I carried my point. The instruments of transfer we=
re
drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of a compete=
ncy.
It was near Christmas by the time =
all
was settled: the season of general holiday approached. I now closed Morton
school, taking care that the parting should not be barren on my side. Good
fortune opens the hand as well as the heart wonderfully; and to give somewh=
at
when we have largely received, is but to afford a vent to the unusual
ebullition of the sensations. I had long felt with pleasure that many of my
rustic scholars liked me, and when we parted, that consciousness was confir=
med:
they manifested their affection plainly and strongly. Deep was my gratifica=
tion
to find I had really a place in their unsophisticated hearts: I promised th=
em
that never a week should pass in future that I did not visit them, and give
them an hour's teaching in their school.
Mr. Rivers came up as, having seen=
the
classes, now numbering sixty girls, file out before me, and locked the door=
, I
stood with the key in my hand, exchanging a few words of special farewell w=
ith
some half-dozen of my best scholars: as decent, respectable, modest, and
well-informed young women as could be found in the ranks of the British
peasantry. And that is saying a great deal; for after all, the British
peasantry are the best taught, best mannered, most self-respecting of any in
Europe: since those days I have seen paysannes and Bauerinnen; and the best=
of
them seemed to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted, compared with my Morton
girls.
‘Do you consider you have got
your reward for a season of exertion?’ asked Mr. Rivers, when they we=
re
gone. ‘Does not the consciousness of having done some real good in yo=
ur
day and generation give pleasure?’
‘Doubtless.’
‘And you have only toiled a =
few
months! Would not a life devoted to the task of regenerating your race be w=
ell
spent?’
‘Yes,’ I said; ‘=
but
I could not go on for ever so: I want to enjoy my own faculties as well as =
to
cultivate those of other people. I must enjoy them now; don't recall either=
my
mind or body to the school; I am out of it and disposed for full holiday.=
8217;
He looked grave. ‘What now? =
What
sudden eagerness is this you evince? What are you going to do?’
‘To be active: as active as I
can. And first I must beg you to set Hannah at liberty, and get somebody el=
se
to wait on you.’
‘Do you want her?’
‘Yes, to go with me to Moor
House. Diana and Mary will be at home in a week, and I want to have everyth=
ing
in order against their arrival.’
‘I understand. I thought you
were for flying off on some excursion. It is better so: Hannah shall go with
you.’
‘Tell her to be ready by to-=
morrow
then; and here is the schoolroom key: I will give you the key of my cottage=
in
the morning.’
He took it. ‘You give it up =
very
gleefully,’ said he; ‘I don't quite understand your
light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what employment you propose to
yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing. What aim, what
purpose, what ambition in life have you now?’
‘My first aim will be to clean down (do you comprehend the =
full
force of the expression?)- to clean=
down
Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil,=
and
an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange
every chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I
shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every
room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are
expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sortin=
g of
currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping up of=
materials
for mince-pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey
but an inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in sho=
rt,
is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana=
and
Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of a
welcome when they come.’
St. John smiled slightly: still he=
was
dissatisfied.
‘It is all very well for the
present,’ said he; ‘but seriously, I trust that when the first
flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little higher than domestic
endearments and household joys.’
‘The best things the world h=
as!’
I interrupted.
‘No, Jane, no: this world is=
not
the scene of fruition; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not tu=
rn
slothful.’
‘I mean, on the contrary, to=
be
busy.’
‘Jane, I excuse you for the
present: two months' grace I allow you for the full enjoyment of your new
position, and for pleasing yourself with this late-found charm of relations=
hip;
but then, I hope you will begin=
to
look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and the selfish ca=
lm
and sensual comfort of civilised affluence. I hope your energies will then =
once
more trouble you with their strength.’
I looked at him with surprise. =
216;St.
John,’ I said, ‘I think you are almost wicked to talk so. I am
disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to
restlessness! To what end?’
‘To the end of turning to pr=
ofit
the talents which God has committed to your keeping; and of which He will
surely one day demand a strict account. Jane, I shall watch you closely and
anxiously- I warn you of that. And try to restrain the disproportionate fer=
vour
with which you throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Don't cling =
so
tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an
adequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite transient objects. Do you he=
ar,
Jane?’
‘Yes; just as if you were
speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate cause to be happy, and I will be happy. Goodbye!’
Happy at Moor House I was, and har=
d I
worked; and so did Hannah: she was charmed to see how jovial I could be ami=
dst
the bustle of a house turned topsy-turvy- how I could brush, and dust, and
clean, and cook. And really, after a day or two of confusion worse confound=
ed,
it was delightful by degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had m=
ade.
I had previously taken a journey to S- - to purchase some new furniture: my
cousins having given me carte blanc=
he
to effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum having been set aside for t=
hat
purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I left much as they were: f=
or I
knew Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure from seeing again the old ho=
mely
tables, and chairs, and beds, than from the spectacle of the smartest
innovations. Still some novelty was necessary, to give to their return the
piquancy with which I wished it to be invested. Dark handsome new carpets a=
nd
curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selected antique ornaments in
porcelain and bronze, new coverings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for t=
he
toilet tables, answered the end: they looked fresh without being glaring. A
spare parlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and cri=
mson
upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs. When a=
ll
was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model of bright modest
snugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen of wintry waste and
desert dreariness without.
The eventful Thursday at length ca=
me.
They were expected about dark, and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and bel=
ow;
the kitchen was in perfect trim; Hannah and I were dressed, and all was in
readiness.
St. John arrived first. I had
entreated him to keep quite clear of the house till everything was arranged:
and, indeed, the bare idea of the commotion, at once sordid and trivial, go=
ing
on within its walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in t=
he
kitchen, watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking.
Approaching the hearth, he asked, ‘If I was at last satisfied with
housemaid's work?’ I answered by inviting him to accompany me on a
general inspection of the result of my labours. With some difficulty, I got=
him
to make the tour of the house. He just looked in at the doors I opened; and
when he had wandered upstairs and downstairs, he said I must have gone thro=
ugh
a great deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerable chan=
ges
in so short a time: but not a syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in =
the
improved aspect of his abode.
This silence damped me. I thought
perhaps the alterations had disturbed some old associations he valued. I
inquired whether this was the case: no doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen ton=
e.
‘Not at all; he had, on the
contrary, remarked that I had scrupulously respected every association: he
feared, indeed, I must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was
worth. How many minutes, for instance, had I devoted to studying the
arrangement of this very room?- By-the-bye, could I tell him where such a b=
ook
was?’
I showed him the volume on the she=
lf:
he took it down, and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began =
to
read it.
Now, I did not like this, reader. =
St.
John was a good man; but I began to feel he had spoken truth of himself whe=
n he
said he was hard and cold. The humanities and amenities of life had no
attraction for him- its peaceful enjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived o=
nly
to aspire- after what was good and great, certainly; but still he would nev=
er
rest, nor approve of others resting round him. As I looked at his lofty
forehead, still and pale as a white stone- at his fine lineaments fixed in
study- I comprehended all at once that he would hardly make a good husband:
that it would be a trying thing to be his wife. I understood, as by inspira=
tion,
the nature of his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but a
love of the senses. I comprehended how he should despise himself for the
feverish influence it exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle and
destroy it; how he should mistrust its ever conducting permanently to his
happiness or hers. I saw he was of the material from which nature hews her
heroes- Christian and Pagan- her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a
steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, t=
oo
often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.
‘This parlour is not his sph=
ere,’
I reflected: ‘the Himalayan ridge or Caffre bush, even the plague-cur=
sed
Guinea Coast swamp would suit him better. Well may he eschew the calm of
domestic life; it is not his element: there his faculties stagnate- they ca=
nnot
develop or appear to advantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger- where
courage is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked- that he will
speak and move, the leader and superior. A merry child would have the advan=
tage
of him on this hearth. He is right to choose a missionary's career- I see it
now.’
‘They are coming! they are
coming!’ cried Hannah, throwing open the parlour door. At the same mo=
ment
old Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran. It was now dark; but a rumbling of wh=
eels
was audible. Hannah soon had a lantern lit. The vehicle had stopped at the
wicket; the driver opened the door: first one well-known form, then another,
stepped out. In a minute I had my face under their bonnets, in contact first
with Mary's soft cheek, then with Diana's flowing curls. They laughed- kiss=
ed
me- then Hannah: patted Carlo, who was half wild with delight; asked eagerl=
y if
all was well; and being assured in the affirmative, hastened into the house=
.
They were stiff with their long and
jolting drive from Whitcross, and chilled with the frosty night air; but th=
eir
pleasant countenances expanded to the cheerful firelight. While the driver =
and
Hannah brought in the boxes, they demanded St. John. At this moment he adva=
nced
from the parlour. They both threw their arms round his neck at once. He gave
each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words of welcome, stood a whi=
le
to be talked to, and then, intimating that he supposed they would soon rejo=
in
him in the parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.
I had lit their candles to go
upstairs, but Diana had first to give hospitable orders respecting the driv=
er;
this done, both followed me. They were delighted with the renovation and de=
corations
of their rooms; with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted ch=
ina
vases: they expressed their gratification ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure =
of
feeling that my arrangements met their wishes exactly, and that what I had =
done
added a vivid charm to their joyous return home.
Sweet was that evening. My cousins,
full of exhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative and comment, that their
fluency covered St. John's taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his
sisters; but in their glow of fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathi=
se.
The event of the day- that is, the return of Diana and Mary- pleased him; b=
ut
the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee of
reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come. In the very
meridian of the night's enjoyment, about an hour after tea, a rap was heard=
at
the door. Hannah entered with the intimation that ‘a poor lad was com=
e,
at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother, who was drawi=
ng
away.’
‘Where does she live, Hannah=
?’
‘Clear up at Whitcross Brow,
almost four miles off, and moor and moss all the way.’
‘Tell him I will go.’<= o:p>
‘I'm sure, sir, you had bett=
er
not. It's the worst road to travel after dark that can be: there's no track=
at
all over the bog. And then it is such a bitter night- the keenest wind you =
ever
felt. You had better send word, sir, that you will be there in the morning.=
’
But he was already in the passage,
putting on his cloak; and without one objection, one murmur, he departed. It
was then nine o'clock: he did not return till midnight. Starved and tired
enough he was: but he looked happier than when he set out. He had performed=
an
act of duty; made an exertion; felt his own strength to do and deny, and wa=
s on
better terms with himself.
I am afraid the whole of the ensui=
ng
week tried his patience. It was Christmas week: we took to no settled
employment, but spent it in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. The air of
the moors, the freedom of home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and
Mary's spirits like some life-giving elixir: they were gay from morning till
noon, and from
One morning at breakfast, Diana, a=
fter
looking a little pensive for some minutes, asked him, ‘If his plans w=
ere
yet unchanged.’
‘Unchanged and unchangeable,=
’
was the reply. And he proceeded to inform us that his departure from England
was now definitively fixed for the ensuing year.
‘And Rosamond Oliver?’
suggested Mary, the words seeming to escape her lips involuntarily: for no
sooner had she uttered them, than she made a gesture as if wishing to recall
them. St. John had a book in his hand- it was his unsocial custom to read at
meals- he closed it, and looked up.
‘Rosamond Oliver,’ said
he, ‘is about to be married to Mr. Granby, one of the best connected =
and
most estimable residents in S-, grandson and heir to Sir Frederic Granby: I=
had
the intelligence from her father yesterday.’
His sisters looked at each other a=
nd
at me; we all three looked at him: he was serene as glass.
‘The match must have been go=
t up
hastily,’ said Diana: ‘they cannot have known each other long.&=
#8217;
‘But two months: they met in
October at the county ball at S-. But where there are no obstacles to a uni=
on,
as in the present case, where the connection is in every point desirable,
delays are unnecessary: they will be married as soon as S- - Place, which S=
ir
Frederic gives up to them, can he refitted for their reception.’
The first time I found St. John al=
one
after this communication, I felt tempted to inquire if the event distressed
him: but he seemed so little to need sympathy, that, so far from venturing =
to
offer him more, I experienced some shame at the recollection of what I had
already hazarded. Besides, I was out of practice in talking to him: his res=
erve
was again frozen over, and my frankness was congealed beneath it. He had not
kept his promise of treating me like his sisters; he continually made little
chilling differences between us, which did not at all tend to the developme=
nt
of cordiality: in short, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and liv=
ed
under the same roof with him, I felt the distance between us to be far grea=
ter
than when he had known me only as the village schoolmistress. When I rememb=
ered
how far I had once been admitted to his confidence, I could hardly comprehe=
nd
his present frigidity.
Such being the case, I felt not a
little surprised when he raised his head suddenly from the desk over which =
he
was stooping, and said-
‘You see, Jane, the battle is
fought and the victory won.’
Startled at being thus addressed, I
did not immediately reply: after a moment's hesitation I answered-
‘But are you sure you are no=
t in
the position of those conquerors whose triumphs have cost them too dear? Wo=
uld
not such another ruin you?’
‘I think not; and if I were,=
it
does not much signify; I shall never be called upon to contend for such
another. The event of the conflict is decisive: my way is now clear; I thank
God for it!’ So saying, he returned to his papers and his silence.
As our mutual happiness (i.e., Diana's, Mary's, and mine) s=
ettled
into a quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits and regular studi=
es,
St. John stayed more at home: he sat with us in the same room, sometimes for
hours together. While Mary drew, Diana pursued a course of encyclopaedic
reading she had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken, and I fagged away at
German, he pondered a mystic lore of his own: that of some Eastern tongue, =
the
acquisition of which he thought necessary to his plans.
Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting=
in
his own recess, quiet and absorbed enough; but that blue eye of his had a h=
abit
of leaving the outlandish- looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometim=
es
fixing upon us, his fellow-students, with a curious intensity of observatio=
n:
if caught, it would be instantly withdrawn; yet ever and anon, it returned
searchingly to our table. I wondered what it meant: I wondered, too, at the
punctual satisfaction he never failed to exhibit on an occasion that seemed=
to
me of small moment, namely, my weekly visit to Morton school; and still more
was I puzzled when, if the day was unfavourable, if there was snow, or rain=
, or
high wind, and his sisters urged me not to go, he would invariably make lig=
ht
of their solicitude, and encourage me to accomplish the task without regard=
to
the elements.
‘Jane is not such a weakling=
as
you would make her,’ he would say: ‘she can bear a mountain bla=
st,
or a shower, or a few flakes of snow, as well as any of us. Her constitutio=
n is
both sound and elastic;- better calculated to endure variations of climate =
than
many more robust.’
And when I returned, sometimes a g=
ood
deal tired, and not a little weather-beaten, I never dared complain, becaus=
e I
saw that to murmur would be to vex him: on all occasions fortitude pleased =
him;
the reverse was a special annoyance.
One afternoon, however, I got leav=
e to
stay at home, because I really had a cold. His sisters were gone to Morton =
in
my stead: I sat reading Schiller; he, deciphering his crabbed Oriental scro=
lls.
As I exchanged a translation for an exercise, I happened to look his way: t=
here
I found myself under the influence of the ever-watchful blue eye. How long =
it
had been searching me through and through, and over and over, I cannot tell=
: so
keen was it, and yet so cold, I felt for the moment superstitious- as if I =
were
sitting in the room with something uncanny.
‘Jane, what are you doing?=
8217;
‘Learning German.’
‘I want you to give up German
and learn Hindostanee.’
‘You are not in earnest?R=
17;
‘In such earnest that I must
have it so: and I will tell you why.’
He then went on to explain that
Hindostanee was the language he was himself at present studying; that, as he
advanced, he was apt to forget the commencement; that it would assist him
greatly to have a pupil with whom he might again and again go over the
elements, and so fix them thoroughly in his mind; that his choice had hover=
ed
for some time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on me becau=
se
he saw I could sit at a task the longest of the three. Would I do him this
favour? I should not, perhaps, have to make the sacrifice long, as it wanted
now barely three months to his departure.
St. John was not a man to be light=
ly
refused: you felt that every impression made on him, either for pain or
pleasure, was deep-graved and permanent. I consented. When Diana and Mary
returned, the former found her scholar transferred from her to her brother:=
she
laughed, and both she and Mary agreed that St. John should never have persu=
aded
them to such a step. He answered quietly-
‘I know it.’
I found him a very patient, very
forbearing, and yet an exacting master: he expected me to do a great deal; =
and
when I fulfilled his expectations, he, in his own way, fully testified his
approbation. By degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took =
away
my liberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restraining than his
indifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was by, becaus=
e a
tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that vivacity (at least in me) =
was
distasteful to him. I was so fully aware that only serious moods and
occupations were acceptable, that in his presence every effort to sustain o=
r follow
any other became vain: I fell under a freezing spell. When he said ‘g=
o,’
I went; ‘come,’ I came; ‘do this,’ I did it. But I =
did
not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he had continued to neglect m=
e.
One evening when, at bedtime, his
sisters and I stood round him, bidding him good-night, he kissed each of th=
em,
as was his custom; and, as was equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Dia=
na,
who chanced to be in a frolicsome humour (she
was not painfully controlled by his will; for hers, in another way, was as
strong), exclaimed-
‘St. John! you used to call =
Jane
your third sister, but you don't treat her as such: you should kiss her too=
.’
She pushed me towards him. I thoug=
ht
Diana very provoking, and felt uncomfortably confused; and while I was thus
thinking and feeling, St. John bent his head; his Greek face was brought to=
a
level with mine, his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly- he kissed me. There
are no such things as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my
ecclesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one of these classes; but there =
may
be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When given, he viewed=
me
to learn the result; it was not striking: I am sure I did not blush; perhap=
s I
might have turned a little pale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal aff=
ixed
to my fetters. He never omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and
quiescence with which I underwent it, seemed to invest it for him with a
certain charm.
As for me, I daily wished more to
please him; but to do so, I felt daily more and more that I must disown hal=
f my
nature, stifle half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent,
force myself to the adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural vocatio=
n.
He wanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach; it racked me hou=
rly
to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing was as impossible as to mo=
uld
my irregular features to his correct and classic pattern, to give to my
changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint and solemn lustre of his own.
Not his ascendancy alone, however,
held me in thrall at present. Of late it had been easy enough for me to look
sad: a cankering evil sat at my heart and drained my happiness at its sourc=
e- the
evil of suspense.
Perhaps you think I had forgotten =
Mr.
Rochester, reader, amidst these changes of place and fortune. Not for a mom=
ent.
His idea was still with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could
disperse, nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name gr=
aven
on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving =
to
know what had become of him followed me everywhere; when I was at Morton, I
re-entered my cottage every evening to think of that; and now at Moor House=
, I
sought my bedroom each night to brood over it.
In the course of my necessary
correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the will, I had inquired if he knew
anything of Mr. Rochester's present residence and state of health; but, as =
St.
John had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then w=
rote
to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had calculated wi=
th
certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure it would elicit an ear=
ly
answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply; but when two
months wore away, and day after day the post arrived and brought nothing for
me, I fell a prey to the keenest anxiety.
I wrote again: there was a chance =
of
my first letter having missed. Renewed hope followed renewed effort: it sho=
ne
like the former for some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered: not a l=
ine,
not a word reached me. When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my hope =
died
out, and then I felt dark indeed.
A fine spring shone round me, whic=
h I
could not enjoy. Summer approached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I loo=
ked
ill, and wished to accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; he =
said
I did not want dissipation, I wanted employment; my present life was too
purposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying
deficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee, and grew
more urgent in requiring their accomplishment: and I, like a fool, never
thought of resisting him- I could not resist him.
One day I had come to my studies in
lower spirits than usual; the ebb was occasioned by a poignantly felt
disappointment. Hannah had told me in the morning there was a letter for me,
and when I went down to take it, almost certain that the long-looked for
tidings were vouchsafed me at last, I found only an unimportant note from M=
r.
Briggs on business. The bitter check had wrung from me some tears; and now,=
as
I sat poring over the crabbed characters and flourishing tropes of an Indian
scribe, my eyes filled again.
St. John called me to his side to
read; in attempting to do this my voice failed me: words were lost in sobs.=
He
and I were the only occupants of the parlour: Diana was practising her musi=
c in
the drawing-room, Mary was gardening- it was a very fine May day, clear, su=
nny,
and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he
question me as to its cause; he only said-
‘We will wait a few minutes,
Jane, till you are more composed.’ And while I smothered the paroxysm
with all haste, he sat calm and patient, leaning on his desk, and looking l=
ike
a physician watching with the eye of science an expected and fully understo=
od
crisis in a patient's malady. Having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, and
muttered something about not being very well that morning, I resumed my tas=
k,
and succeeded in completing it. St. John put away my books and his, locked =
his
desk, and said-
‘Now, Jane, you shall take a
walk; and with me.’
‘I will call Diana and Mary.=
’
‘No; I want only one compani=
on
this morning, and that must be you. Put on your things; go out by the
kitchen-door: take the road towards the head of Marsh Glen: I will join you=
in
a moment.’
I know no medium: I never in my li=
fe
have known any medium in my dealings with positive, hard characters,
antagonistic to my own, between absolute submission and determined revolt. I
have always faithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting,
sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither present
circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me to mutiny, I obser=
ved
careful obedience to St. John's directions; and in ten minutes I was treadi=
ng
the wild track of the glen, side by side with him.
The breeze was from the west: it c=
ame
over the hills, sweet with scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainle=
ss
blue; the stream descending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, pou=
red
along plentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire
tints from the firmament. As we advanced and left the track, we trod a soft
turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely enamelled with a tiny white
flower, and spangled with a star-like yellow blossom: the hills, meantime, =
shut
us quite in; for the glen, towards its head, wound to their very core.
‘Let us rest here,’ sa=
id
St. John, as we reached the first stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guard=
ing
a sort of pass, beyond which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, s=
till
a little farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for
raiment and crag for gem- where it exaggerated the wild to the savage, and
exchanged the fresh for the frowning- where it guarded the forlorn hope of
solitude, and a last refuge for silence.
I took a seat: St. John stood near=
me.
He looked up the pass and down the hollow; his glance wandered away with the
stream, and returned to traverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he
removed his hat, let the breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow. He seemed =
in
communion with the genius of the haunt: with his eye he bade farewell to
something.
‘And I shall see it again,=
8217;
he said aloud, ‘in dreams when I sleep by the Ganges: and again in a =
more
remote hour- when another slumber overcomes me- on the shore of a darker
stream!’
Strange words of a strange love! An
austere patriot's passion for his fatherland! He sat down; for half-an-hour=
we
never spoke; neither he to me nor I to him: that interval past, he recommen=
ced-
‘Jane, I go in six weeks; I = have taken my berth in an East Indiaman which sails on the 20th of June.’<= o:p>
‘God will protect you; for y=
ou
have undertaken His work,’ I answered.
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘=
;there
is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an infallible Master. I am not goi=
ng
out under human guidance, subject to the defective laws and erring control =
of
my feeble fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfec=
t.
It seems strange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the sa=
me
banner,- to join in the same enterprise.’
‘All have not your powers, a=
nd
it would be folly for the feeble to wish to march with the strong.’
‘I do not speak to the feebl=
e,
or think of them: I address only such as are worthy of the work, and compet=
ent
to accomplish it.’
‘Those are few in number, and
difficult to discover.’
‘You say truly; but when fou=
nd,
it is right to stir them up- to urge and exhort them to the effort- to show
them what their gifts are, and why they were given- to speak Heaven's messa=
ge
in their ear,- to offer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His
chosen.’
‘If they are really qualified
for the task, will not their own hearts be the first to inform them of it?&=
#8217;
I felt as if an awful charm was
framing round and gathering over me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spo=
ken
which would at once declare and rivet the spell. ‘And what does your heart say?’ demanded St.
John.
‘My heart is mute,- my heart=
is
mute,’ I answered, struck and thrilled.
‘Then I must speak for it,=
8217;
continued the deep, relentless voice. ‘Jane, come with me to India: c=
ome
as my helpmeet and fellow-labourer.’
The glen and sky spun round: the h=
ills
heaved! It was as if I had heard a summons from Heaven- as if a visionary
messenger, like him of Macedonia, had enounced, ‘Come over and help u=
s!’
But I was no apostle,- I could not behold the herald,- I could not receive =
his
call.
‘Oh, St. John!’ I crie=
d, ‘have
some mercy!’
I appealed to one who, in the
discharge of what he believed his duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He
continued-
‘God and nature intended you=
for
a missionary's wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have gi=
ven
you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary's wife you must-=
shall
be. You shall be mine: I claim you- not for my pleasure, but for my Soverei=
gn's
service.’
‘I am not fit for it: I have=
no
vocation,’ I said.
He had calculated on these first
objections: he was not irritated by them. Indeed, as he leaned back against=
the
crag behind him, folded his arms on his chest, and fixed his countenance, I=
saw
he was prepared for a long and trying opposition, and had taken in a stock =
of
patience to last him to its close- resolved, however, that that close shoul=
d be
conquest for him.
‘Humility, Jane,’ said=
he,
‘is the groundwork of Christian virtues: you say right that you are n=
ot
fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or who, that ever was truly called,
believed himself worthy of the summons? I, for instance, am but dust and as=
hes.
With St. Paul, I acknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners; but I do not
suffer this sense of my personal vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader: th=
at
He is just as well as mighty; and while He has chosen a feeble instrument to
perform a great task, He will, from the boundless stores of His providence,
supply the inadequacy of the means to the end. Think like me, Jane- trust l=
ike
me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will b=
ear
the weight of your human weakness.’
‘I do not understand a
missionary life: I have never studied missionary labours.’ ‘The=
re
I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can set you your task f=
rom
hour to hour; stand by you always; help you from moment to moment. This I c=
ould
do in the beginning: soon (for I know your powers) you would be as strong a=
nd
apt as myself, and would not require my help.’
‘But my powers- where are th=
ey
for this undertaking? I do not feel them. Nothing speaks or stirs in me whi=
le
you talk. I am sensible of no light kindling- no life quickening- no voice
counselling or cheering. Oh, I wish I could make you see how much my mind i=
s at
this moment like a rayless dungeon, with one shrinking fear fettered in its
depths- the fear of being persuaded by you to attempt what I cannot accompl=
ish!’
‘I have an answer for you- h=
ear
it. I have watched you ever since we first met: I have made you my study for
ten months. I have proved you in that time by sundry tests: and what have I
seen and elicited? In the village school I found you could perform well,
punctually, uprightly, labour uncongenial to your habits and inclinations; I
saw you could perform it with capacity and tact: you could win while you
controlled. In the calm with which you learnt you had become suddenly rich,=
I
read a mind clear of the vice of Demas:- lucre had no undue power over you.=
In
the resolute readiness with which you cut your wealth into four shares, kee=
ping
but one to yourself, and relinquishing the three others to the claim of
abstract justice, I recognised a soul that revelled in the flame and excite=
ment
of sacrifice. In the tractability with which, at my wish, you forsook a stu=
dy
in which you were interested, and adopted another because it interested me;=
in
the untiring assiduity with which you have since persevered in it- in the
unflagging energy and unshaken temper with which you have met its difficult=
ies-
I acknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek. Jane, you are docile,
diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant, and courageous; very gentle, a=
nd
very heroic: cease to mistrust yourself- I can trust you unreservedly. As a
conductress of Indian schools, and a helper amongst Indian women, your
assistance will be to me invaluable.’
My iron shroud contracted round me;
persuasion advanced with slow sure step. Shut my eyes as I would, these last
words of his succeeded in making the way, which had seemed blocked up,
comparatively clear. My work, which had appeared so vague, so hopelessly
diffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and assumed a definite form under
his shaping hand. He waited for an answer. I demanded a quarter of an hour =
to
think, before I again hazarded a reply.
‘Very willingly,’ he
rejoined; and rising, he strode a little distance up the pass, threw himself
down on a swell of heath, and there lay still.
‘I can do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see and acknowled=
ge
that,’ I meditated,- ’that is, if life be spared me. But I feel
mine is not the existence to be long protracted under an Indian sun. What t=
hen?
He does not care for that: when my time came to die, he would resign me, in=
all
serenity and sanctity, to the God who gave me. The case is very plain before
me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land- Mr. Rocheste=
r is
not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My busines=
s is
to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day =
to
day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, which mi=
ght
reunite me to him. Of course (as St. John once said) I must seek another
interest in life to replace the one lost: is not the occupation he now offe=
rs
me truly the most glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its n=
oble
cares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill the void left by
uptorn affections and demolished hopes? I believe I must say, Yes- and yet I
shudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon half myself: if I go to India,=
I
go to premature death. And how will the interval between leaving England for
India, and India for the grave, be filled? Oh, I know well! That, too, is v=
ery
clear to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews ache, I=
shall satisfy him- to the finest c=
entral
point and farthest outward circle of his expectations. If I do go with him- if I do make the sacrifice he urges, I =
will
make it absolutely: I will throw all on the altar- heart, vitals, the entire
victim. He will never love me; but he shall approve me; I will show him
energies he has not yet seen, resources he has never suspected. Yes, I can =
work
as hard as he can, and with as little grudging.
‘Consent, then, to his deman= d is possible: but for one item- one dreadful item. It is- that he asks me to be= his wife, and has no more of a husband's heart for me than that frowning giant = of a rock, down which the stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier would a good weapon; and that is all. Unmarried to him, this would never grieve me; but can I let him complete his calculations- coolly put in= to practice his plans- go through the wedding ceremony? Can I receive from him= the bridal ring, endure all the forms of love (which I doubt not he would scrupulously observe) and know that the spirit was quite absent? Can I bear= the consciousness that every endearment he bestows is a sacrifice made on princ= iple? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I will never undergo it. As his sister, I might accompany him- not as his wife: I will tell him so.’<= o:p>
I looked towards the knoll: there =
he
lay, still as a prostrate column; his face turned to me: his eye beaming wa=
tchful
and keen. He started to his feet and approached me.
‘I am ready to go to India, =
if I
may go free.’
‘Your answer requires a
commentary,’ he said; ‘it is not clear.’
‘You have hitherto been my
adopted brother- I, your adopted sister: let us continue as such: you and I=
had
better not marry.’
He shook his head. ‘Adopted
fraternity will not do in this case. If you were my real sister it would be
different: I should take you, and seek no wife. But as it is, either our un=
ion
must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practical
obstacles oppose themselves to any other plan. Do you not see it, Jane?
Consider a moment- your strong sense will guide you.’
I did consider; and still my sense,
such as it was, directed me only to the fact that we did not love each othe=
r as
man and wife should: and therefore it inferred we ought not to marry. I said
so. ‘St. John,’ I returned, ‘I regard you as a brother- y=
ou,
me as a sister: so let us continue.’
‘We cannot- we cannot,’=
; he
answered, with short, sharp determination: ‘it would not do. You have
said you will go with me to India: remember- you have said that.’
‘Conditionally.’
‘Well- well. To the main poi=
nt- the
departure with me from England, the co-operation with me in my future labou=
rs- you
do not object. You have already as good as put your hand to the plough: you=
are
too consistent to withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in view- how the
work you have undertaken can best be done. Simplify your complicated intere=
sts,
feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one purpose: =
that
of fulfilling with effect- with power- the mission of your great Master. To=
do
so, you must have a coadjutor: not a brother- that is a loose tie- but a
husband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sister might any day be taken from=
me.
I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can influence efficiently in life, and
retain absolutely till death.’
I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his
influence in my marrow- his hold on my limbs.
‘Seek one elsewhere than in =
me,
St. John: seek one fitted to you.’
‘One fitted to my purpose, y=
ou
mean- fitted to my vocation. Again I tell you it is not the insignificant
private individual- the mere man, with the man's selfish senses- I wish to
mate: it is the missionary.’
‘And I will give the mission=
ary
my energies- it is all he wants- but not myself: that would be only adding =
the
husk and shell to the kernel. For them he has no use: I retain them.’=
‘You cannot- you ought not. =
Do
you think God will be satisfied with half an oblation? Will He accept a
mutilated sacrifice? It is the cause of God I advocate: it is under His
standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on His behalf a divided allegiance: =
it
must be entire.’
‘Oh! I will give my heart to
God,’ I said. ‘You =
do not
want it.’
I will not swear, reader, that the=
re
was not something of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered =
this
sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St.
John till now, because I had not understood him. He had held me in awe, bec=
ause
he had held me in doubt. How much of him was saint, how much mortal, I could
not heretofore tell: but revelations were being made in this conference: the
analysis of his nature was proceeding before my eyes. I saw his fallibiliti=
es:
I comprehended them. I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the b=
ank
of heath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man,
caring as I. The veil fell from his hardness and despotism. Having felt in =
him
the presence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection and took courage. I
was with an equal- one with whom I might argue- one whom, if I saw good, I
might resist.
He was silent after I had uttered = the last sentence, and I presently risked an upward glance at his countenance.<= o:p>
His eye, bent on me, expressed at =
once
stern surprise and keen inquiry. ‘Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to =
me!’ it seemed to say. ̵=
6;What
does this signify?’
‘Do not let us forget that t=
his
is a solemn matter,’ he said ere long; ‘one of which we may nei=
ther
think nor talk lightly without sin. I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when =
you
say you will serve your heart to God: it is all I want. Once wrench your he=
art
from man, and fix it on your Maker, the advancement of that Maker's spiritu=
al
kingdom on earth will be your chief delight and endeavour; you will be read=
y to
do at once whatever furthers that end. You will see what impetus would be g=
iven
to your efforts and mine by our physical and mental union in marriage: the =
only
union that gives a character of permanent conformity to the destinies and
designs of human beings; and, passing over all minor caprices- all trivial
difficulties and delicacies of feeling- all scruple about the degree, kind,
strength or tenderness of mere personal inclination- you will hasten to ent=
er
into that union at once.’
‘Shall I?’ I said brie=
fly;
and I looked at his features, beautiful in their harmony, but strangely
formidable in their still severity; at his brow, commanding but not open; at
his eyes, bright and deep and searching, but never soft; at his tall imposi=
ng
figure; and fancied myself in idea =
his
wife. Oh! it would never do! As his curate, his comrade, all would be
right: I would cross oceans with him in that capacity; toil under Eastern s=
uns,
in Asian deserts with him in that office; admire and emulate his courage and
devotion and vigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturb=
ed
at his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the man:
profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I should suffer of=
ten,
no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity: my body would be under rat=
her
a stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be free. I should still have =
my
unblighted self to turn to: my natural unenslaved feelings with which to
communicate in moments of loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind wh=
ich
would be only mine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing there fr=
esh
and sheltered which his austerity could never blight, nor his measured
warrior-march trample down: but as his wife- at his side always, and always
restrained, and always checked- forced to keep the fire of my nature
continually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though
the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital- this would be unendurable.
‘St. John!’ I exclaime=
d,
when I had got so far in my meditation.
‘Well?’ he answered ic=
ily.
‘I repeat I freely consent t=
o go
with you as your fellow-missionary, but not as your wife; I cannot marry you
and become part of you.’
‘A part of me you must becom=
e,’
he answered steadily; ‘otherwise the whole bargain is void. How can I=
, a
man not yet thirty, take out with me to India a girl of nineteen, unless sh=
e be
married to me? How can we be for ever together- sometimes in solitudes,
sometimes amidst savage tribes- and unwed?’
‘Very well,’ I said
shortly; ‘under the circumstances, quite as well as if I were either =
your
real sister, or a man and a clergyman like yourself.’ ‘It is kn=
own
that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as such: to attempt it w=
ould
be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both. And for the rest, though you =
have
a man's vigorous brain, you have a woman's heart and- it would not do.̵=
7;
‘It would do,’ I affir= med with some disdain, ‘perfectly well. I have a woman's heart, but not w= here you are concerned; for you I have only a comrade's constancy; a fellow-soldier's frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophyte's respect and submission to his hierophant: nothing more- don't fear.’<= o:p>
‘It is what I want,’ he
said, speaking to himself; ‘it is just what I want. And there are
obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down. Jane, you would not repent ma=
rrying
me- be certain of that; we must=
be
married. I repeat it: there is no other way; and undoubtedly enough of love
would follow upon marriage to render the union right even in your eyes.R=
17;
‘I scorn your idea of love,&=
#8217;
I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back
against the rock. ‘I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, =
St.
John, and I scorn you when you offer it.’
He looked at me fixedly, compressi=
ng
his well-cut lips while he did so. Whether he was incensed or surprised, or
what, it was not easy to tell: he could command his countenance thoroughly.=
‘I scarcely expected to hear
that expression from you,’ he said: ‘I think I have done and
uttered nothing to deserve scorn.’
I was touched by his gentle tone, =
and
overawed by his high, calm mien.
‘Forgive me the words, St. J=
ohn;
but it is your own fault that I have been roused to speak so unguardedly. Y=
ou
have introduced a topic on which our natures are at variance- a topic we sh=
ould
never discuss: the very name of love is an apple of discord between us. If =
the
reality were required, what should we do? How should we feel? My dear cousi=
n,
abandon your scheme of marriage- forget it.’
‘No,’ said he; ‘=
it
is a long-cherished scheme, and the only one which can secure my great end:=
but
I shall urge you no further at present. To-morrow, I leave home for Cambrid=
ge:
I have many friends there to whom I should wish to say farewell. I shall be
absent a fortnight- take that space of time to consider my offer: and do not
forget that if you reject it, it is not me you deny, but God. Through my me=
ans,
He opens to you a noble career; as my wife only can you enter upon it. Refu=
se
to be my wife, and you limit yourself for ever to a track of selfish ease a=
nd
barren obscurity. Tremble lest in that case you should be numbered with tho=
se
who have denied the faith, and are worse than infidels!’
He had done. Turning from me, he o=
nce
more
‘Looked to river, looked to
hill.’
But this time his feelings were all
pent in his heart: I was not worthy to hear them uttered. As I walked by his
side homeward, I read well in his iron silence all he felt towards me: the
disappointment of an austere and despotic nature, which has met resistance
where it expected submission- the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible
judgment, which has detected in another feelings and views in which it has =
no
power to sympathise: in short, as a man, he would have wished to coerce me =
into
obedience: it was only as a sincere Christian he bore so patiently with my
perversity, and allowed so long a space for reflection and repentance.
That night, after he had kissed his
sisters, he thought proper to forget even to shake hands with me, but left =
the
room in silence. I- who, though I had no love, had much friendship for him-=
was
hurt by the marked omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.
‘I see you and St. John have
been quarrelling, Jane,’ said Diana, ‘during your walk on the m=
oor.
But go after him; he is now lingering in the passage expecting you- he will
make it up.’
I have not much pride under such
circumstances: I would always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran aft=
er
him- he stood at the foot of the stairs.
‘Good-night, St. John,’
said I.
‘Good-night, Jane,’ he
replied calmly.
‘Then shake hands,’ I
added.
What a cold, loose touch, he impre=
ssed
on my fingers! He was deeply displeased by what had occurred that day;
cordiality would not warm, nor tears move him. No happy reconciliation was =
to
be had with him- no cheering smile or generous word: but still the Christian
was patient and placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered =
that
he was not in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of vexation; that he =
had
nothing to forgive, not having been offended.
And with that answer he left me. I
would much rather he had knocked me down.
He did not leave for Cambridge the
next day, as he had said he would. He deferred his departure a whole week, =
and
during that time he made me feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a
conscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one who has offended him.
Without one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrived to
impress me momently with the conviction that I was put beyond the pale of h=
is
favour.
Not that St. John harboured a spir=
it
of unchristian vindictiveness- not that he would have injured a hair of my
head, if it had been fully in his power to do so. Both by nature and princi=
ple,
he was superior to the mean gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me =
for
saying I scorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and =
as
long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his look, when =
he
turned to me, that they were always written on the air between me and him;
whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice to his ear, and their echo toned
every answer he gave me.
He did not abstain from conversing
with me: he even called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; a=
nd I
fear the corrupt man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared =
by,
the pure Christian, in evincing with what skill he could, while acting and
speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every phrase=
the
spirit of interest and approval which had formerly communicated a certain
austere charm to his language and manner. To me, he was in reality become no
longer flesh, but marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a
speaking instrument- nothing more.
All this was torture to me- refine=
d,
lingering torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling
trouble of grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how- if I
were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon k=
ill
me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on h=
is
own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this =
when
I made any attempt to propitiate him. No ruth met my ruth. He experienced no suffering from estrangement- no yearning after
reconciliation; and though, more than once, my fast falling tears blistered=
the
page over which we both bent, they produced no more effect on him than if h=
is
heart had been really a matter of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime,=
he
was somewhat kinder than usual: as if afraid that mere coldness would not
sufficiently convince me how completely I was banished and banned, he added=
the
force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not by force, but on principle=
.
The night before he left home,
happening to see him walking in the garden about sunset, and remembering, a=
s I
looked at him, that this man, alienated as he now was, had once saved my li=
fe,
and that we were near relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to rega=
in
his friendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over the
little gate; I spoke to the point at once.
‘St. John, I am unhappy beca=
use
you are still angry with me. Let us be friends.’
‘I hope we are friends,̵=
7;
was the unmoved reply; while he still watched the rising of the moon, which=
he
had been contemplating as I approached.
‘No, St. John, we are not
friends as we were. You know that.’
‘Are we not? That is wrong. =
For
my part, I wish you no ill and all good.’
‘I believe you, St. John; fo=
r I
am sure you are incapable of wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswom=
an,
I should desire somewhat more of affection than that sort of general
philanthropy you extend to mere strangers.’
‘Of course,’ he said. =
‘Your
wish is reasonable, and I am far from regarding you as a stranger.’
This, spoken in a cool, tranquil t=
one,
was mortifying and baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pr=
ide
and ire, I should immediately have left him; but something worked within me
more strongly than those feelings could. I deeply venerated my cousin's tal=
ent
and principle. His friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me sever=
ely.
I would not so soon relinquish the attempt to reconquer it.
‘Must we part in this way, S=
t.
John? And when you go to India, will you leave me so, without a kinder word
than you have yet spoken?’
He now turned quite from the moon =
and
faced me.
‘When I go to India, Jane, w=
ill
I leave you! What! do you not go to India?’
‘You said I could not unless=
I
married you.’
‘And you will not marry me! =
You
adhere to that resolution?’
Reader, do you know, as I do, what
terror those cold people can put into the ice of their questions? How much =
of
the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the froz=
en
sea in their displeasure?
‘No. St. John, I will not ma=
rry
you. I adhere to my resolution.’
The avalanche had shaken and slid a
little forward, but it did not yet crash down.
‘Once more, why this refusal=
?’
he asked.
‘Formerly,’ I answered=
, ‘because
you did not love me; now, I reply, because you almost hate me. If I were to
marry you, you would kill me. You are killing me now.’
His lips and cheeks turned white- =
quite
white.
‘I should kill you- I am
killing you? Your words are such as ought not to be used: violent,
unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they merit
severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man=
to
forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times.’
I had finished the business now. W=
hile
earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence, I =
had
stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper impression, I had
burnt it in.
‘Now you will indeed hate me=
,’
I said. ‘It is useless to attempt to conciliate you: I see I have mad=
e an
eternal enemy of you.’
A fresh wrong did these words infl=
ict:
the worse, because they touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered t=
o a
temporary spasm. I knew the steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung.
‘You utterly misinterpret my
words,’ I said, at once seizing his hand: ‘I have no intention =
to
grieve or pain you- indeed, I have not.’
Most bitterly he smiled- most
decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. ‘And now you recall your
promise, and will not go to India at all, I presume?’ said he, after a
considerable pause.
‘Yes, I will, as your assist=
ant,’
I answered.
A very long silence succeeded. What
struggle there was in him between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cann=
ot
tell: only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows pa=
ssed
over his face. He spoke at last.
‘I before proved to you the
absurdity of a single woman of your age proposing to accompany abroad a sin=
gle
man of mine. I proved it to you in such terms as, I should have thought, wo=
uld
have prevented your ever again alluding to the plan. That you have done so,=
I
regret- for your sake.’
I interrupted him. Anything like a
tangible reproach gave me courage at once. ‘Keep to common sense, St.
John: you are verging on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what I have
said. You are not really shocked: for, with your superior mind, you cannot =
be
either so dull or so conceited as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again,=
I
will be your curate, if you like, but never your wife.’
Again he turned lividly pale; but,=
as
before, controlled his passion perfectly. He answered emphatically but calm=
ly-
‘A female curate, who is not=
my
wife, would never suit me. With me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if y=
ou
are sincere in your offer, I will, while in town, speak to a married
missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your own fortune will make you
independent of the Society's aid; and thus you may still be spared the
dishonour of breaking your promise and deserting the band you engaged to jo=
in.’
Now I never had, as the reader kno=
ws,
either given any formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this
language was all much too hard and much too despotic for the occasion. I
replied-
‘There is no dishonour, no
breach of promise, no desertion in the case. I am not under the slightest
obligation to go to India, especially with strangers. With you I would have
ventured much, because I admire, confide in, and, as a sister, I love you; =
but
I am convinced that, go when and with whom I would, I should not live long =
in
that climate.’
‘Ah! you are afraid of yours=
elf,’
he said, curling his lip.
‘I am. God did not give me my
life to throw away; and to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be al=
most
equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on
quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater us=
e by
remaining in it than by leaving it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It would be fruitless to
attempt to explain; but there is a point on which I have long endured painf=
ul
doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed.’=
;
‘I know where your heart tur=
ns
and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrate=
d.
Long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to =
it.
You think of Mr. Rochester?’
It was true. I confessed it by
silence.
‘Are you going to seek Mr.
Rochester?’
‘I must find out what is bec=
ome
of him.’
‘It remains for me, then,=
217;
he said, ‘to remember you in my prayers, and to entreat God for you, =
in
all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought I
recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees not as man sees: His will be done- ’
He opened the gate, passed through=
it,
and strayed away down the glen. He was soon out of sight.
On re-entering the parlour, I found
Diana standing at the window, looking very thoughtful. Diana was a great de=
al
taller than I: she put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my
face.
‘Jane,’ she said, R=
16;you
are always agitated and pale now. I am sure there is something the matter. =
Tell
me what business St. John and you have on hands. I have watched you this ha=
lf
hour from the window; you must forgive my being such a spy, but for a long =
time
I have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is a strange being- ’
She paused- I did not speak: soon =
she
resumed-
‘That brother of mine cheris=
hes
peculiar views of some sort respecting you, I am sure: he has long
distinguished you by a notice and interest he never showed to any one else-=
to
what end? I wish he loved you- does he, Jane?’
I put her cool hand to my hot
forehead; ‘No, Die, not one whit.’
‘Then why does he follow you=
so
with his eyes, and get you so frequently alone with him, and keep you so
continually at his side? Mary and I had both concluded he wished you to mar=
ry
him.’
‘He does- he has asked me to=
be
his wife.’
Diana clapped her hands. ‘Th=
at
is just what we hoped and thought! And you will marry him, Jane, won't you?=
And
then he will stay in England.’
‘Far from that, Diana; his s=
ole
idea in proposing to me is to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indi=
an
toils.’
‘What! He wishes you to go to
India?’
‘Yes.’
‘Madness!’ she exclaim=
ed. ‘You
would not live three months there, I am certain. You never shall go: you ha=
ve
not consented, have you, Jane?’
‘I have refused to marry him=
- ’
‘And have consequently
displeased him?’ she suggested.
‘Deeply: he will never forgi=
ve
me, I fear: yet I offered to accompany him as his sister.’ ‘It =
was
frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you undertook- one of inces=
sant
fatigue, where fatigue kills even the strong, and you are weak. St. John- y=
ou
know him- would urge you to impossibilities: with him there would be no
permission to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed,
whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found
courage to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?’
‘Not as a husband.’
‘Yet he is a handsome fellow=
.’
‘And I am so plain, you see,
Die. We should never suit.’
‘Plain! You? Not at all. You=
are
much too pretty, as well as too good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta.̵=
7;
And again she earnestly conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out wi=
th
her brother.
‘I must indeed,’ I sai=
d; ‘for
when just now I repeated the offer of serving him for a deacon, he expressed
himself shocked at my want of decency. He seemed to think I had committed an
impropriety in proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from t=
he
first hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such.&=
#8217;
‘What makes you say he does =
not
love you, Jane?’
‘You should hear himself on =
the
subject. He has again and again explained that it is not himself, but his
office he wishes to mate. He has told me I am formed for labour- not for lo=
ve:
which is true, no doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it
follows that I am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to=
be
chained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?’
‘Insupportable- unnatural- o=
ut
of the question!’
‘And then,’ I continue=
d, ‘though
I have only sisterly affection for him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I
can imagine the possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing
kind of love for him, because he is so talented; and there is often a certa=
in
heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. In that case, my lot
would become unspeakably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if=
I
showed the feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a superfluity,
unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know he would.’
‘And yet St. John is a good =
man,’
said Diana.
‘He is a good and a great ma=
n;
but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings and claims of little people, in
pursuing his own large views. It is better, therefore, for the insignifican=
t to
keep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample them down. He=
re
he comes! I will leave you, Diana.’ And I hastened upstairs as I saw =
him
entering the garden.
But I was forced to meet him again=
at
supper. During that meal he appeared just as composed as usual. I had thoug=
ht
he would hardly speak to me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit =
of
his matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points. He
addressed me precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of late, been h=
is
ordinary manner- one scrupulously polite. No doubt he had invoked the help =
of
the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he
had forgiven me once more.
For the evening reading before
prayers, he selected the twenty-first chapter of Revelation. It was at all
times pleasant to listen while from his lips fell the words of the Bible: n=
ever
did his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full- never did his manner be=
come
so impressive in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered the oracles of =
God:
and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone- that manner a more thrilli=
ng
meaning- as he sat in the midst of his household circle (the May moon shini=
ng
in through the uncurtained window, and rendering almost unnecessary the lig=
ht
of the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending over the great old Bi=
ble,
and described from its page the vision of the new heaven and the new earth-=
told
how God would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe away all tears from
their eyes, and promised that there should be no more death, neither sorrow=
nor
crying, nor any more pain, because the former things were passed away.
The succeeding words thrilled me
strangely as he spoke them: especially as I felt, by the slight, indescriba=
ble
alteration in sound, that in uttering them, his eye had turned on me.
‘He that overcometh shall
inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son. But,R=
17;
was slowly, distinctly read, ‘the fearful, the unbelieving, &c.,
shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, wh=
ich
is the second death.’
Henceforward, I knew what fate St.
John feared for me.
A calm, subdued triumph, blent wit=
h a
longing earnestness, marked his enunciation of the last glorious verses of =
that
chapter. The reader believed his name was already written in the Lamb's boo=
k of
life, and he yearned after the hour which should admit him to the city to w=
hich
the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need of s=
un
or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb =
is
the light thereof.
In the prayer following the chapte=
r,
all his energy gathered- all his stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest,
wrestling with God, and resolved on a conquest. He supplicated strength for=
the
weak-hearted; guidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, even at the
eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations of the world and the flesh we=
re
luring from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed the boon of a b=
rand
snatched from the burning. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I
listened to that prayer, I wondered at his; then, when it continued and ros=
e, I
was touched by it, and at last awed. He felt the greatness and goodness of =
his
purpose so sincerely: others who heard him plead for it, could not but feel=
it
too.
The prayer over, we took leave of =
him:
he was to go at a very early hour in the morning. Diana and Mary having kis=
sed
him, left the room- in compliance, I think, with a whispered hint from him:=
I
tendered my hand, and wished him a pleasant journey.
‘Thank you, Jane. As I said,=
I shall
return from Cambridge in a fortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for
reflection. If I listened to human pride, I should say no more to you of
marriage with me; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily in view my fir=
st
aim- to do all things to the glory of God. My Master was long-suffering: so
will I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath: repent- =
resolve,
while there is yet time. Remember, we are bid to work while it is day- warn=
ed
that 'the night cometh when no man shall work.' Remember the fate of Dives,=
who
had his good things in this life. God give you strength to choose that bett=
er
part which shall not be taken from you!’
He laid his hand on my head as he
uttered the last words. He had spoken earnestly, mildly: his look was not,
indeed, that of a lover beholding his mistress, but it was that of a pastor
recalling his wandering sheep- or better, of a guardian angel watching the =
soul
for which he is responsible. All men of talent, whether they be men of feel=
ing
or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots- provided only th=
ey
be sincere- have their sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt
veneration for St. John- veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me at
once to the point I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling =
with
him- to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, a=
nd
there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once
before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have
yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now wou=
ld
have been an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, when I look back to
the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at =
the
instant.
I stood motionless under my
hierophant's touch. My refusals were forgotten- my fears overcome- my wrest=
lings
paralysed. The Impossible- i.e.=
, my
marriage with St. John- was fast becoming the Possible. All was changing
utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called- Angels beckoned- God commande=
d- life
rolled together like a scroll- death's gates opening, showed eternity beyon=
d:
it seemed, that for safety and bliss there, all here might be sacrificed in=
a
second. The dim room was full of visions.
‘Could you decide now?’
asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to hi=
m as
gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! I could
resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant as a reed under his kindness. Yet I =
knew
all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, so=
me
day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of sole=
mn
prayer: it was only elevated.
‘I could decide if I were but
certain,’ I answered: ‘were I but convinced that it is God's wi=
ll I
should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and now- come afterwards wh=
at
would!’
‘My prayers are heard!’
ejaculated St. John. He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed
me: he surrounded me with his arm, =
almos
as if he loved me (I say almost=
- I
knew the difference- for I had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him,=
I
had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). I contended
with my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincere=
ly,
deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. ‘Show m=
e,
show me the path!’ I entreated of Heaven. I was excited more than I h=
ad
ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader
shall judge.
All the house was still; for I bel=
ieve
all, except St. John and myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle w=
as
dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I
heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that
thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities. The fee=
ling
was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as
startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had b=
een
but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose
expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones.
‘What have you heard? What do
you see?’ asked St. John. I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere
cry-
‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’- n=
othing
more.
‘O God! what is it?’ I
gasped.
I might have said, ‘Where is=
it?’
for it did not seem in the room- nor in the house- nor in the garden; it did
not come out of the air- nor from under the earth- nor from overhead. I had
heard it- where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voi=
ce
of a human being- a known, loved, well-remembered voice- that of Edward Fai=
rfax
Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.
‘I am coming!’ I cried=
. ‘Wait
for me! Oh, I will come!’ I flew to the door and looked into the pass=
age:
it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.
‘Where are you?’ I
exclaimed.
The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent t=
he
answer faintly back- ’Where are you?’ I listened. The wind sigh=
ed
low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and
‘Down superstition!’ I
commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. R=
16;This
is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was
roused, and did- no miracle- but her best.’
I broke from St. John, who had
followed, and would have detained me. It was my time to assume ascendency. My
powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark;=
I
desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Wher=
e there
is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my
chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way- a differ=
ent
way to St. John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate =
very
near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. I ro=
se
from the thanksgiving- took a resolve- and lay down, unscared, enlightened-=
eager
but for the daylight.
The daylight came. I rose at dawn.=
I
busied myself for an hour or two with arranging my things in my chamber,
drawers, and wardrobe, in the order wherein I should wish to leave them dur=
ing
a brief absence. Meantime, I heard St. John quit his room. He stopped at my
door: I feared he would knock- no, but a slip of paper was passed under the
door. I took it up. It bore these words-
‘You left me too suddenly la=
st
night. Had you stayed but a little longer, you would have laid your hand on=
the
Christian's cross and the angel's crown. I shall expect your clear decision
when I return this day fortnight. Meantime, watch and pray that you enter n=
ot
into temptation: the spirit, I trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is
weak. I shall pray for you hourly.- Yours, ST. JOHN.’
‘My spirit,’ I answered
mentally, ‘is willing to do what is right; and my flesh, I hope, is
strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when once that will is
distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to search- i=
nquire-
to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find the open day of
certainty.’
It was the first of June; yet the
morning was overcast and chilly: rain beat fast on my casement. I heard the
front-door open, and St. John pass out. Looking through the window, I saw h=
im
traverse the garden. He took the way over the misty moors in the direction =
of
Whitcross- there he would meet the coach.
‘In a few more hours I shall
succeed you in that track, cousin,’ thought I: ‘I too have a co=
ach
to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and ask after in England, befo=
re I
depart for ever.’
It wanted yet two hours of
breakfast-time. I filled the interval in walking softly about my room, and
pondering the visitation which had given my plans their present bent. I
recalled that inward sensation I had experienced: for I could recall it, wi=
th
all its unspeakable strangeness. I recalled the voice I had heard; again I
questioned whence it came, as vainly as before: it seemed in me- not in the external world. I a=
sked
was it a mere nervous impression- a delusion? I could not conceive or belie=
ve:
it was more like an inspiration. The wondrous shock of feeling had come like
the earthquake which shook the foundations of Paul and Silas's prison; it h=
ad
opened the doors of the soul's cell and loosed its bands- it had wakened it=
out
of its sleep, whence it sprang trembling, listening, aghast; then vibrated
thrice a cry on my startled ear, and in my quaking heart and through my spi=
rit,
which neither feared nor shook, but exulted as if in joy over the success of
one effort it had been privileged to make, independent of the cumbrous body=
.
‘Ere many days,’ I sai=
d,
as I terminated my musings, ‘I will know something of him whose voice
seemed last night to summon me. Letters have proved of no avail- personal
inquiry shall replace them.’
At breakfast I announced to Diana =
and
Mary that I was going a journey, and should be absent at least four days.
‘Alone, Jane?’ they as=
ked.
‘Yes; it was to see or hear =
news
of a friend about whom I had for some time been uneasy.’
They might have said, as I have no
doubt they thought, that they had believed me to be without any friends save
them: for, indeed, I had often said so; but, with their true natural delica=
cy,
they abstained from comment, except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was
well enough to travel. I looked very pale, she observed. I replied, that
nothing ailed me save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleviate.
It was easy to make my further
arrangements; for I was troubled with no inquiries- no surmises. Having once
explained to them that I could not now be explicit about my plans, they kin=
dly
and wisely acquiesced in the silence with which I pursued them, according t=
o me
the privilege of free action I should under similar circumstances have acco=
rded
them.
I left Moor House at three o'clock
p.m., and soon after four I stood at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross,
waiting the arrival of the coach which was to take me to distant Thornfield.
Amidst the silence of those solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it
approach from a great distance. It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago,=
I
had alighted one summer evening on this very spot- how desolate, and hopele=
ss,
and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered- not now obliged to part
with my whole fortune as the price of its accommodation. Once more on the r=
oad
to Thornfield, I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home.
It was a journey of six-and-thirty
hours. I had set out from Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the
succeeding Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a ways=
ide
inn, situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges and large fields a=
nd
low pastoral hills (how mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the
stern North- Midland moors of Morton!) met my eye like the lineaments of a =
once
familiar face. Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was sure we w=
ere
near my bourne.
‘How far is Thornfield Hall =
from
here?’ I asked of the ostler.
‘Just two miles, ma'am, acro=
ss
the fields.’
‘My journey is closed,’= ; I thought to myself. I got out of the coach, gave a box I had into the ostler= 's charge, to be kept till I called for it; paid my fare; satisfied the coachm= an, and was going: the brightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I re= ad in gilt letters, ‘The Rochester Arms.’ My heart leapt up: I was already on my master's very lands. It fell again: the thought struck it:- <= o:p>
‘Your master himself may be
beyond the British Channel, for aught you know: and then, if he is at
Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten, who besides him is there? His
lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with him: you dare not speak to hi=
m or
seek his presence. You have lost your labour- you had better go no farther,=
’
urged the monitor. ‘Ask information of the people at the inn; they can
give you all you seek: they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to that ma=
n,
and inquire if Mr. Rochester be at home.’
The suggestion was sensible, and y=
et I
could not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush =
me
with despair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope. I might yet once more s=
ee
the Hall under the ray of her star. There was the stile before me- the very
fields through which I had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengef=
ul
fury tracking and scourging me, on the morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I
well knew what course I had resolved to take, I was in the midst of them. H=
ow
fast I walked! How I ran sometimes! How I looked forward to catch the first
view of the well-known woods! With what feelings I welcomed single trees I
knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill between them!
At last the woods rose; the rookery
clustered dark; a loud cawing broke the morning stillness. Strange delight
inspired me: on I hastened. Another field crossed- a lane threaded- and the=
re
were the courtyard walls- the back offices: the house itself, the rookery s=
till
hid. ‘My first view of it shall be in front,’ I determined, =
216;where
its bold battlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can sin=
gle
out my master's very window: perhaps he will be standing at it- he rises ea=
rly:
perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in front. Coul=
d I
but see him!- but a moment! Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as=
to
run to him? I cannot tell- I am not certain. And if I did- what then? God b=
less
him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glan=
ce
can give me? I rave: perhaps at this moment he is watching the sun rise over
the Pyrenees, or on the tideless sea of the south.’
I had coasted along the lower wall=
of
the orchard- turned its angle: there was a gate just there, opening into the
meadow, between two stone pillars crowned by stone balls. From behind one
pillar I could peep round quietly at the full front of the mansion. I advan=
ced
my head with precaution, desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds
were yet drawn up: battlements, windows, long front- all from this sheltered
station were at my command.
The crows sailing overhead perhaps
watched me while I took this survey. I wonder what they thought. They must =
have
considered I was very careful and timid at first, and that gradually I grew
very bold and reckless. A peep, and then a long stare; and then a departure
from my niche and a straying out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in
front of the great mansion, and a protracted, hardy gaze towards it. ‘=
;What
affectation of diffidence was this at first?’ they might have demande=
d; ‘what
stupid regardlessness now?’
Hear an illustration, reader.
A lover finds his mistress asleep =
on a
mossy bank; he wishes to catch a glimpse of her fair face without waking he=
r.
He steals softly over the grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses- fancy=
ing
she has stirred: he withdraws: not for worlds would he be seen. All is stil=
l:
he again advances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features: =
he
lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty- warm, =
and
blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their first glance! But how =
they
fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms the =
form
he dared not, a moment since, touch with his finger! How he calls aloud a n=
ame,
and drops his burden, and gazes on it wildly! He thus grasps and cries, and
gazes, because he no longer fears to waken by any sound he can utter- by any
movement he can make. He thought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is st=
one
dead.
I looked with timorous joy towards=
a
stately house: I saw a blackened ruin.
No need to cower behind a gate-pos=
t,
indeed!- to peep up at chamber lattices, fearing life was astir behind them=
! No
need to listen for doors opening- to fancy steps on the pavement or the
gravel-walk! The lawn, the grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned
void. The front was, as I had once seen it in a dream, but a well-like wall,
very high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows: no ro=
of,
no battlements, no chimneys- all had crashed in.
And there was the silence of death
about it: the solitude of a lonesome wild. No wonder that letters addressed=
to
people here had never received an answer: as well despatch epistles to a va=
ult
in a church aisle. The grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the H=
all
had fallen- by conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this
disaster? What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-work had followed u=
pon
it? Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful quest=
ion:
there was no one here to answer it- not even dumb sign, mute token.
In wandering round the shattered w=
alls
and through the devastated interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity =
was
not of late occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that v=
oid
arch, winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the
drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and weed =
grew
here and there between the stones and fallen rafters. And oh! where meantime
was the hapless owner of this wreck? In what land? Under what auspices? My =
eye
involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower near the gates, and I asked=
, ‘Is
he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the shelter of his narrow marble house?=
’
Some answer must be had to these
questions. I could find it nowhere but at the inn, and thither, ere long, I
returned. The host himself brought my breakfast into the parlour. I request=
ed
him to shut the door and sit down: I had some questions to ask him. But whe=
n he
complied, I scarcely knew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible
answers. And yet the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in=
a
measure for a tale of misery. The host was a respectable-looking, middle-ag=
ed
man.
‘You know Thornfield Hall, of
course?’ I managed to say at last.
‘Yes, ma'am; I lived there o=
nce.’
‘Did you?’ Not in my t=
ime,
I thought: you are a stranger to me.
‘I was the late Mr. Rocheste=
r's
butler,’ he added.
The late! I seem to have received,
with full force, the blow I had been trying to evade.
‘The late!’ I gasped. =
‘Is
he dead?’
‘I mean the present gentlema=
n,
Mr. Edward's father,’ he explained. I breathed again: my blood resumed
its flow. Fully assured by these words that Mr. Edward- my Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!)- was at least
alive: was, in short, ‘the present gentleman.’ Gladdening words=
! It
seemed I could hear all that was to come- whatever the disclosures might be=
- with
comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in the grave, I could bear, I
thought, to learn that he was at the Antipodes.
‘Is Mr. Rochester living at
Thornfield Hall now?’ I asked, knowing, of course, what the answer wo=
uld
be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really
was.
‘No, ma'am- oh, no! No one is
living there. I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have
heard what happened last autumn,- Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was b=
urnt
down just about harvest-time. A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity=
of
valuable property destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The
fire broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millco=
te,
the building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible spectacle: I witnesse=
d it
myself.’
‘At dead of night!’ I
muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality at Thornfield. ‘Was=
it
known how it originated?’ I demanded.
‘They guessed, ma'am: they
guessed. Indeed, I should say it was ascertained beyond a doubt. You are no=
t perhaps
aware,’ he continued, edging his chair a little nearer the table, and
speaking low, ‘that there was a lady- a- a lunatic, kept in the house=
?’
‘I have heard something of i=
t.’
‘She was kept in very close
confinement, ma'am: people even for some years was not absolutely certain of
her existence. No one saw her: they only knew by rumour that such a person =
was
at the Hall; and who or what she was it was difficult to conjecture. They s=
aid
Mr. Edward had brought her from abroad, and some believed she had been his
mistress. But a queer thing happened a year since- a very queer thing.̵=
7;
I feared now to hear my own story.=
I
endeavoured to recall him to the main fact.
‘And this lady?’
‘This lady, ma'am,’ he
answered, ‘turned out to be Mr. Rochester's wife! The discovery was
brought about in the strangest way. There was a young lady, a governess at =
the
Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in- ’
‘But the fire,’ I
suggested.
‘I'm coming to that, ma'am- =
that
Mr. Edward fell in love with. The servants say they never saw anybody so mu=
ch
in love as he was: he was after her continually. They used to watch him- se=
rvants
will, you know, ma'am- and he set store on her past everything: for all, no=
body
but him thought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing, they sa=
y,
almost like a child. I never saw her myself; but I've heard Leah, the
house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester was about
forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen of his age
fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were bewitched. Wel=
l,
he would marry her.’
‘You shall tell me this part=
of
the story another time,’ I said; ‘but now I have a particular
reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. Was it suspected that this
lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in it?’
‘You've hit it, ma'am: it's quite certain that it was her, and nobody but her, that set it going. She h= ad a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole- an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one fault- a fault common to a deal of them nurses and matrons- she kept a private bottle of gin by her, an= d now and then took a drop over-much. It is excusable, for she had a hard life of= it: but still it was dangerous; for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep after the g= in and water, the mad lady, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys= out of her pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the hou= se, doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly bu= rnt her husband in his bed once: but I don't know about that. However, on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the room next her own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made her way to the chamber that had be= en the governess's- (she was like as if she knew somehow how matters had gone = on, and had a spite at her)- and she kindled the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The governess had run away two months before; = and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the most precious thing= he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew savage- qu= ite savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but he got dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but he did it handsomely, f= or he settled an annuity on her for life: and she deserved it- she was a very = good woman. Miss Adele, a ward he had, was put to school. He broke off acquainta= nce with all the gentry, and shut himself up like a hermit at the Hall.’<= o:p>
‘What! did he not leave Engl=
and?’
‘Leave England? Bless you, n=
o!
He would not cross the door-stones of the house, except at night, when he
walked just like a ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as if he had =
lost
his senses- which it is my opinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, kee=
ner
gentleman than he was before that midge of a governess crossed him, you nev=
er
saw, ma'am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some ar=
e,
and he was not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own=
, if
ever man had. I knew him from a boy, you see: and for my part, I have often
wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to Thornfield
Hall.’
‘Then Mr. Rochester was at h=
ome
when the fire broke out?’
‘Yes, indeed was he; and he =
went
up to the attics when all was burning above and below, and got the servants=
out
of their beds and helped them down himself, and went back to get his mad wi=
fe
out of her cell. And then they called out to him that she was on the roof,
where she was standing, waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting
out till they could hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with my own
eyes. She was a big woman, and had long black hair: we could see it streami=
ng
against the flames as she stood. I witnessed, and several more witnessed, M=
r.
Rochester ascend through the sky-light on to the roof; we heard him call
'Bertha!' We saw him approach her; and then, ma'am, she yelled and gave a
spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement.’
‘Dead?’
‘Dead! Ay, dead as the stone=
s on
which her brains and blood were scattered.’
‘Good God!’
‘You may well say so, ma'am:=
it
was frightful!’
He shuddered.
‘And afterwards?’ I ur=
ged.
‘Well, ma'am, afterwards the
house was burnt to the ground: there are only some bits of walls standing n=
ow.’
‘Were any other lives lost?&=
#8217;
‘No- perhaps it would have b=
een
better if there had.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Poor Mr. Edward!’ he
ejaculated, ‘I little thought ever to have seen it! Some say it was a
just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage secret, and wanting to =
take
another wife while he had one living: but I pity him, for my part.’
‘You said he was alive?̵=
7; I
exclaimed.
‘Yes, yes: he is alive; but =
many
think he had better be dead.’
‘Why? How?’ My blood w=
as
again running cold. ‘Where is he?’ I demanded. ‘Is he in
England?’
‘Ay- ay- he's in England; he
can't get out of England, I fancy- he's a fixture now.’
What agony was this! And the man
seemed resolved to protract it.
‘He is stone-blind,’ he
said at last. ‘Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr. Edward.’
I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded=
he
was mad. I summoned strength to ask what had caused this calamity.
‘It was all his own courage,=
and
a body may say, his kindness, in a way, ma'am: he wouldn't leave the house =
till
every one else was out before him. As he came down the great staircase at l=
ast,
after Mrs. Rochester had flung herself from the battlements, there was a gr=
eat
crash- all fell. He was taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hu=
rt:
a beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly; but one eye was
knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the surgeon, had to
amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed: he lost the sight of that als=
o.
He is now helpless, indeed- blind and a cripple.’
‘Where is he? Where does he =
now
live?’
‘At Ferndean, a manor-house =
on a
farm he has, about thirty miles off: quite a desolate spot.’
‘Who is with him?’
‘Old John and his wife: he w=
ould
have none else. He is quite broken down, they say.’
‘Have you any sort of
conveyance?’
‘We have a chaise, ma'am, a =
very
handsome chaise.’
‘Let it be got ready instant=
ly;
and if your post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay
both you and him twice the hire you usually demand.’
The manor-house of Ferndean was a
building of considerable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural
pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester
often spoke of it, and sometimes went there. His father had purchased the
estate for the sake of the game covers. He would have let the house, but co=
uld
find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site.
Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of s=
ome
two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the squire when he we=
nt
there in the season to shoot.
To this house I came just ere dark=
on
an evening marked by the characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continu=
ed
small penetrating rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed=
the
chaise and driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when wi=
thin
a very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so t=
hick
and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates between
granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through them, I found
myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There was a grass-gro=
wn
track descending the forest aisle between hoar and knotty shafts and under
branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling; but it
stretched on and on, it would far and farther: no sign of habitation or gro=
unds
was visible.
I thought I had taken a wrong
direction and lost my way. The darkness of natural as well as of sylvan dusk
gathered over me. I looked round in search of another road. There was none:=
all
was interwoven stem, columnar trunk, dense summer foliage- no opening anywh=
ere.
I proceeded: at last my way opened,
the trees thinned a little; presently I beheld a railing, then the house- s=
carce,
by this dim light, distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were i=
ts
decaying walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst=
a
space of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a semicircle. T=
here
were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling a
grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of the forest. The house presen=
ted
two pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and narrow: the
front door was narrow too, one step led up to it. The whole looked, as the =
host
of the Rochester Arms had said, ‘quite a desolate spot.’ It was=
as
still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaves was
the only sound audible in its vicinage.
‘Can there be life here?R=
17;
I asked.
Yes, life of some kind there was; =
for
I heard a movement- that narrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was
about to issue from the grange.
It opened slowly: a figure came out
into the twilight and stood on the step; a man without a hat: he stretched
forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had
recognised him- it was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.
I stayed my step, almost my breath,
and stood to watch him- to examine him, myself unseen, and alas! to him
invisible. It was a sudden meeting, and one in which rapture was kept well =
in
check by pain. I had no difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation=
, my
step from hasty advance.
His form was of the same strong and
stalwart contour as ever: his port was still erect, his hair was still raven
black; nor were his features altered or sunk: not in one year's space, by a=
ny
sorrow, could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blight=
ed.
But in his countenance I saw a change: that looked desperate and brooding- =
that
reminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to
approach in his sullen woe. The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty=
has
extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson.
And, reader, do you think I feared=
him
in his blind ferocity?- if you do, you little know me. A soft hope blest wi=
th
my sorrow that soon I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and =
on
those lips so sternly sealed beneath it: but not yet. I would not accost him
yet.
He descended the one step, and
advanced slowly and gropingly towards the grass-plat. Where was his daring
stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted =
his
hand and opened his eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on t=
he
sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was void
darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the mutilated one, he =
kept
hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay
around him: he met but vacancy still; for the trees were some yards off whe=
re
he stood. He relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet a=
nd
mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this moment Jo=
hn
approached him from some quarter.
‘Will you take my arm, sir?&=
#8217;
he said; ‘there is a heavy shower coming on: had you not better go in=
?’
‘Let me alone,’ was the
answer.
John withdrew without having obser=
ved
me. Mr. Rochester now tried to walk about: vainly,- all was too uncertain. =
He groped
his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.
I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me. ‘Mary,’ I said, ‘how are you?’<= o:p>
She started as if she had seen a
ghost: I calmed her. To her hurried ‘Is it really you, miss, come at =
this
late hour to this lonely place?’ I answered by taking her hand; and t=
hen
I followed her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I expla=
ined
to them, in few words, that I had heard all which had happened since I left
Thornfield, and that I was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John to go do=
wn
to the turn- pike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my tru=
nk,
which I had left there: and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I
questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the Manor House for
the night; and finding that arrangements to that effect, though difficult,
would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay. Just at this moment =
the
parlour-bell rang.
‘When you go in,’ said=
I, ‘tell
your master that a person wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name.&=
#8217;
‘I don't think he will see y=
ou,’
she answered; ‘he refuses everybody.’
When she returned, I inquired what=
he
had said. ‘You are to send in your name and your business,’ she
replied. She then proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a t=
ray,
together with candles.
‘Is that what he rang for?=
8217;
I asked.
‘Yes: he always has candles
brought in at dark, though he is blind.’
‘Give the tray to me; I will
carry it in.’
I took it from her hand: she point=
ed
me out the parlour door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from =
the
glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, =
and
shut it behind me.
This parlour looked gloomy: a
neglected handful of fire burnt low in the grate; and, leaning over it, with
his head supported against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the
blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out =
of
the way, and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pi=
lot
pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whi=
ne,
and bounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it =
on
the table; then patted him, and said softly, ‘Lie down!’ Mr. Ro=
chester
turned mechanically to see what=
the
commotion was: but as he saw no=
thing,
he returned and sighed.
‘Give me the water, Mary,=
217;
he said.
I approached him with the now only
half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
‘What is the matter?’ =
he
inquired.
‘Down, Pilot!’ I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. ‘This is you, Mary, is it not?’<= o:p>
‘Mary is in the kitchen,R=
17;
I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick
gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. ‘Who is t=
his?
Who is this?’ he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes- unavailing and distressing attem=
pt! ‘Answer
me- speak again!’ he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
‘Will you have a little more
water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass,’ I said.
‘Who is it? What is =
it?
Who speaks?’
‘Pilot knows me, and John and
Mary know I am here. I came only this evening,’ I answered.
‘Great God!- what delusion h=
as
come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?’
‘No delusion- no madness: yo=
ur
mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.=
217;
‘And where is the speaker? I=
s it
only a voice? Oh! I cannot see,=
but I
must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever- whoever you =
are-
be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!’
He groped; I arrested his wandering
hand, and prisoned it in both mine.
‘Her very fingers!’ he
cried; ‘her small, slight fingers! If so there must be more of her.=
8217;
The muscular hand broke from my
custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder- neck- waist- I was entwined and
gathered to him.
‘Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape- thi=
s is
her size- ’
‘And this her voice,’ I
added. ‘She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am gla=
d to
be so near you again.’
‘Jane Eyre!- Jane Eyre,̵=
7;
was all he said.
‘My dear master,’ I
answered, ‘I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out- I am come back to yo=
u.’
‘In truth?- in the flesh? My
living Jane?’
‘You touch me, sir,- you hold
me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I=
?’
‘My living darling! These are
certainly her limbs, and these her features; but I cannot be so blest, after
all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have
clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus- and
felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me.’
‘Which I never will, sir, fr=
om
this day.’
‘Never will, says the vision?
But I always woke and found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and aba=
ndoned-
my life dark, lonely, hopeless- my soul athirst and forbidden to drink- my
heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms
now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss =
me
before you go- embrace me, Jane.’
‘There, sir- and there!̵=
7;'
I pressed my lips to his once
brilliant and now rayless eyes- I swept his hair from his brow, and kissed =
that
too. He suddenly seemed to arouse himself: the conviction of the reality of=
all
this seized him.
‘It is you- is it, Jane? You=
are
come back to me then?’
‘I am.’
‘And you do not lie dead in =
some
ditch under some stream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers=
?’
‘No, sir! I am an independent
woman now.’
‘Independent! What do you me=
an,
Jane?’
‘My uncle in Madeira is dead,
and he left me five thousand pounds.’
‘Ah! this is practical- this=
is
real!’ he cried: ‘I should never dream that. Besides, there is =
that
peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheer=
s my
withered heart; it puts life into it.- What, Janet! Are you an independent
woman? A rich woman?’
‘If you won't let me live wi=
th
you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come =
and
sit in my parlour when you want company of an evening.’
‘But as you are rich, Jane, =
you
have now, no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to
devote yourself to a blind lameter like me?’
‘I told you I am independent,
sir, as well as rich: I am my own mistress.’
‘And you will stay with me?&=
#8217;
‘Certainly- unless you objec=
t. I
will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I =
will
be your companion- to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wa=
it
on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear m=
aster;
you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.’
He replied not: he seemed serious-=
abstracted;
he sighed; he half-opened his lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I =
felt
a little embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly over-leaped conventionalitie=
s;
and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had indeed
made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his wi=
fe:
an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up,
that he would claim me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escap=
ing
him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I
might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; an=
d I
began gently to withdraw myself from his arms- but he eagerly snatched me
closer.
‘No- no- Jane; you must not =
go.
No- I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence- the
sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little l=
eft
in myself- I must have you. The world may laugh- may call me absurd, selfis=
h- but
it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it =
will
take deadly vengeance on its frame.’
‘Well, sir, I will stay with
you: I have said so.’
‘Yes- but you understand one=
thing
by staying with me; and I understand another. You, perhaps, could make up y=
our
mind to be about my hand and chair- to wait on me as a kind little nurse (f=
or
you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to m=
ake
sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I
suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you: do you t=
hink
so? Come- tell me.’
‘I will think what you like,
sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better.’
‘But you cannot always be my
nurse, Janet: you are young- you must marry one day.’
‘I don't care about being
married.’
‘You should care, Janet: if I
were what I once was, I would try to make you care- but- a sightless block!=
’
He relapsed again into gloom. I, on
the contrary, became more cheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words
gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficu=
lty
with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a
livelier vein of conversation.
‘It is time some one underto=
ok
to rehumanise you,’ said I, parting his thick and long uncut locks; &=
#8216;for
I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. Y=
ou
have a 'faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certai=
n:
your hair reminds me of eagles' feathers; whether your nails are grown like
birds' claws or not, I have not yet noticed.’
‘On this arm, I have neither
hand nor nails,’ he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast,=
and
showing it to me. ‘It is a mere stump- a ghastly sight! Don't you thi=
nk
so, Jane?’ ‘It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes=
- and
the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger=
of
loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you.’
‘I thought you would be
revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrised visage.’
‘Did you? Don't tell me so- =
lest
I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you =
an
instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell =
when
there is a good fire?’
‘Yes; with the right eye I s=
ee a
glow- a ruddy haze.’
‘And you see the candles?=
217;
‘Very dimly- each is a lumin=
ous
cloud.’
‘Can you see me?’
‘No, my fairy: but I am only=
too
thankful to hear and feel you.’
‘When do you take supper?=
217;
‘I never take supper.’
‘But you shall have some
to-night. I am hungry: so are you, I daresay, only you forget.’
Summoning Mary, I soon had the roo=
m in
more cheerful order: I prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spi=
rits
were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and=
for
a long time after. There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee =
and
vivacity with him; for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I sui=
ted
him; all I said or did seemed either to console or revive him. Delightful
consciousness! It brought to life and light my whole nature: in his presenc=
e I
thoroughly lived; and he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over=
his
face, joy dawned on his forehead: his lineaments softened and warmed.
After supper, he began to ask me m=
any
questions, of where I had been, what I had been doing, how I had found him =
out;
but I gave him only very partial replies: it was too late to enter into
particulars that night. Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord-=
to
open no fresh well of emotion in his heart: my sole present aim was to cheer
him. Cheered, as I have said, he was: and yet but by fits. If a moment's
silence broke the conversation, he would turn restless, touch me, then say,=
‘Jane.’
‘You are altogether a human
being, Jane? You are certain of that?’
‘I conscientiously believe s=
o,
Mr. Rochester.’
‘Yet how, on this dark and
doleful evening, could you so suddenly rise on my lone hearth? I stretched =
my
hand to take a glass of water from a hireling, and it was given me by you: I
asked a question, expecting John's wife to answer me, and your voice spoke =
at
my ear.’
‘Because I had come in, in
Mary's stead, with the tray.’
‘And there is enchantment in=
the
very hour I am now spending with you. Who can tell what a dark, dreary,
hopeless life I have dragged on for months past? Doing nothing, expecting
nothing; merging night in day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let=
the
fire go out, of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, a=
nd,
at times, a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her
restoration I longed, far more than for that of my lost sight. How can it be
that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will she not depart as suddenl=
y as
she came? To-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more.’
A commonplace, practical reply, ou=
t of
the train of his own disturbed ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most
reassuring for him in this frame of mind. I passed my finger over his eyebr=
ows,
and remarked that they were scorched, and that I would apply something which
would make them grow as broad and black as ever.
‘Where is the use of doing me
good in any way, beneficent spirit, when, at some fatal moment, you will ag=
ain
desert me- passing like a shadow, whither and how to me unknown, and for me
remaining afterwards undiscoverable?
‘Have you a pocket-comb about
you, sir?’
‘What for, Jane?’
‘Just to comb out this shaggy
black mane. I find you rather alarming, when I examine you close at hand: y=
ou
talk of my being a fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie.’=
;
‘Am I hideous, Jane?’<= o:p>
‘Very, sir: you always were,=
you
know.’
‘Humph! The wickedness has n=
ot
been taken out of you, wherever you have sojourned.’
‘Yet I have been with good p=
eople;
far better than you: a hundred times better people; possessed of ideas and
views you never entertained in your life: quite more refined and exalted.=
8217;
‘Who the deuce have you been
with?’
‘If you twist in that way you
will make me pull the hair out of your head; and then I think you will ceas=
e to
entertain doubts of my substantiality.’
‘Who have you been with, Jan=
e?’
‘You shall not get it out of=
me
to-night, sir; you must wait till to-morrow; to leave my tale half told, wi=
ll,
you know, be a sort of security that I shall appear at your breakfast table=
to
finish it. By the bye, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a g=
lass
of water then: I must bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of fried ha=
m.’
‘You mocking changeling- fai=
ry-born
and human-bred! You make me feel as I have not felt these twelve months. If
Saul could have had you for his David, the evil spirit would have been
exorcised without the aid of the harp.’
‘There, sir, you are redd up=
and
made decent. Now I'll leave you: I have been travelling these last three da=
ys,
and I believe I am tired. Good night.’
‘Just one word, Jane: were t=
here
only ladies in the house where you have been?’
I laughed and made my escape, still
laughing as I ran upstairs. ‘A good idea!’ I thought with glee.=
‘I
see I have the means of fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to
come.’
Very early the next morning I heard
him up and astir, wandering from one room to another. As soon as Mary came =
down
I heard the question: ‘Is Miss Eyre here?’ Then: ‘Which r=
oom
did you put her into? Was it dry? Is she up? Go and ask if she wants anythi=
ng;
and when she will come down.’
I came down as soon as I thought t=
here
was a prospect of breakfast. Entering the room very softly, I had a view of=
him
before he discovered my presence. It was mournful, indeed, to witness the
subjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He sat in his
chair- still, but not at rest: expectant evidently; the lines of now habitu=
al
sadness marking his strong features. His countenance reminded one of a lamp
quenched, waiting to be re-lit- and alas! it was not himself that could now
kindle the lustre of animated expression: he was dependent on another for t=
hat
office! I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the st=
rong
man touched my heart to the quick: still I accosted him with what vivacity I
could.
‘It is a bright, sunny morni=
ng,
sir,’ I said. ‘The rain is over and gone, and there is a tender
shining after it: you shall have a walk soon.’
I had wakened the glow: his featur=
es
beamed.
‘Oh, you are indeed there, my
skylark! Come to me. You are not gone: not vanished? I heard one of your ki=
nd
an hour ago, singing high over the wood: but its song had no music for me, =
any
more than the rising sun had rays. All the melody on earth is concentrated =
in
my Jane's tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all
the sunshine I can feel is in her presence.’
The water stood in my eyes to hear
this avowal of his dependence; just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch,
should be forced to entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. But I would n=
ot
be lachrymose: I dashed off the salt drops, and busied myself with preparing
breakfast.
Most of the morning was spent in t=
he
open air. I led him out of the wet and wild wood into some cheerful fields:=
I
described to him how brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges
looked refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for him=
in
a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to let hi=
m,
when seated, place me on his knee. Why should I, when both he and I were
happier near than apart? Pilot lay beside us: all was quiet. He broke out
suddenly while clasping me in his arms-
‘Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh,
Jane, what did I feel when I discovered you had fled from Thornfield, and w=
hen
I could nowhere find you; and, after examining your apartment, ascertained =
that
you had taken no money, nor anything which could serve as an equivalent! A
pearl necklace I had given you lay untouched in its little casket; your tru=
nks
were left corded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour. =
What
could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and penniless? And what did she
do? Let me hear now.’
Thus urged, I began the narrative =
of
my experience for the last year. I softened considerably what related to the
three days of wandering and starvation, because to have told him all would =
have
been to inflict unnecessary pain: the little I did say lacerated his faithf=
ul
heart deeper than I wished.
I should not have left him thus, he
said, without any means of making my way: I should have told him my intenti=
on.
I should have confided in him: he would never have forced me to be his
mistress. Violent as he had seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved me f=
ar too
well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would have given =
me
half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather tha=
n I
should have flung myself friendless on the wide world. I had endured, he was
certain, more than I had confessed to him.
‘Well, whatever my sufferings
had been, they were very short,’ I answered: and then I proceeded to =
tell
him how I had been received at Moor House; how I had obtained the office of
schoolmistress, &c. The accession of fortune, the discovery of my
relations, followed in due order. Of course, St. John Rivers' name came in
frequently in the progress of my tale. When I had done, that name was
immediately taken up.
‘This St. John, then, is your
cousin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have spoken of him ofte=
n:
do you like him?’
‘He was a very good man, sir=
; I
could not help liking him.’
‘A good man. Does that mean a
respectable well-conducted man of fifty? Or what does it mean?’
‘St John was only twenty-nin=
e,
sir.’
‘'Jeune encore,' as the French say. Is he a person of low stature,
phlegmatic, and plain. A person whose goodness consists rather in his
guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue.’
‘He is untiringly active. Gr=
eat
and exalted deeds are what he lives to perform.’
‘But his brain? That is prob=
ably
rather soft? He means well: but you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?&=
#8217;
‘He talks little, sir: what =
he
does say is ever to the point. His brain is first-rate, I should think not
impressible, but vigorous.’
‘Is he an able man, then?=
217;
‘Truly able.’
‘A thoroughly educated man?&=
#8217;
‘St. John is an accomplished=
and
profound scholar.’
‘His manners, I think, you s=
aid
are not to your taste?- priggish and parsonic?’
‘I never mentioned his manne=
rs;
but, unless I had a very bad taste, they must suit it; they are polished, c=
alm,
and gentlemanlike.’
‘His appearance,- I forget w=
hat
description you gave of his appearance;- a sort of raw curate, half strangl=
ed
with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?&=
#8217;
‘St. John dresses well. He i=
s a
handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile.’
(Aside.) ‘Damn him!’- =
(To
me.) ‘Did you like him, Jane?’
‘Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked
him: but you asked me that before.’
I perceived, of course, the drift =
of
my interlocutor. Jealousy had got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting=
was
salutary: it gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would =
not,
therefore, immediately charm the snake.
‘Perhaps you would rather not
sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?’ was the next somewhat unexpect=
ed
observation.
‘Why not, Mr. Rochester?R=
17;
‘The picture you have just d=
rawn
is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast. Your words have deline=
ated
very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination,- tall,
fair, blue- eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,-=
a
real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the barga=
in.’
‘I never thought of it, befo=
re;
but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir.’
‘Well, you can leave me, ma'=
am:
but before you go’ (and he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), =
‘you
will be pleased just to answer me a question or two.’ He paused.
‘What questions, Mr. Rochest=
er?’
Then followed this cross-examinati=
on.
‘St. John made you
schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You would often see him? He
would visit the school sometimes?’
‘Daily.’
‘He would approve of your pl= ans, Jane? I know they would be clever, for you are a talented creature!’<= o:p>
‘He approved of them- yes.=
8217;
‘He would discover many thin=
gs
in you he could not have expected to find? Some of your accomplishments are=
not
ordinary.’
‘I don't know about that.=
217;
‘You had a little cottage ne=
ar
the school, you say: did he ever come there to see you?’
‘Now and then?’
‘Of an evening?’
‘Once or twice.’
A pause.
‘How long did you reside with
him and his sisters after the cousinship was discovered?’
‘Five months.’
‘Did Rivers spend much time =
with
the ladies of his family?’
‘Yes; the back parlour was b=
oth
his study and ours: he sat near the window, and we by the table.’
‘Did he study much?’
‘A good deal.’
‘What?’
‘Hindostanee.’
‘And what did you do meantim=
e?’
‘I learnt German, at first.&=
#8217;
‘Did he teach you?’
‘He did not understand Germa=
n.’
‘Did he teach you nothing?=
8217;
‘A little Hindostanee.’=
;
‘Rivers taught you Hindostan=
ee?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And his sisters also?’=
;
‘No.’
‘Only you?’
‘Only me.’
‘Did you ask to learn?’=
;
‘No.’
‘He wished to teach you?R=
17;
‘Yes.’
A second pause.
‘Why did he wish it? Of what=
use
could Hindostanee be to you?’
‘He intended me to go with h=
im
to India.’
‘Ah! here I reach the root of
the matter. He wanted you to marry him?’
‘He asked me to marry him.=
8217;
‘That is a fiction- an impud=
ent
invention to vex me.’
‘I beg your pardon, it is the
literal truth: he asked me more than once, and was as stiff about urging his
point as ever you could be.’
‘Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you=
can
leave me. How often am I to say the same thing? Why do you remain
pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I have given you notice to quit?=
217;
‘Because I am comfortable th=
ere.’
‘No, Jane, you are not
comfortable there, because your heart is not with me: it is with this cousi=
n- this
St. John. Oh, till this moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I ha=
d a
belief she loved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much
bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our
separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she was loving
another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers.=
8217;
‘Shake me off, then, sir,- p=
ush
me away, for I'll not leave you of my own accord.’
‘Jane, I ever like your tone=
of
voice: it still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carr=
ies
me back a year. I forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a foo=
l- go-
’
‘Where must I go, sir?’=
;
‘Your own way- with the husb=
and
you have chosen.’
‘Who is that?’
‘You know- this St. John Riv=
ers.’
‘He is not my husband, nor e=
ver
will be. He does not love me: I do not love him. He loves (as he can love, and that is not as you l=
ove) a
beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only because he
thought I should make a suitable missionary's wife, which she would not have
done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He=
is
not like you, sir: I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. =
He
has no indulgence for me- no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not
even youth- only a few useful mental points.- Then I must leave you, sir, t=
o go
to him?’
I shuddered involuntarily, and clu=
ng
instinctively closer to my blind but beloved master. He smiled.
‘What, Jane! Is this true? Is
such really the state of matters between you and Rivers?’
‘Absolutely, sir! Oh, you ne=
ed
not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a little to make you less sad: I thou=
ght
anger would be better than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you=
but
see how much I do love you, you=
would
be proud and content. All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and wi=
th
you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence f=
or
ever.’
Again, as he kissed me, painful
thoughts darkened his aspect.
‘My seared vision! My crippl=
ed
strength!’ he murmured regretfully.
I caressed, in order to soothe him=
. I
knew of what he was thinking, and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. A=
s he
turned aside his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed
eyelid, and trickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.
‘I am no better than the old
lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield orchard,’ he remarked ere
long. ‘And what right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine
cover its decay with freshness?’
‘You are no ruin, sir- no
lightning-struck tree: you are green and vigorous. Plants will grow about y=
our
roots, whether you ask them or not, because they take delight in your bount=
iful
shadow; and as they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you,
because your strength offers them so safe a prop.’
Again he smiled: I gave him comfor=
t.
‘You speak of friends, Jane?=
’
he asked.
‘Yes, of friends,’ I
answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I meant more than friends, but cou=
ld
not tell what other word to employ. He helped me.
‘Ah! Jane. But I want a wife=
.’
‘Do you, sir?’
‘Yes: is it news to you?R=
17;
‘Of course: you said nothing
about it before.’
‘Is it unwelcome news?’=
;
‘That depends on circumstanc=
es,
sir- on your choice.’
‘Which you shall make for me,
Jane. I will abide by your decision.’
‘Choose then, sir- her who loves you best.’
‘I will at least choose- her I love best. Jane, will you ma=
rry
me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A poor blind man, whom you =
will
have to lead about by the hand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A crippled man, twenty years
older than you, whom you will have to wait on?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Truly, Jane?’
‘Most truly, sir.’
‘Oh! my darling! God bless y=
ou
and reward you!’
‘Mr. Rochester, if ever I di=
d a
good deed in my life- if ever I thought a good thought- if ever I prayed a
sincere and blameless prayer- if ever I wished a righteous wish,- I am rewa=
rded
now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth.’=
;
‘Because you delight in
sacrifice.’
‘Sacrifice! What do I sacrif=
ice?
Famine for food, expectation for content. To be privileged to put my arms r=
ound
what I value- to press my lips to what I love- to repose on what I trust: is
that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice.R=
17;
‘And to bear with my
infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies.’
‘Which are none, sir, to me.=
I
love you better now, when I can really be useful to you, than I did in your
state of proud independence, when you disdained every part but that of the
giver and protector.’
‘Hitherto I have hated to be
helped- to be led: henceforth, I feel I shall hate it no more. I did not li=
ke
to put my hand into a hireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by
Jane's little fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attenda=
nce
of servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits m=
e:
do I suit her?’
‘To the finest fibre of my
nature, sir.’
‘The case being so, we have
nothing in the world to wait for: we must be married instantly.’
He looked and spoke with eagerness:
his old impetuosity was rising.
‘We must become one flesh
without any delay, Jane: there is but the licence to get- then we marry.=
217;
‘Mr. Rochester, I have just
discovered the sun is far declined from its meridian, and Pilot is actually
gone home to his dinner. Let me look at your watch.’
‘Fasten it into your girdle,
Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no use for it.’
‘It is nearly four o'clock in
the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel hungry?’
‘The third day from this mus=
t be
our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is=
not
worth a fillip.’
‘The sun has dried up all the
rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still: it is quite hot.’
‘Do you know, Jane, I have y=
our
little pearl necklace at this moment fastened round my bronze scrag under my
cravat? I have worn it since the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento =
of
her.’
‘We will go home through the
wood: that will be the shadiest way.’
He pursued his own thoughts without
heeding me.
‘Jane! you think me, I dares=
ay,
an irreligious dog: but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent Go=
d of
this earth just now. He sees not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as
man judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innoc=
ent
flower- breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I=
, in
my stiff- necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation: instead of bend=
ing
to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters ca=
me
thick on me: I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death=
. His chastisements are mighty; and =
one
smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was proud of my strength:
but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child
does its weakness? Of late, Jane- only- only of late- I began to see and
acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse,
repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pr=
ay: very
brief prayers they were, but very sincere.
‘Some days since: nay, I can
number them- four; it was last Monday night, a singular mood came over me: =
one
in which grief replaced frenzy- sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the
impression that since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that
night- perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock- ere I retired=
to
my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed good to Him, I might =
soon
be taken from this life, and admitted to that world to come, where there was
still hope of rejoining Jane.
‘I was in my own room, and
sitting by the window, which was open: it soothed me to feel the balmy
night-air; though I could see no stars and only by a vague, luminous haze, =
knew
the presence of a moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both
with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I =
had
not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon tas=
te
bliss and peace once more. That I merited all I endured, I acknowledged- th=
at I
could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's
wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words- 'Jane! Jane! Jane!'=
8216;
‘Did you speak these words
aloud?’
‘I did, Jane. If any listene=
r had
heard me, he would have thought me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic
energy.’
‘And it was last Monday nigh=
t,
somewhere near midnight?’
‘Yes; but the time is of no
consequence: what followed is the strange point. You will think me
superstitious,- some superstition I have in my blood, and always had:
nevertheless, this is true- true at least it is that I heard what I now rel=
ate.
‘As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane!
Jane!' a voice- I cannot tell whence the voice came, but I know whose voice=
it
was- replied, 'I am coming: wait for me;' and a moment after, went whisperi=
ng
on the wind the words- 'Where are you?'
‘I'll tell you, if I can, the
idea, the picture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to exp=
ress
what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, wh=
ere
sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. 'Where are you?' seemed spoken
amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and
fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed
that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believ=
e we
must have met. You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane:
perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were yo=
ur
accents- as certain as I live- they were yours!’
Reader, it was on Monday night- ne=
ar
midnight- that I too had received the mysterious summons: those were the ve=
ry
words by which I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative, but
made no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too awful and
inexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I told anything, my tale w=
ould
be such as must necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my
hearer: and that mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed n=
ot
the deeper shade of the supernatural. I kept these things then, and pondered
them in my heart.
‘You cannot now wonder,̵=
7;
continued my master, ‘that when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last
night, I had difficulty in believing you any other than a mere voice and
vision, something that would melt to silence and annihilation, as the
He put me off his knee, rose, and
reverently lifting his hat from his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to=
the
earth, he stood in mute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were
audible.
‘I thank my Maker, that, in =
the
midst of judgment, he has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to
give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!=
’
Then he stretched his hand out to =
be
led. I took that dear hand, held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass r=
ound
my shoulder: being so much lower of stature than he, I served both for his =
prop
and guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward.
Reader, I married him. A quiet wed=
ding
we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back
from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was coo=
king
the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said-
‘Mary, I have been married to
Mr. Rochester this morning.’ The housekeeper and her husband were bot=
h of
that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely
communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of havi=
ng
one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a
torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the
ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, d=
id
for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time
John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending a=
gain
over the roast, said only-
‘Have you, Miss? Well, for s=
ure!’
A short time after she pursued- =
8217;I
seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church =
to
be wed;’ and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning
from ear to ear.
‘I telled Mary how it would =
be,’
he said: ‘I knew what Mr. Edward’ (John was an old servant, and=
had
known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often ga=
ve
him his Christian name)- ’I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was
certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I kn=
ow.
I wish you joy, Miss!’ and he politely pulled his forelock.
‘Thank you, John. Mr. Roches=
ter
told me to give you and Mary this.’ I put into his hand a five-pound
note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door=
of
that sanctum some time after, I caught the words-
‘She'll happen do better for=
him
nor ony o't' grand ladies.’ And again, ‘If she ben't one o' th'
handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fa=
ir
beautiful, onybody may see that.’
I wrote to Moor House and to Cambr=
idge
immediately, to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus
acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that =
she
would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come =
and
see me.
‘She had better not wait till
then, Jane,’ said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to him; ̵=
6;if
she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long:=
its
beams will only fade over your grave or mine.’
How St. John received the news, I
don't know: he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six
months after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's n=
ame
or alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very seri=
ous,
kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever
since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without G=
od
in the world, and only mind earthly things.
You have not quite forgotten little
Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr.
Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her fra=
ntic
joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said=
she
was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its
course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me.=
I
meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticabl=
e;
my time and cares were now required by another- my husband needed them all.=
So
I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough=
to
permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took ca=
re
she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she
soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progr=
ess
in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a gr=
eat
measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a plea=
sing
and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her
grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little
kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her.
My tale draws to its close: one wo=
rd
respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortu=
nes
of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I
have done.
I have now been married ten years.=
I
know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I =
hold
myself supremely blest- blest beyond what language can express; because I a=
m my
husband's life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate
than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I =
know
no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we
each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms;
consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once =
as
free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long=
: to
talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my
confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are
precisely suited in character- perfect concord is the result.
Mr. Rochester continued blind the
first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us=
so
very near- that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am s=
till
his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his
eye. He saw nature- he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing
for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town,
river, cloud, sunbeam- of the landscape before us; of the weather round us-=
and
impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye.
Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him wh=
ere
he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a
pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad- becaus=
e he
claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He lov=
ed
me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he f=
elt
I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my swee=
test
wishes.
One morning at the end of the two
years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me,
and said- ’Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?̵=
7;
I had a gold watch-chain: I answer=
ed ‘Yes.’
‘And have you a pale blue dr=
ess
on?’
I had. He informed me then, that f=
or
some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less
dense; and that now he was sure of it.
He and I went up to London. He had=
the
advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that=
one
eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he
can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blan=
k to
him- the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms,=
he
could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were- large,
brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart,
acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy.
My Edward and I, then, are happy: =
and
the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary
Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us,=
and
we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant offi=
cer
and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, a=
nd,
from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain
Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them.
As to St. John Rivers, he left
England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself=
; he
pursues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amid=
st
rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, a=
nd
truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement;=
he
hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. =
He
may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the
sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the
onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but f=
or
Christ, when he says- ’Whosoever will come after me, let him deny
himself, and take up his cross and follow me.’ His is the ambition of=
the
high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those w=
ho
are redeemed from the earth- who stand without fault before the throne of G=
od,
who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen,
and faithful.
St. John is unmarried: he never wi=
ll
marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws ne=
ar
its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I recei=
ved
from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine
joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a
stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful
servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for
this? No fear of death will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be
unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith
steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this-
‘My Master,’ he says, =
‘has
forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,- 'Surely I come quickly!'
and hourly I more eagerly respond,- 'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'‘=
;
The End