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Jane Eyre

Charlotte Bronte

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Title: Jane Eyre

Author: Charlotte Bronte

Edition: 11

Language: English

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by Charlotte Bronte

PREFACE

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

I gave none: this second edition demands a few words both of

acknowledgment and miscellaneous remark.

My thanks are due in three quarters.

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

tale with few pretensions.

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

an obscure aspirant.

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

practical sense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and

unrecommended Author.

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

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

so are certain generous critics who have encouraged me as only

large-hearted and high-minded men know how to encourage a struggling

stranger; to them, i.e., to my Publishers and the select Reviewers,

I say cordially, Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart.

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

me, I turn to another class; a small one, so far as I know, but

not, therefore, to be overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping

few who doubt the tendency of such books as "Jane Eyre:" in whose

eyes whatever is unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in each protest

against bigotry -- that parent of crime -- an insult to piety, that

regent of God on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain

obvious distinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths.

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

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

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

the Crown of Thorns.

These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are

as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them:

they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken

for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and

magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming

creed of Christ. There is -- I repeat it -- a difference; and it

is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the

line of separation between them.

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

accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external

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

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

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

the sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it

ads:

is indebted to him.

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

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

better; yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he but

stopped his ears to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel.

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

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

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

of Judah and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power

as prophet-like and as vital -- a mien as dauntless and as daring.

Is the satirist of "Vanity Fair" admired in high places? I cannot

tell; but I think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek

fire of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand

of his denunciation, were to take his warnings in time -- they or

their seed might yet escape a fatal Rimoth-Gilead.

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

because I think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique

than his contemporaries have yet recognised; because I regard him

as the first social regenerator of the day -- as the very master

of that working corps who would restore to rectitude the warped

system of things; because I think no commentator on his writings

has yet found the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly

characterise his talent. They say he is like Fielding: they talk

of his wit, humour, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as an eagle

does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray

never does. His wit is bright, his humour attractive, but both

bear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent

sheet-lightning playing under the edge of the summer-cloud does to

the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I have alluded

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

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

"JANE EYRE."

CURRER BELL.

December 21st, 1847.

NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION

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

Eyre" affords me, of again addressing a word to the Public, to

explain that my claim to the title of novelist rests on this one

work alone. If, therefore, the authorship of other works of fiction

has been attributed to me, an honour is awarded where it is not

merited; and consequently, denied where it is justly due.

This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which may already

have been made, and to prevent future errors.

CURRER BELL.

April 13th, 1848.

CHAPTER I

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

been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the

morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company,

dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so

sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise

was now out of the question.

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

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

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

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

inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.

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

their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the

fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither

quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had

dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be

under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until

she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation,

that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable

and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner

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

really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented,

happy, little children."

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

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

something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that

manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly,

remain silent."

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

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

care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into

the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like

a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I

was shrined in double retirement.

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

left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating

me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over

the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon.

Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of

wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away

wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

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

letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and

yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I

could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of

the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories"

by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles

from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape -

"Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,

Boils round the naked, melancholy isles

Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge

Pours in among the stormy Hebrides."

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

Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland,

with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions

of dreary space, -- that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm

fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed

in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre

the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms

I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended

notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely

impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected

themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance

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

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

moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.

I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard,

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

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

attesting the hour of eventide.

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

phantoms.

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

quickly: it was an object of terror.

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

distant crowd surrounding a gallows.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped

understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting:

as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter

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

brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us

to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and

crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages

of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads;

or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela,

and Henry, Earl of Moreland.

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

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

The breakfast-room door opened.

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

he found the room apparently empty.

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

(calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run

out into the rain -- bad animal!"

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

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

found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception;

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

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

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

dragged forth by the said Jack.

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

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

you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated

by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.

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

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

dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage,

heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually

at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared

eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but

his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his

delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would

do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from

home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and

inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness

was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home.

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

an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three

times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually:

every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones

shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered

by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against

either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to

offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs.

Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike

or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very

presence, more frequently, however, behind her back.

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

some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he

could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike,

and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly

appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he

read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking,

he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my

equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair.

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

he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for

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

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

to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly

follow the insult.

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

"I was reading."

"Show the book."

I returned to the window and fetched it thence.

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

says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to

beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and

eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense.

Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they ARE mine;

all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and

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

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

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

instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough,

however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my

head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was

sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded.

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

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

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

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

which I never thought thus to have declared aloud.

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

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

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

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

a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle

down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these

sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him

in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands,

but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was

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

upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie

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

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

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

Then Mrs. Reed subjoined -

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

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

CHAPTER II

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

which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot

were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle

beside myself; or rather OUT of myself, as the French would say:

I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me

liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I

felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths.

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

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

conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's

son! Your young master."

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

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

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

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

Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from

it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly.

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

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

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

This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred,

took a little of the excitement out of me.

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

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

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

I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and

Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully

on my face, as incredulous of my sanity.

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

Abigail.

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

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

underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much

cover."

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

ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs.

Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have

to go to the poorhouse."

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

very first recollections of existence included hints of the same

kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song

in my ear: very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible.

Miss Abbot joined in -

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

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

up with them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will

have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make

yourself agreeable to them."

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

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

you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude,

Missis will send you away, I am sure."

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

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

Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for

anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself;

for if you don't repent, something bad might be permitted to come

down the chimney and fetch you away."

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

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

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

Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the

accommodation it contained: yet it was one of the largest and

stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive

pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood

out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with

their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons

and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the

foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were

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

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

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

piled-up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy

Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample

cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a

footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne.

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

because remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it

was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here

on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week's

quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it

to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe,

where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature

of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret

of the red-room -- the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of

its grandeur.

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

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

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

had guarded it from frequent intrusion.

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

riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed

rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe,

with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels;

to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between

them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not

quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move,

I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure.

Returning, I had to cross before the looking-glass; my fascinated

glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked

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

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

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

all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought

it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's

evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells

in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I

returned to my stool.

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

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

the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I

had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed

to the dismal present.

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

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

up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why

was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for

ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to

try to win any one's favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish,

was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid

spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged.

Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight

to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault.

John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the

necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs

at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke

the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called

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

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

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

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

termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to

noon, and from noon to night.

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

no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I

had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was

loaded with general opprobrium.

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

stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and Resolve,

equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve

escape from insupportable oppression -- as running away, or, if that

could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting

myself die.

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

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

Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle

fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question -- WHY I

thus suffered; now, at the distance of -- I will not say how many

years, I see it clearly.

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

nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen

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

them. They were not bound to regard with affection a thing that

could not sympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing,

opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a

useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to

their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation

at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that

had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome,

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

would have endured my presence more complacently; her children would

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

the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat

of the nursery.

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

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

the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and

the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees

cold as a stone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of

humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers

of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be

so; what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself

to death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or

was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting

bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried;

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

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

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

a parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he

had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain

me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she

had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her

nature would permit her; but how could she really like an interloper

not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband's

death, by any tie? It must have been most irksome to find herself

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

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

permanently intruded on her own family group.

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

-- that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly;

and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls

-- occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly

gleaning mirror -- I began to recall what I had heard of dead men,

troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes,

revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed;

and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his

sister's child, might quit its abode -- whether in the church vault

or in the unknown world of the departed -- and rise before me in

this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest

any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice to

comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over

me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt

would be terrible if realised: with all my might I endeavoured

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

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

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

myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind?

No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided

up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now conjecture

readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam

from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then,

prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by

agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some

coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew

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

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

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

effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned,

Bessie and Abbot entered.

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

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

Abbot.

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

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

Bessie.

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

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

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

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

excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her

naughty tricks."

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

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

stormily. "Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane

Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself."

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

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

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

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

you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour

longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and

stillness that I shall liberate you then."

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

let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if -- "

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

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

looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and

dangerous duplicity.

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

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

me in, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon

after she was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness

closed the scene.

CHAPTER III

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

had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red

glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking

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

agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror

confused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was

handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture,

and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before.

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

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

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

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

stood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman

sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.

I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection

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

an individual not belonging to Gateshead., and not related to

Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less

obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been),

I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr.

Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the

servants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed

a physician.

"Well, who am I?" he asked.

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

took it, smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by."

Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very

careful that I was not disturbed during the night. Having given

some further directions, and intimates that he should call again

the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and

befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he

closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart again

sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.

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

softly.

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

be rough. "I will try."

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

"No, thank you, Bessie."

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

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

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

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

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

better soon, no doubt."

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

heard her say -

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

life be alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it's

such a strange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she

saw anything. Missis was rather too hard."

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

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

of their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly

to infer the main subject discussed.

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

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

door" -- "A light in the churchyard just over his grave," &c. &c.

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

watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained

by dread: such dread as children only can feel.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident

of the red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel

the reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some

fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for

you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you

thought you were only uprooting my bad propensities.

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

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

but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a

wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had

I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet,

I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were

there, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama.

Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved

hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed

to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state

of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed

as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging;

but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that no

calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.

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

her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird

of paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had

been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration;

and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my

hand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto

been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel

was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the

circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like

most other favours long deferred and often wished for, too late!

I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints

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

away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word BOOK acted as

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

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

delight. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in

it a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for

as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves

and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old

wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that

they were all gone out of England to some savage country where

the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant;

whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of

the earth's surface, I doubted not that I might one day, by taking

a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and

trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of

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

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

Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand -- when

I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures

the charm I had, till now, never failed to find -- all was eerie

and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent

and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread

and dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer

peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart.

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

washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full

of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new

bonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was -

"In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago."

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

for Bessie had a sweet voice, -- at least, I thought so. But

now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an

indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she

sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A long time ago" came

out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into

another ballad, this time a really doleful one.

"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way,

and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonless

and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child.

"Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors

spread and grey rocks are piled? Men are hard-hearted, and kind

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

"Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are

none, and clear stars beam mild, God, in His mercy, protection is

showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

"Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in

the marshes, by false lights beguiled, Still will my Father, with

promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

"There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both

of shelter and kindred despoiled; Heaven is a home, and a rest will

not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child."

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

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

she divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the

course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.

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

nurse, how is she?"

Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

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

name is Jane, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, Jane Eyre."

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

about? Have you any pain?"

"No, sir."

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

Missis in the carriage," interposed Bessie.

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

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

charge, I answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in

my life: I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I am

miserable."

"Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie.

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing

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

small and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them

shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking

face. Having considered me at leisure, he said -

"What made you ill yesterday?"

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

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

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

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

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

I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

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

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

nurse," said he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture

till you come back."

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

punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.

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

when Bessie was gone.

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

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

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

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

there. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night,

if they can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without

a candle, -- so cruel that I think I shall never forget it."

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

now in daylight?"

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

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

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

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

it was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot

analyse their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected

in thought, they know not how to express the result of the process

in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity

of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause,

contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true

response.

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

"You have a kind aunt and cousins."

Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced -

"But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-

room."

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

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

he. "Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live

at?"

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

here than a servant."

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

place?"

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

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

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

Reed?"

"I think not, sir."

"None belonging to your father?"

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

I might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew

nothing about them."

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

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

so to children: they have not much idea of industrious, working,

respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected with

ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and

debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with degradation.

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

"Not even if they were kind to you?"

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

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

manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I

saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at

the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic

enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste.

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

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

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

"Would you like to go to school?"

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

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

wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and

precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but

John Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts

of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family

where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat

appalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by

these same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. She

boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them

executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of

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

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

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

separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.

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

of my musings.

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

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

speaking to himself; "nerves not in a good state."

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

rolling up the gravel-walk.

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

to speak to her before I go."

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

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

I presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to

recommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no

doubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the

subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night,

after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, "Missis was, she

dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill- conditioned

child, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and

scheming plots underhand." Abbot, I think, gave me credit for

being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.

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

Abbot's communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor

clergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her

friends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather

Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without

a shilling; that after my mother and father had been married a

year, the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the

poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated,

and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother took

the infection from him, and both died within a month of each other.

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

Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot."

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

compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such

a little toad as that."

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

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

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

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

colour as she has; just as if she were painted! -- Bessie, I could

fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper."

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

went.

CHAPTER IV

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

conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to

suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,

-- I desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days

and weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but

no new allusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs.

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

me: since my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation

than ever between me and her own children; appointing me a small

closet to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take my meals

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

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

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

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

for her glance, now more than ever, when turned on me, expressed

an insuperable and rooted aversion.

Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke

to me as little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek

whenever he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I

instantly turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deep

ire and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, he

thought it better to desist, and ran from me tittering execrations,

and vowing I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that

prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict;

and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I had the

greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to purpose; but he was

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

the tale of how "that nasty Jane Eyre" had flown at him

like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly -

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

she is not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or

your sisters should associate with her."

Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly,

and without at all deliberating on my words -

"They are not fit to associate with me."

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

and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me

like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge

of my crib, dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place,

or utter one syllable during the remainder of the day.

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

scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed

as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their

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

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

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

from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether

I were child or fiend. I was now in for it.

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

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

and how you wish me dead."

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

she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie

supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in which she

proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child

ever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed

only bad feelings surging in my breast.

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

and the New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual

festive cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening

parties given. From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my

share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling

of Eliza and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-room,

dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair

elaborately ringletted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound

of the piano or the harp played below, to the passing to and fro

of the butler and footman, to the jingling of glass and china as

refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the

drawing-room door opened and closed. When tired of this occupation,

I would retire from the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery:

there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth,

I had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I was

very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable,

I should have deemed it a treat to spend the evenings quietly with

her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed,

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

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

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

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

knee till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make

sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and

when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging

at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold

and darkness in my crib. To this crib I always took my doll; human

beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects

of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing

a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles

me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I doated on this

little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I

could not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown; and when it

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

to be happy likewise.

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

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

she would come up in the interval to seek her thimble or her

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

bun or a cheese-cake -- then she would sit on the bed while I ate

it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me,

and twice she kissed me, and said, "Good night, Miss Jane." When

thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being

in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would always

be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or

task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont to do. Bessie Lee

must, I think, have been a girl of good natural capacity, for she

was smart in all she did, and had a remarkable knack of narrative;

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

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

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

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

but she had a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas

of principle or justice: still, such as she was, I preferred her

to any one else at Gateshead Hall.

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

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

summoned to their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm

garden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she

was fond: and not less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper

and hoarding up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for

traffic, and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in the

vending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bargains

with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants;

that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young

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

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

a handsome profit thereby. As to her money, she first secreted

it in odd corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some

of these hoards having been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza,

fearful of one day losing her valued treasure, consented to intrust

it to her mother, at a usurious rate of interest -- fifty or sixty

per cent.; which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping her

accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.

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

interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers,

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

making my bed, having received strict orders from Bessie to get it

arranged before she returned (for Bessie now frequently employed me

as a sort of under-nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs,

&c.). Having spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went

to the window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll's

house furniture scattered there; an abrupt command from Georgiana

to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the

fairy plates and cups, were her property) stopped my proceedings;

and then, for lack of other occupation, I fell to breathing on the

frost-flowers with which the window was fretted, and thus clearing

a space in the glass through which I might look out on the grounds,

where all was still and petrified under the influence of a hard

frost.

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

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

veiling the panes as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown

open and a carriage roll through. I watched it ascending the drive

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

brought visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of

the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted.

All this being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier

attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and

chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against

the wall near the casement. The remains of my breakfast of bread

and milk stood on the table, and having crumbled a morsel of roll,

I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs on the window-

sill, when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you opening the window for?"

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

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

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

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

bristly brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to

the top of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in

the breakfast-room.

I would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if

Mrs. Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed

the nursery-door upon me. I slowly descended. For nearly three

months, I had never been called to Mrs. Reed's presence; restricted

so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms

were become for me awful regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude.

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

door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable

little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of

me in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared

to go forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitated

hesitation; the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided

me; I MUST enter.

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

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

efforts. "What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?

-- a man or a woman?" The handle turned, the door unclosed,

and passing through and curtseying low, I looked up at -- a black

pillar! -- such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the

straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the

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

by way of capital.

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

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

stony stranger with the words: "This is the little girl respecting

whom I applied to you."

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

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

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

a bass voice, "Her size is small: what is her age?"

"Ten years."

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

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

girl?"

"Jane Eyre, sir."

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

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

all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.

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

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

held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me

by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Perhaps the less

said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst."

"Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;" and

bending from the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-

chair opposite Mrs. Reed's. "Come here," he said.

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

him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level

with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large

prominent teeth!

"No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especially a

naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?"

"They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer.

"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"

"A pit full of fire."

"And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there

for ever?"

"No, sir."

"What must you do to avoid it?"

I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable:

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

"How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die

daily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or

two since, -- a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven.

It is to be feared the same could not be said of you were you to

be called hence."

Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes

down on the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing

myself far enough away.

"I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of ever

having been the occasion of discomfort to your excellent benefactress."

"Benefactress! benefactress!" said I inwardly: "they all call

Mrs. Reed my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeable

thing."

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

interrogator.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you read your Bible?"

"Sometimes."

"With pleasure? Are you fond of it?"

"I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel,

and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles,

and Job and Jonah."

"And the Psalms? I hope you like them?"

"No, sir."

"No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who

knows six Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would

rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Psalm to

learn, he says: 'Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;'

says he, 'I wish to be a little angel here below;' he then gets

two nuts in recompense for his infant piety."

"Psalms are not interesting," I remarked.

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

change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your

heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."

I was about to propound a question, touching the manner in which

that operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs.

Reed interposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to

carry on the conversation herself.

"Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I

wrote to you three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite

the character and disposition I could wish: should you admit her

into Lowood school, I should be glad if the superintendent and

teachers were requested to keep a strict eye on her, and, above

all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to deceit. I

mention this in your hearing, Jane, that you may not attempt to

impose on Mr. Brocklehurst."

Well might I dread, well might I dislike Mrs. Reed; for it was

her nature to wound me cruelly; never was I happy in her presence;

however carefully I obeyed, however strenuously I strove to please

her, my efforts were still repulsed and repaid by such sentences

as the above. Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut

me to the heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating

hope from the new phase of existence which she destined me to

enter; I felt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that

she was sowing aversion and unkindness along my future path; I saw

myself transformed under Mr. Brocklehurst's eye into an artful,

noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the injury?

"Nothing, indeed," thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, and

hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.

"Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child," said Mr. Brocklehurst;

"it is akin to falsehood, and all liars will have their portion in

the lake burning with fire and brimstone; she shall, however, be

watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers."

"I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects,"

continued my benefactress; "to be made useful, to be kept humble:

as for the vacations, she will, with your permission, spend them

always at Lowood."

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

Brocklehurst. "Humility is a Christian grace, and one peculiarly

appropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore, direct that

especial care shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them.

I have studied how best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment

of pride; and, only the other day, I had a pleasing proof of my

success. My second daughter, Augusta, went with her mama to visit

the school, and on her return she exclaimed: 'Oh, dear papa,

how quiet and plain all the girls at Lowood look, with their hair

combed behind their ears, and their long pinafores, and those little

holland pockets outside their frocks -- they are almost like poor

people's children! and,' said she, 'they looked at my dress and

mama's, as if they had never seen a silk gown before.'"

"This is the state of things I quite approve," returned Mrs.

Reed; "had I sought all England over, I could scarcely have found

a system more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency,

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

"Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it has

been observed in every arrangement connected with the establishment

of Lowood: plain fare, simple attire, unsophisticated accommodations,

hardy and active habits; such is the order of the day in the house

and its inhabitants."

"Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received

as a pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to her

position and prospects?"

"Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of chosen

plants, and I trust she will show herself grateful for the inestimable

privilege of her election."

"I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for,

I assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility

that was becoming too irksome."

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

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

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

sooner. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a

new girl, so that there will he no difficulty about receiving her.

Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst,

and to Augusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst."

"I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the 'Child's

Guide,' read it with prayer, especially that part containing 'An

account of the awfully sudden death of Martha G -, a naughty child

addicted to falsehood and deceit.'"

With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet

sewn in a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence;

she was sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed might be at that

time some six or seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust frame,

square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout,

not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being

much developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and

prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her light

eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was dark and

opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell

-- illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager;

her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control;

her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to

scorn; she dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to

set off handsome attire.

Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined

her figure; I perused her features. In my hand I held the

tract containing the sudden death of the Liar, to which narrative

my attention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning. What

had just passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me to Mr.

Brocklehurst; the whole tenor of their conversation, was recent,

raw, and stinging in my mind; I had felt every word as acutely as

I had heard it plainly, and a passion of resentment fomented now

within me.

Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine, her

fingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements.

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

look or something else must have struck her as offensive, for she

spoke with extreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went

to the door; I came back again; I walked to the window, across the

room, then close up to her.

SPEAK I must: I had been trodden on severely, and MUST turn: but

how? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist?

I gathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence -

"I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I

declare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in

the world except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may

give to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and

not I."

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

continued to dwell freezingly on mine.

"What more have you to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in

which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as

is ordinarily used to a child.

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

Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement,

I continued -

"I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you

aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when

I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you

treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and

that you treated me with miserable cruelty."

"How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?"

"How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the TRUTH. You

think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love

or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall

remember how you thrust me back -- roughly and violently thrust

me back -- into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying

day; though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating

with distress, 'Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!' And that

punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me

-- knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me

questions, this exact tale. People think you a good woman, but

you are bad, hard- hearted. YOU are deceitful!"

Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult,

with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It

seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled

out into unhoped-for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment:

Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee;

she was lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even

twisting her face as if she would cry.

"Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why

do you tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?"

"No, Mrs. Reed."

"Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire

to be your friend."

"Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a

deceitful disposition; and I'll let everybody at Lowood know what

you are, and what you have done."

"Jane, you don't understand these things: children must be corrected

for their faults."

"Deceit is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice.

"But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow: and now return

to the nursery -- there's a dear -- and lie down a little."

"I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon,

Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here."

"I will indeed send her to school soon," murmured Mrs. Reed sotto

voce; and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment.

I was left there alone -- winner of the field. It was the hardest

battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood

awhile on the rug, where Mr. Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed

my conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt

elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the

accelerated throb of my pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its

elders, as I had done; cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled

play, as I had given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pang

of remorse and the chill of reaction. A ridge of lighted heath,

alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a meet emblem of my

mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed: the same ridge, black

and blasted after the flames are dead, would have represented as

meetly my subsequent condition, when half-an-hour's silence and

reflection had shown me the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness

of my hated and hating position.

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic

wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour,

metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.

Willingly would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed's pardon; but

I knew, partly from experience and partly from instinct, that was

the way to make her repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting

every turbulent impulse of my nature.

I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fierce

speaking; fain find nourishment for some less fiendish feeling than

that of sombre indignation. I took a book -- some Arabian tales;

I sat down and endeavoured to read. I could make no sense of

the subject; my own thoughts swam always between me and the page

I had usually found fascinating. I opened the glass-door in the

breakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frost

reigned, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered

my head and arms with the skirt of my frock, and went out to walk

in a part of the plantation which was quite sequestrated; but I

found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, the

congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds in

heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate, and

looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the

short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a

most opaque sky, "onding on snaw," canopied all; thence flakes felt

it intervals, which settled on the hard path and on the hoary lea

without melting. I stood, a wretched child enough, whispering to

myself over and over again, "What shall I do? -- what shall I do?"

All at once I heard a clear voice call, "Miss Jane! where are you?

Come to lunch!"

It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light

step came tripping down the path.

"You naughty little thing!" she said. "Why don't you come when

you are called?"

Bessie's presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been

brooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat

cross. The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs.

Reed, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid's transitory

anger; and I WAS disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of

heart. I just put my two arms round her and said, "Come, Bessie!

don't scold."

The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated

to indulge in: somehow it pleased her.

"You are a strange child, Miss Jane," she said, as she looked down

at me; "a little roving, solitary thing: and you are going to

school, I suppose?"

I nodded.

"And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?"

"What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me."

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

should be bolder."

"What! to get more knocks?"

"Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that's certain. My mother

said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like

a little one of her own to be in your place. -- Now, come in, and

I've some good news for you."

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

"Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me!

Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going

out to tea this afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll

ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then you shall help me to

look over your drawers; for I am soon to pack your trunk. Missis

intends you to leave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose

what toys you like to take with you."

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

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

afraid of me. Don't start when I chance to speak rather sharply;

it's so provoking."

"I don't think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie, because

I have got used to you, and I shall soon have another set of people

to dread."

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

"As you do, Bessie?"

"I don't dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of

all the others."

"You don't show it."

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

What makes you so venturesome and hardy?"

"Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides" -- I was going

to say something about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed,

but on second thoughts I considered it better to remain silent on

that head.

"And so you're glad to leave me?"

"Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I'm rather sorry."

"Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I

dare say now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn't give it

me: you'd say you'd RATHER not."

"I'll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down." Bessie stooped;

we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite

comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the

evening Bessie told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang

me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of

sunshine.

CHAPTER V

Five o'clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of

January, when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me

already up and nearly dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before

her entrance, and had washed my face, and put on my clothes by the

light of a half-moon just setting, whose rays streamed through the

narrow window near my crib. I was to leave Gateshead that day by

a coach which passed the lodge gates at six a.m. Bessie was the

only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where

she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can eat when

excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I. Bessie, having

pressed me in vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled milk and

bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up some biscuits in a paper

and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse

and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the

nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed's bedroom, she said, "Will you go

in and bid Missis good-bye?"

"No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone

down to supper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or

my cousins either; and she told me to remember that she had always

been my best friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her

accordingly."

"What did you say, Miss?"

"Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from

her to the wall."

"That was wrong, Miss Jane."

"It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend:

she has been my foe."

"O Miss Jane! don't say so!"

"Good-bye to Gateshead!" cried I, as we passed through the hall

and went out at the front door.

The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern,

whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent

thaw. Raw and chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered

as I hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter's

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

her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening

before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of

six, and shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of

wheels announced the coming coach; I went to the door and watched

its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.

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

"Yes."

"And how far is it?"

"Fifty miles."

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

so far alone."

The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses

and its top laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly

urged haste; my trunk was hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie's

neck, to which I clung with kisses.

"Be sure and take good care of her," cried she to the guard, as he

lifted me into the inside.

"Ay, ay!" was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed

"All right," and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and

Gateshead; thus whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed,

remote and mysterious regions.

I remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day

seemed to me of a preternatural length, and that we appeared to

travel over hundreds of miles of road. We passed through several

towns, and in one, a very large one, the coach stopped; the horses

were taken out, and the passengers alighted to dine. I was carried

into an inn, where the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but, as

I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace

at each end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red

gallery high up against the wall filled with musical instruments.

Here I walked about for a long time, feeling very strange, and

mortally apprehensive of some one coming in and kidnapping me; for

I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having frequently figured

in Bessie's fireside chronicles. At last the guard returned; once

more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector mounted his own

seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the "stony

street" of L-.

The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into

dusk, I began to feel that we were getting very far indeed from

Gateshead: we ceased to pass through towns; the country changed;

great grey hills heaved up round the horizon: as twilight deepened,

we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long after night had

overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.

Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered

when the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was

open, and a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her

face and dress by the light of the lamps.

"Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?" she asked. I

answered "Yes," and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down,

and the coach instantly drove away.

I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and

motion of the coach: Gathering my faculties, I looked about me.

Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly

discerned a wall before me and a door open in it; through this door

I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked it behind her.

There was now visible a house or houses -- for the building spread

far -- with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up

a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door;

then the servant led me through a passage into a room with a fire,

where she left me alone.

I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked

round; there was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth

showed, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining

mahogany furniture: it was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid

as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was

puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the

door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another

followed close behind.

The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale

and large forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl,

her countenance was grave, her bearing erect.

"The child is very young to be sent alone," said she, putting

her candle down on the table. She considered me attentively

for a minute or two, then further added -

"She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you

tired?" she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.

"A little, ma'am."

"And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she

goes to bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left

your parents to come to school, my little girl?"

I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long

they had been dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether

I could read, write, and sew a little: then she touched my cheek

gently with her forefinger, and saying, "She hoped I should be a

good child," dismissed me along with Miss Miller.

The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went

with me appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by

her voice, look, and air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in

complexion, though of a careworn countenance; hurried in gait and

action, like one who had always a multiplicity of tasks on hand:

she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was, an

under-teacher. Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment,

from passage to passage, of a large and irregular building; till,

emerging from the total and somewhat dreary silence pervading that

portion of the house we had traversed, we came upon the hum of many

voices, and presently entered a wide, long room, with great deal

tables, two at each end, on each of which burnt a pair of candles,

and seated all round on benches, a congregation of girls of every

age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the

dips, their number to me appeared countless, though not in reality

exceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks

of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It was the hour of

study; they were engaged in conning over their to- morrow's task,

and the hum I had heard was the combined result of their whispered

repetitions.

Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door,

then walking up to the top of the long room she cried out -

"Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away! Four tall

girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered the

books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command -

"Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!"

The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray,

with portions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and

a pitcher of water and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions

were handed round; those who liked took a draught of the water,

the mug being common to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for

I was thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue

rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that it was

a thin oaten cake shaved into fragments.

The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes

filed off, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with

weariness, I scarcely noticed what sort of a place the bedroom was,

except that, like the schoolroom, I saw it was very long. To-night

I was to be Miss Miller's bed-fellow; she helped me to undress:

when laid down I glanced at the long rows of beds, each of which

was quickly filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the single

light was extinguished, and amidst silence and complete darkness

I fell asleep.

The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream; I only

once awoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain

fall in torrents, and to be sensible that Miss Miller had taken

her place by my side. When I again unclosed my eyes, a loud bell

was ringing; the girls were up and dressing; day had not yet begun

to dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I too rose

reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could

for shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which

did not occur soon, as there was but one basin to six girls, on

the stands down the middle of the room. Again the bell rang: all

formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs

and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers

were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out -

"Form classes!"

A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller

repeatedly exclaimed, "Silence!" and "Order!" When it subsided,

I saw them all drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs,

placed at the four tables; all held books in their hands, and a great

book, like a Bible, lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A

pause of some seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum

of numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this

indefinite sound.

A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room,

each walked to a table and took her seat. Miss Miller assumed the

fourth vacant chair, which was that nearest the door, and around

which the smallest of the children were assembled: to this inferior

class I was called, and placed at the bottom of it.

Business now began, the day's Collect was repeated, then certain

texts of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted

reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted an hour. By

the time that exercise was terminated, day had fully dawned. The

indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: the classes

were marshalled and marched into another room to breakfast: how

glad I was to behold a prospect of getting something to eat! I

was now nearly sick from inanition, having taken so little the day

before.

The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables

smoked basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent

forth an odour far from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation

of discontent when the fumes of the repast met the nostrils

of those destined to swallow it; from the van of the procession,

the tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered words -

"Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!"

"Silence!" ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of

the upper teachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed,

but of somewhat morose aspect, who installed herself at the top

of one table, while a more buxom lady presided at the other. I

looked in vain for her I had first seen the night before; she was

not visible: Miss Miller occupied the foot of the table where I sat,

and a strange, foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher,

as I afterwards found, took the corresponding seat at the other

board. A long grace was said and a hymn sung; then a servant

brought in some tea for the teachers, and the meal began.

Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my

portion without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger

blunted, I perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt

porridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes; famine itself soon

sickens over it. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw each girl

taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases the effort

was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted.

Thanks being returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn

chanted, the refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one

of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I saw one teacher

take a basin of the porridge and taste it; she looked at the others;

all their countenances expressed displeasure, and one of

them, the stout one, whispered -

"Abominable stuff! How shameful!"

A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which

the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it

seemed to be permitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used

their privilege. The whole conversation ran on the breakfast,

which one and all abused roundly. Poor things! it was the sole

consolation they had. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the

room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke with serious

and sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced

by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly;

but she made no great effort to cheek the general wrath; doubtless

she shared in it.

A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left

her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried -

"Silence! To your seats!"

Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was

resolved into order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel

clamour of tongues. The upper teachers now punctually resumed their

posts: but still, all seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the

sides of the room, the eighty girls sat motionless and erect; a

quaint assemblage they appeared, all with plain locks combed from

their faces, not a curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and

surrounded by a narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets

of holland (shaped something like a Highlander's purse) tied in front

of their frocks, and destined to serve the purpose of a work-bag:

all, too, wearing woollen stockings and country-made shoes, fastened

with brass buckles. Above twenty of those clad in this costume

were full-grown girls, or rather young women; it suited them ill,

and gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest.

I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the

teachers -- none of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one

was a little coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner

harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple,

weather- beaten, and over-worked -- when, as my eye wandered from

face to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by

a common spring.

What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled.

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

all eyes were now turned to one point, mine followed the general

direction, and encountered the personage who had received me last

night. She stood at the bottom of the long room, on the hearth;

for there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the two rows of girls

silently and gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask her

a question, and having received her answer, went back to

her place, and said aloud -

"Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!"

While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved

slowly up the room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of

veneration, for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe with which

my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked

tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a benignant light in their

iris, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the

whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of

a very dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the

fashion of those times, when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets

were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of the day, was of purple

cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet;

a gold watch (watches were not so common then as now) shone at

her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture, refined

features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and

carriage, and he will have, at least, as clearly as words can give

it, a correct idea of the exterior of Miss Temple -- Maria Temple,

as I afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted to

me to carry to church.

The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken

her seat before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables,

summoned the first class round her, and commenced giving a lesson

on geography; the lower classes were called by the teachers:

repetitions in history, grammar, &c., went on for an hour; writing

and arithmetic succeeded, and music lessons were given by Miss

Temple to some of the elder girls. The duration of each lesson

was measured by the clock, which at last struck twelve. The

superintendent rose -

"I have a word to address to the pupils," said she.

The tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking

forth, but it sank at her voice. She went on -

"You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you

must be hungry: -- I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese

shall be served to all."

The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.

"It is to be done on my responsibility," she added, in an explanatory

tone to them, and immediately afterwards left the room.

The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to

the high delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order

was now given "To the garden!" Each put on a coarse straw bonnet,

with strings of coloured calico, and a cloak of grey frieze. I was

similarly equipped, and, following the stream, I made my way into

the open air.

The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as

to exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down

one side, and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into

scores of little beds: these beds were assigned as gardens for

the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had an owner. When full of

flowers they would doubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter

end of January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered

as I stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor

exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow

fog; all under foot was still soaking wet with the floods of

yesterday. The stronger among the girls ran about and engaged in

active games, but sundry pale and thin ones herded together for

shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as the dense

mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the

sound of a hollow cough.

As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice

of me; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation

I was accustomed; it did not oppress me much. I leant against a

pillar of the verandah, drew my grey mantle close about me, and,

trying to forget the cold which nipped me without, and the unsatisfied

hunger which gnawed me within, delivered myself up to the employment

of watching and thinking. My reflections were too undefined

and fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was;

Gateshead and my past life seemed floated away to an immeasurable

distance; the present was vague and strange, and of the future I

could form no conjecture. I looked round the convent-like garden,

and then up at the house -- a large building, half of which seemed

grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part, containing

the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed

windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over

the door bore this inscription:-

"Lowood Institution. -- This portion was rebuilt A.D. -- , by Naomi

Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county."

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good

works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." -- St. Matt.

v. 16.

I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation

belonged to them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import.

I was still pondering the signification of "Institution," and

endeavouring to make out a connection between the first words and

the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a cough close behind me

made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near;

she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent:

from where I stood I could see the title -- it was "Rasselas;" a

name that struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. In

turning a leaf she happened to look up, and I said to her directly -

"Is your book interesting?" I had already formed the intention of

asking her to lend it to me some day.

"I like it," she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during

which she examined me.

"What is it about?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the

hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step

was contrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation

touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading,

though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or

comprehend the serious or substantial.

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

I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were

less taking than the title: "Rasselas" looked dull to my trifling

taste; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright

variety seemed spread over the closely-printed pages. I returned

it to her; she received it quietly, and without saying anything

she was about to relapse into her former studious mood: again

I ventured to disturb her -

"Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means?

What is Lowood Institution?"

"This house where you are come to live."

"And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different

from other schools?"

"It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of

us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not

either your father or your mother dead?"

"Both died before I can remember."

"Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents,

and this is called an institution for educating orphans."

"Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?"

"We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each."

"Then why do they call us charity-children?"

"Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and

the deficiency is supplied by subscription."

"Who subscribes?"

"Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood

and in London."

"Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?"

"The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet

records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here."

"Why?"

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

"Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a

watch, and who said we were to have some bread and cheese?"

"To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to

Mr. Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our

food and all our clothes."

"Does he live here?"

"No -- two miles off, at a large hall."

"Is he a good man?"

"He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good."

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

"Yes."

"And what are the other teachers called?"

"The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the

work, and cuts out -- for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and

pelisses, and everything; the little one with black hair is Miss

Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and hears the second

class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl, and has a

pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame

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

"Do you like the teachers?"

"Well enough."

"Do you like the little black one, and the Madame -? -- I cannot

pronounce her name as you do."

"Miss Scatcherd is hasty -- you must take care not to offend her;

Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person."

"But Miss Temple is the best -- isn't she?"

"Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest,

because she knows far more than they do."

"Have you been long here?"

"Two years."

"Are you an orphan?"

"My mother is dead."

"Are you happy here?"

"You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough

for the present: now I want to read."

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

the house. The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely

more appetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast:

the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose

a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist

of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and

cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful

was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered

within myself whether every day's fare would be like this.

After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons

recommenced, and were continued till five o'clock.

The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl

with whom I had conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace

by Miss Scatcherd from a history class, and sent to stand in the

middle of the large schoolroom. The punishment seemed to me in

a high degree ignominious, especially for so great a girl -- she

looked thirteen or upwards. I expected she would show signs of

great distress and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor

blushed: composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of

all eyes. "How can she bear it so quietly -- so firmly?" I asked

of myself. "Were I in her place, it seems to me I should wish the

earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were thinking

of something beyond her punishment -- beyond her situation: of

something not round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams

-- is she in a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor,

but I am sure they do not see it -- her sight seems turned in, gone

down into her heart: she is looking at what she can remember, I

believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a

girl she is -- whether good or naughty."

Soon after five p.m. we had another meal, consisting of a small

mug of coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my

bread and drank my coffee with relish; but I should have been glad

of as much more -- I was still hungry. Half-an-hour's recreation

succeeded, then study; then the glass of water and the piece of

oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first day at Lowood.

CHAPTER VI

The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by

rushlight; but this morning we were obliged to dispense with the

ceremony of washing; the water in the pitchers was frozen. A change

had taken place in the weather the preceding evening, and a keen

north-east wind, whistling through the crevices of our bedroom

windows all night long, had made us shiver in our beds, and turned

the contents of the ewers to ice.

Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-reading

was over, I felt ready to perish with cold. Breakfast-time came

at last, and this morning the porridge was not burnt; the quality

was eatable, the quantity small. How small my portion seemed! I

wished it had been doubled.

In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class,

and regular tasks and occupations were assigned me: hitherto, I

had only been a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood; I was now

to become an actor therein. At first, being little accustomed to

learn by heart, the lessons appeared to me both long and difficult;

the frequent change from task to task, too, bewildered me; and

I was glad when, about three o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith

put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long, together with

needle, thimble, &c., and sent me to sit in a quiet corner of the

schoolroom, with directions to hem the same. At that hour most of

the others were sewing likewise; but one class still stood round

Miss Scatcherd's chair reading, and as all was quiet, the subject

of their lessons could be heard, together with the manner in which

each girl acquitted herself, and the animadversions or commendations

of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English history:

among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah: at

the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of

the class, but for some error of pronunciation, or some inattention

to stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that

obscure position, Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object

of constant notice: she was continually addressing to her such

phrases as the following:-

"Burns" (such it seems was her name: the girls here were all

called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere), "Burns, you are

standing on the side of your shoe; turn your toes out immediately."

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

I insist on your holding your head up; I will not have you before

me in that attitude," &c. &c.

A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed

and the girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign

of Charles I., and there were sundry questions about tonnage and

poundage and ship-money, which most of them appeared unable to

answer; still, every little difficulty was solved instantly when

it reached Burns: her memory seemed to have retained the substance

of the whole lesson, and she was ready with answers on every point.

I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd would praise her attention;

but, instead of that, she suddenly cried out -

"You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your nails

this morning!"

Burns made no answer: I wondered at her silence. "Why," thought

I, "does she not explain that she could neither clean her nails

nor wash her face, as the water was frozen?"

My attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring me to hold a

skein of thread: while she was winding it, she talked to me from

time to time, asking whether I had ever been at school before,

whether I could mark, stitch, knit, &c.; till she dismissed me,

I could not pursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd's movements.

When I returned to my seat, that lady was just delivering an order

of which I did not catch the import; but Burns immediately left

the class, and going into the small inner room where the books were

kept, returned in half a minute, carrying in her hand a bundle of

twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she presented

to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtesy; then she quietly, and

without being told, unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher instantly

and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with the bunch

of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns' eye; and, while I paused from

my sewing, because my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a

sentiment of unavailing and impotent anger, not a feature of her

pensive face altered its ordinary expression.

"Hardened girl!" exclaimed Miss Scatcherd; "nothing can correct

you of your slatternly habits: carry the rod away."

Burns obeyed: I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the

book-closet; she was just putting back her handkerchief into her

pocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek.

The play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction

of the day at Lowood: the bit of bread, the draught of coffee

swallowed at five o'clock had revived vitality, if it had not

satisfied hunger: the long restraint of the day was slackened;

the schoolroom felt warmer than in the morning -- its fires being

allowed to burn a little more brightly, to supply, in some measure,

the place of candles, not yet introduced: the ruddy gloaming, the

licensed uproar, the confusion of many voices gave one a welcome

sense of liberty.

On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog

her pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables

and laughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely:

when I passed the windows, I now and then lifted a blind, and looked

out; it snowed fast, a drift was already forming against the lower

panes; putting my ear close to the window, I could distinguish from

the gleeful tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the wind outside.

Probably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this

would have been the hour when I should most keenly have regretted

the separation; that wind would then have saddened my heart; this

obscure chaos would have disturbed my peace! as it was, I derived

from both a strange excitement, and reckless and feverish, I wished

the wind to howl more wildly, the gloom to deepen to darkness, and

the confusion to rise to clamour.

Jumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made my way to

one of the fire-places; there, kneeling by the high wire fender,

I found Burns, absorbed, silent, abstracted from all round her by

the companionship of a book, which she read by the dim glare of

the embers.

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

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

And in five minutes more she shut it up. I was glad of this.

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

her on the floor.

"What is your name besides Burns?"

"Helen."

"Do you come a long way from here?"

"I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland."

"Will you ever go back?"

"I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future."

"You must wish to leave Lowood?"

"No! why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education; and

it would be of no use going away until I have attained that object."

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

"Cruel? Not at all! She is severe: she dislikes my faults."

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

her. If she struck me with that rod, I should get it from her

hand; I should break it under her nose."

"Probably you would do nothing of the sort: but if you did, Mr.

Brocklehurst would expel you from the school; that would be a great

grief to your relations. It is far better to endure patiently a

smart which nobody feels but yourself, than to commit a hasty action

whose evil consequences will extend to all connected with you; and

besides, the Bible bids us return good for evil."

"But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and to be sent to

stand in the middle of a room full of people; and you are such a

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

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

it is weak and silly to say you CANNOT BEAR what it is your fate

to be required to bear."

I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of

endurance; and still less could I understand or sympathise with

the forbearance she expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that

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

suspected she might be right and I wrong; but I would not ponder

the matter deeply; like Felix, I put it off to a more convenient

season.

"You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem

very good."

"Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am, as Miss

Scatcherd said, slatternly; I seldom put, and never keep, things,

in order; I am careless; I forget rules; I read when I should

learn my lessons; I have no method; and sometimes I say, like you,

I cannot BEAR to be subjected to systematic arrangements. This

is all very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally neat,

punctual, and particular."

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

addition: she kept silence.

"Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?"

At the utterance of Miss Temple's name, a soft smile flitted over

her grave face.

"Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe to any

one, even the worst in the school: she sees my errors, and tells

me of them gently; and, if I do anything worthy of praise, she gives

me my meed liberally. One strong proof of my wretchedly defective

nature is, that even her expostulations, so mild, so rational, have

not influence to cure me of my faults; and even her praise, though

I value it most highly, cannot stimulate me to continued care and

foresight."

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

"For YOU I have no doubt it is. I observed you in your class this

morning, and saw you were closely attentive: your thoughts never

seemed to wander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned

you. Now, mine continually rove away; when I should be listening

to Miss Scatcherd, and collecting all she says with assiduity, often

I lose the very sound of her voice; I fall into a sort of dream.

Sometimes I think I am in Northumberland, and that the noises I

hear round me are the bubbling of a little brook which runs through

Deepden, near our house; -- then, when it comes to my turn to reply,

I have to be awakened; and having heard nothing of what was read

for listening to the visionary brook, I have no answer ready."

"Yet how well you replied this afternoon."

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

interested me. This afternoon, instead of dreaming of Deepden, I

was wondering how a man who wished to do right could act so unjustly

and unwisely as Charles the First sometimes did; and I thought what

a pity it was that, with his integrity and conscientiousness, he

could see no farther than the prerogatives of the crown. If he had

but been able to look to a distance, and see how what they call the

spirit of the age was tending! Still, I like Charles -- I respect

him -- I pity him, poor murdered king! Yes, his enemies were the

worst: they shed blood they had no right to shed. How dared they

kill him!"

Helen was talking to herself now: she had forgotten I could not

very well understand her -- that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of

the subject she discussed. I recalled her to my level.

"And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts wander then?"

"No, certainly, not often; because Miss Temple has generally something

to say which is newer than my own reflections; her language is

singularly agreeable to me, and the information she communicates

is often just what I wished to gain."

"Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good?"

"Yes, in a passive way: I make no effort; I follow as inclination

guides me. There is no merit in such goodness."

"A great deal: you are good to those who are good to you. It is

all I ever desire to be. If people were always kind and obedient

to those who are cruel and unjust, the wicked people would have

it all their own way: they would never feel afraid, and so they

would never alter, but would grow worse and worse. When we are

struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard;

I am sure we should -- so hard as to teach the person who struck

us never to do it again."

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

you are but a little untaught girl."

"But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, whatever I do

to please them, persist in disliking me; I must resist those who

punish me unjustly. It is as natural as that I should love those

who show me affection, or submit to punishment when I feel it is

deserved."

"Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but Christians and

civilised nations disown it."

"How? I don't understand."

"It is not violence that best overcomes hate -- nor vengeance that

most certainly heals injury."

"What then?"

"Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says, and how He

acts; make His word your rule, and His conduct your example."

"What does He say?"

"Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them that

hate you and despitefully use you."

"Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do; I should bless

her son John, which is impossible."

In her turn, Helen Burns asked me to explain, and I proceeded

forthwith to pour out, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings

and resentments. Bitter and truculent when excited, I spoke as I

felt, without reserve or softening.

Helen heard me patiently to the end: I expected she would then

make a remark, but she said nothing.

"Well," I asked impatiently, "is not Mrs. Reed a hard-hearted, bad

woman?"

"She has been unkind to you, no doubt; because you see, she

dislikes your cast of character, as Miss Scatcherd does mine; but

how minutely you remember all she has done and said to you! What

a singularly deep impression her injustice seems to have made

on your heart! No ill-usage so brands its record on my feelings.

Would you not be happier if you tried to forget her severity,

together with the passionate emotions it excited? Life appears

to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering

wrongs. We are, and must be, one and all, burdened with faults in

this world: but the time will soon come when, I trust, we shall

put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies; when debasement

and sin will fall from us with this cumbrous frame of flesh, and

only the spark of the spirit will remain, -- the impalpable principle

of light and thought, pure as when it left the Creator to inspire

the creature: whence it came it will return; perhaps again to

be communicated to some being higher than man -- perhaps to pass

through gradations of glory, from the pale human soul to brighten

to the seraph! Surely it will never, on the contrary, be suffered

to degenerate from man to fiend? No; I cannot believe that: I

hold another creed: which no one ever taught me, and which I seldom

mention; but in which I delight, and to which I cling: for it

extends hope to all: it makes Eternity a rest -- a mighty home, not

a terror and an abyss. Besides, with this creed, I can so clearly

distinguish between the criminal and his crime; I can so sincerely

forgive the first while I abhor the last: with this creed revenge

never worries my heart, degradation never too deeply disgusts me,

injustice never crushes me too low: I live in calm, looking to

the end."

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

this sentence. I saw by her look she wished no longer to talk

to me, but rather to converse with her own thoughts. She was not

allowed much time for meditation: a monitor, a great rough girl,

presently came up, exclaiming in a strong Cumberland accent -

"Helen Burns, if you don't go and put your drawer in order, and

fold up your work this minute, I'll tell Miss Scatcherd to come

and look at it!"

Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up, obeyed the monitor

without reply as without delay.

CHAPTER VII

My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden

age either; it comprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in

habituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of

failure in these points harassed me worse than the physical hardships

of my lot; though these were no trifles.

During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows,

and, after their melting, the almost impassable roads, prevented

our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to go to church; but

within these limits we had to pass an hour every day in the open

air. Our clothing was insufficient to protect us from the severe

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

there: our ungloved hands became numbed and covered with chilblains,

as were our feet: I remember well the distracting irritation I

endured from this cause every evening, when my feet inflamed; and

the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw, and stiff toes into my shoes

in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food was distressing:

with the keen appetites of growing children, we had scarcely

sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this deficiency

of nourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on the younger

pupils: whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they

would coax or menace the little ones out of their portion. Many

a time I have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of

brown bread distributed at tea-time; and after relinquishing to a

third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the

remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by

the exigency of hunger.

Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk

two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated.

We set out cold, we arrived at church colder: during the morning

service we became almost paralysed. It was too far to return

to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in the same

penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was served

round between the services.

At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and

hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of

snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces.

I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our

drooping line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered,

gathered close about her, and encouraging us, by precept and

example, to keep up our spirits, and march forward, as she said,

"like stalwart soldiers." The other teachers, poor things, were

generally themselves too much dejected to attempt the task of

cheering others.

How we longed for the light and heat of a blazing fire when we got

back! But, to the little ones at least, this was denied: each

hearth in the schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a double

row of great girls, and behind them the younger children crouched

in groups, wrapping their starved arms in their pinafores.

A little solace came at tea-time, in the shape of a double ration

of bread -- a whole, instead of a half, slice -- with the delicious

addition of a thin scrape of butter: it was the hebdomadal treat

to which we all looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally

contrived to reserve a moiety of this bounteous repast for myself;

but the remainder I was invariably obliged to part with.

The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church

Catechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St.

Matthew; and in listening to a long sermon, read by Miss Miller,

whose irrepressible yawns attested her weariness. A frequent

interlude of these performances was the enactment of the part of

Eutychus by some half-dozen of little girls, who, overpowered with

sleep, would fall down, if not out of the third loft, yet off the

fourth form, and be taken up half dead. The remedy was, to thrust

them forward into the centre of the schoolroom, and oblige them

to stand there till the sermon was finished. Sometimes their

feet failed them, and they sank together in a heap; they were then

propped up with the monitors' high stools.

I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst; and indeed

that gentleman was from home during the greater part of the first

month after my arrival; perhaps prolonging his stay with his friend

the archdeacon: his absence was a relief to me. I need not say

that I had my own reasons for dreading his coming: but come he

did at last.

One afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood), as I was sitting

with a slate in my hand, puzzling over a sum in long division, my

eyes, raised in abstraction to the window, caught sight of a figure

just passing: I recognised almost instinctively that gaunt outline;

and when, two minutes after, all the school, teachers included,

rose en masse, it was not necessary for me to look up in order to

ascertain whose entrance they thus greeted. A long stride measured

the schoolroom, and presently beside Miss Temple, who herself

had risen, stood the same black column which had frowned on me so

ominously from the hearthrug of Gateshead. I now glanced sideways

at this piece of architecture. Yes, I was right: it was Mr.

Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a surtout, and looking longer, narrower,

and more rigid than ever.

I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition; too

well I remembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my

disposition, &c.; the promise pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst to apprise

Miss Temple and the teachers of my vicious nature. All along

I had been dreading the fulfilment of this promise, -- I had been

looking out daily for the "Coming Man," whose information respecting

my past life and conversation was to brand me as a bad child for

ever: now there he was.

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

not doubt he was making disclosures of my villainy; and I watched

her eye with painful anxiety, expecting every moment to see its

dark orb turn on me a glance of repugnance and contempt. I listened

too; and as I happened to be seated quite at the top of the room,

I caught most of what he said: its import relieved me from immediate

apprehension.

"I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will do;

it struck me that it would be just of the quality for the calico

chemises, and I sorted the needles to match. You may tell Miss

Smith that I forgot to make a memorandum of the darning needles,

but she shall have some papers sent in next week; and she is not,

on any account, to give out more than one at a time to each pupil:

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

O ma'am! I wish the woollen stockings were better looked to! --

when I was here last, I went into the kitchen-garden and examined

the clothes drying on the line; there was a quantity of black hose

in a very bad state of repair: from the size of the holes in them

I was sure they had not been well mended from time to time."

He paused.

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

"And, ma'am," he continued, "the laundress tells me some of the

girls have two clean tuckers in the week: it is too much; the

rules limit them to one."

"I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and Catherine

Johnstone were invited to take tea with some friends at Lowton

last Thursday, and I gave them leave to put on clean tuckers for

the occasion."

Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.

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

occur too often. And there is another thing which surprised me;

I find, in settling accounts with the housekeeper, that a lunch,

consisting of bread and cheese, has twice been served out to

the girls during the past fortnight. How is this? I looked over

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

introduced this innovation? and by what authority?"

"I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir," replied Miss

Temple: "the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could

not possibly eat it; and I dared not allow them to remain fasting

till dinner-time."

"Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan in bringing

up these girls is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury and

indulgence, but to render them hardy, patient, self-denying. Should

any little accidental disappointment of the appetite occur, such

as the spoiling of a meal, the under or the over dressing of a

dish, the incident ought not to be neutralised by replacing with

something more delicate the comfort lost, thus pampering the body

and obviating the aim of this institution; it ought to be improved

to the spiritual edification of the pupils, by encouraging them

to evince fortitude under temporary privation. A brief address on

those occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judicious instructor

would take the opportunity of referring to the sufferings of the

primitive Christians; to the torments of martyrs; to the exhortations

of our blessed Lord Himself, calling upon His disciples to take

up their cross and follow Him; to His warnings that man shall not

live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the

mouth of God; to His divine consolations, "If ye suffer hunger or

thirst for My sake, happy are ye." Oh, madam, when you put bread

and cheese, instead of burnt porridge, into these children's mouths,

you may indeed feed their vile bodies, but you little think how

you starve their immortal souls!"

Mr. Brocklehurst again paused -- perhaps overcome by his feelings.

Miss Temple had looked down when he first began to speak to her;

but she now gazed straight before her, and her face, naturally pale

as marble, appeared to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of

that material; especially her mouth, closed as if it would have

required a sculptor's chisel to open it, and her brow settled

gradually into petrified severity.

Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands

behind his back, majestically surveyed the whole school. Suddenly

his eye gave a blink, as if it had met something that either dazzled

or shocked its pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents

than he had hitherto used -

"Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what -- WHAT is that girl with curled

hair? Red hair, ma'am, curled -- curled all over?" And extending

his cane he pointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he

did so.

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

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

Why, in defiance of every precept and principle of this house,

does she conform to the world so openly -- here in an evangelical,

charitable establishment -- as to wear her hair one mass of curls?"

"Julia's hair curls naturally," returned Miss Temple, still more

quietly.

"Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I wish

these girls to be the children of Grace: and why that abundance?

I have again and again intimated that I desire the hair to be

arranged closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Temple, that girl's hair

must be cut off entirely; I will send a barber to-morrow: and I

see others who have far too much of the excrescence -- that tall

girl, tell her to turn round. Tell all the first form to rise up

and direct their faces to the wall."

Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to smooth

away the involuntary smile that curled them; she gave the order,

however, and when the first class could take in what was required

of them, they obeyed. Leaning a little back on my bench, I could

see the looks and grimaces with which they commented on this

manoeuvre: it was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could not see them too;

he would perhaps have felt that, whatever he might do with the

outside of the cup and platter, the inside was further beyond his

interference than he imagined.

He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes,

then pronounced sentence. These words fell like the knell of doom -

"All those top-knots must be cut off."

Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate.

"Madam," he pursued, "I have a Master to serve whose kingdom is not

of this world: my mission is to mortify in these girls the lusts

of the flesh; to teach them to clothe themselves with shame-facedness

and sobriety, not with braided hair and costly apparel; and each

of the young persons before us has a string of hair twisted in

plaits which vanity itself might have woven; these, I repeat,

must be cut off; think of the time wasted, of -- "

Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies,

now entered the room. They ought to have come a little sooner to

have heard his lecture on dress, for they were splendidly attired

in velvet, silk, and furs. The two younger of the trio (fine girls

of sixteen and seventeen) had grey beaver hats, then in fashion,

shaded with ostrich plumes, and from under the brim of this graceful

head-dress fell a profusion of light tresses, elaborately curled;

the elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed with

ermine, and she wore a false front of French curls.

These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as Mrs.

and the Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted to seats of honour at the

top of the room. It seems they had come in the carriage with their

reverend relative, and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of

the room upstairs, while he transacted business with the housekeeper,

questioned the laundress, and lectured the superintendent. They

now proceeded to address divers remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith,

who was charged with the care of the linen and the inspection of

the dormitories: but I had no time to listen to what they said;

other matters called off and enchanted my attention.

Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst and

Miss Temple, I had not, at the same time, neglected precautions to

secure my personal safety; which I thought would be effected, if

I could only elude observation. To this end, I had sat well back

on the form, and while seeming to be busy with my sum, had held my

slate in such a manner as to conceal my face: I might have escaped

notice, had not my treacherous slate somehow happened to slip from

my hand, and falling with an obtrusive crash, directly drawn every

eye upon me; I knew it was all over now, and, as I stooped to pick

up the two fragments of slate, I rallied my forces for the worst.

It came.

"A careless girl!" said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after

-- "It is the new pupil, I perceive." And before I could draw

breath, "I must not forget I have a word to say respecting her."

Then aloud: how loud it seemed to me! "Let the child who broke

her slate come forward!"

Of my own accord I could not have stirred; I was paralysed: but

the two great girls who sit on each side of me, set me on my legs

and pushed me towards the dread judge, and then Miss Temple gently

assisted me to his very feet, and I caught her whispered counsel -

"Don't be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall not be

punished."

The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger.

"Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite," thought

I; and an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehurst, and Co.

bounded in my pulses at the conviction. I was no Helen Burns.

"Fetch that stool," said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high

one from which a monitor had just risen: it was brought.

"Place the child upon it."

And I was placed there, by whom I don't know: I was in no condition

to note particulars; I was only aware that they had hoisted me up

to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose, that he was within a yard

of me, and that a spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses

and a cloud of silvery plumage extended and waved below me.

Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed.

"Ladies," said he, turning to his family, "Miss Temple, teachers,

and children, you all see this girl?"

Of course they did; for I felt their eyes directed like burning-glasses

against my scorched skin.

"You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary

form of childhood; God has graciously given her the shape that He

has given to all of us; no signal deformity points her out as a

marked character. Who would think that the Evil One had already

found a servant and agent in her? Yet such, I grieve to say, is

the case."

A pause -- in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and

to feel that the Rubicon was passed; and that the trial, no longer

to be shirked, must be firmly sustained.

"My dear children," pursued the black marble clergyman, with pathos,

"this is a sad, a melancholy occasion; for it becomes my duty to

warn you, that this girl, who might be one of God's own lambs, is

a little castaway: not a member of the true flock, but evidently

an interloper and an alien. You must be on your guard against

her; you must shun her example; if necessary, avoid her company,

exclude her from your sports, and shut her out from your converse.

Teachers, you must watch her: keep your eyes on her movements,

weigh well her words, scrutinise her actions, punish her body to

save her soul: if, indeed, such salvation be possible, for (my

tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this child, the native

of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen who says its

prayers to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut -- this girl is --

a liar!"

Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in

perfect possession of my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts

produce their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics,

while the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two

younger ones whispered, "How shocking!" Mr. Brocklehurst resumed.

"This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable

lady who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own

daughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl

repaid by an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her

excellent patroness was obliged to separate her from her own young

ones, fearful lest her vicious example should contaminate their

purity: she has sent her here to be healed, even as the Jews

of old sent their diseased to the troubled pool of Bethesda; and,

teachers, superintendent, I beg of you not to allow the waters to

stagnate round her."

With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button

of his surtout, muttered something to his family, who rose, bowed

to Miss Temple, and then all the great people sailed in

state from the room. Turning at the door, my judge said -

"Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let no one

speak to her during the remainder of the day."

There was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could not bear

the shame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room,

was now exposed to general view on a pedestal of infamy. What

my sensations were no language can describe; but just as they all

rose, stifling my breath and constricting my throat, a girl came

up and passed me: in passing, she lifted her eyes. What a strange

light inspired them! What an extraordinary sensation that ray

sent through me! How the new feeling bore me up! It was as if a

martyr, a hero, had passed a slave or victim, and imparted strength

in the transit. I mastered the rising hysteria, lifted up my head,

and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen Burns asked some slight

question about her work of Miss Smith, was chidden for the triviality

of the inquiry, returned to her place, and smiled at me as she

again went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and I know that

it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it lit up

her marked lineaments, her thin face, her sunken grey eye, like a

reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen

Burns wore on her arm "the untidy badge;" scarcely an hour ago I

had heard her condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and

water on the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying

it out. Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there

on the disc of the clearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's

can only see those minute defects, and are blind to the full

brightness of the orb.

CHAPTER VIII

Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed,

and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to

descend: it was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on

the floor. The spell by which I had been so far supported began

to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the

grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the ground.

Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left

to myself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I

had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood: to make so

many friends, to earn respect and win affection. Already I had

made visible progress: that very morning I had reached the head

of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had

smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to

let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two

months longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils;

treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by

any; now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever

rise more?

"Never," I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing

out this wish in broken accents, some one approached: I started

up -- again Helen Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed

her coming up the long, vacant room; she brought my coffee and

bread.

"Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me,

feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present

condition. Helen regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not

now abate my agitation, though I tried hard; I continued to weep

aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees

with her arms, and rested her head upon them; in that attitude

she remained silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke -

"Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be

a liar?"

"Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard

you called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions."

"But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise

me."

"Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either

despises or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much."

"How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?"

"Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired

man: he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself

liked. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you would

have found enemies, declared or covert, all around you; as it is,

the greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers

and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly

feelings are concealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in

doing well, these feelings will ere long appear so much the more

evidently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane" -- she

paused.

"Well, Helen?" said I, putting my hand into hers: she

chafed my fingers gently to warm them, and went on -

"If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your

own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would

not be without friends."

"No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough:

if others don't love me I would rather die than live -- I cannot

bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some

real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly

love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or

to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse,

and let it dash its hoof at my chest -- "

"Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you

are too impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created

your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other

resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you.

Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible

world and a kingdom of spirits: that world is round us, for it is

everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned

to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote

us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures,

recognise our innocence (if innocent we be: as I know you are of

this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously repeated

at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a sincere nature in

your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only the

separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward.

Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life

is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness

-- to glory?"

I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she

imparted there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the

impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it

came; and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast

and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to

yield to a vague concern for her.

Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist;

she drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long

thus, when another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from

the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light,

streaming in through a window near, shone full both on us and on

the approaching figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.

"I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," said she; "I want you

in my room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too."

We went; following the superintendent's guidance, we had to thread

some intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached

her apartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss

Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair on one

side of the hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to

her side.

"Is it all over?" she asked, looking down at my face. "Have you

cried your grief away?"

"I am afraid I never shall do that."

"Why?"

"Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma'am, and everybody

else, will now think me wicked."

"We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child.

Continue to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us."

"Shall I, Miss Temple?"

"You will," said she, passing her arm round me. "And now tell me

who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?"

"Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to

her care."

"Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?"

"No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as

I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he

died that she would always keep me."

"Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when

a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own

defence. You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to

me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true;

but add nothing and exaggerate nothing."

I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate

-- most correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order

to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story

of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more

subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and

mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence of resentment,

I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than

ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible:

I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.

In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come

to see me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful

episode of the red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was

sure, in some degree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften

in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when

Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, and locked me

a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.

I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes

in silence; she then said -

"I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply

agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from

every imputation; to me, Jane, you are clear now."

She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well

contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the

contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her

white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark

eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns.

"How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?"

"Not quite so much, I think, ma'am."

"And the pain in your chest?"

"It is a little better."

Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then

she returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh

low. She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself,

she said cheerfully -

"But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such."

She rang her bell.

"Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have not yet

had tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies."

And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china

cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near

the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the

scent of the toast! of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was

beginning to be hungry) discerned only a very small portion: Miss

Temple discerned it too.

"Barbara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and

butter? There is not enough for three."

Barbara went out: she returned soon -

"Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity."

Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after

Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone

and iron.

"Oh, very well!" returned Miss Temple; "we must make it do,

Barbara, I suppose." And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling,

"Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this

once."

Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed

before each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel

of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel

wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized

seed-cake.

"I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said

she, "but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," and

she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the

least delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification

with which our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished

appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied.

Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire;

we sat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed

between her and Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted

to hear.

Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state

in her mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded

deviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which

chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to

her, by a controlling sense of awe; and such was my feeling now:

but as to Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder.

The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness

of her beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these,

something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within

her. They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright

tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale

and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes,

which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of

Miss Temple's -- a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash,

nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then

her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what source I

cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous

enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence?

Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that, to me,

memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a

very brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence.

They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times

past; of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or

guessed at: they spoke of books: how many they had read! What

stores of knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar

with French names and French authors: but my amazement reached

its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched

a moment to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and taking

a book from a shelf, bade her read and construe a page of Virgil;

and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration expanding at every sounding

line. She had scarcely finished ere the bell announced bedtime!

no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us both,

saying, as she drew us to her heart -

"God bless you, my children!"

Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more

reluctantly; it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for

her she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear

from her cheek.

On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she

was examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns's, and

when we entered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told

that to-morrow she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded

articles pinned to her shoulder.

"My things were indeed in shameful disorder," murmured Helen to me,

in a low voice: "I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot."

Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece

of pasteboard the word "Slattern," and bound it like a phylactery

round Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign- looking forehead.

She wore it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as

a deserved punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after

afternoon school, I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into

the fire: the fury of which she was incapable had been burning

in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually been

scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave

me an intolerable pain at the heart.

About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss

Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it

appeared that what he said went to corroborate my account. Miss

Temple, having assembled the whole school, announced that inquiry

had been made into the charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that

she was most happy to be able to pronounce her completely cleared

from every imputation. The teachers then shook hands with me and

kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran through the ranks of my

companions.

Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work

afresh, resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I

toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my

memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with practice; exercise

sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class;

in less than two months I was allowed to commence French and drawing.

I learned the first two tenses of the verb ETRE, and sketched my

first cottage (whose walls, by-the-bye, outrivalled in slope those of

the leaning tower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, on going

to bed, I forgot to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of

hot roast potatoes, or white bread and new milk, with which I was

wont to amuse my inward cravings: I feasted instead on the spectacle

of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own

hands: freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and

ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies

hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of

wren's nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young

ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of

my ever being able to translate currently a certain little French

story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was that

problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.

Well has Solomon said -- "Better is a dinner of herbs where love

is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith."

I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for

Gateshead and its daily luxuries.

CHAPTER IX

But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened.

Spring drew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter

had ceased; its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated.

My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air

of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings

of April; the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian

temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could now endure

the play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day it

began even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over

those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought

that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter

traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves; snow-

drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On

Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and found

still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.

I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the

horizon only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded

walls of our garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble

summits girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow;

in a bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How

different had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath

the iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow! --

when mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east winds

along those purple peaks, and rolled down "ing" and holm till they

blended with the frozen fog of the beck! That beck itself was then

a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunder the wood, and sent

a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or

whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, THAT showed only

ranks of skeletons.

April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue

sky, placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled

up its duration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood

shook loose its tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its

great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life;

woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses; unnumbered

varieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a strange

ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I

have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings

of the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed often and fully, free,

unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty and pleasure

there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to advert.

Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak

of it as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a

stream? Assuredly, pleasant enough: but whether healthy or not

is another question.

That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and

fog-bred pestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring,

crept into the Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded

schoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the

seminary into an hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the

pupils to receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls

lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The

few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license;

because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent

exercise to keep them in health: and had it been otherwise, no

one had leisure to watch or restrain them. Miss Temple's whole

attention was absorbed by the patients: she lived in the sick-room,

never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at night.

The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other

necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were

fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing

to remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten,

went home only to die: some died at the school, and were buried

quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay.

While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death

its frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its

walls; while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells,

the drug and the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia

of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills

and beautiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed

with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had

opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the little

beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the

sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and

apples; and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of

the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of

herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties

of the scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like

gipsies, from morning till night; we did what we liked, went where

we liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family

never came near Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinised

into; the cross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear

of infection; her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton

Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided with

comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the

sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled;

when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often

happened, she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick

slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to

the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked best, and dined

sumptuously.

My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry

from the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading

through the water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was

just broad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me,

at that time my chosen comrade -- one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd,

observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly

because she was witty and original, and partly because she had a

manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knew

more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear:

with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults also she

gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything I

said. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis; she liked to

inform, I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving

much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual

intercourse.

And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these

sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so

worthless as to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the

Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance:

she could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy

and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken

truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed the

privilege of her converse a taste of far higher things.

True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective

being, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired

of Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment

of attachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever

animated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at

all times and under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and

faithful friendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation

never troubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she

had been removed from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs.

She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house with

the fever patients; for her complaint was consumption, not typhus:

and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild,

which time and care would be sure to alleviate.

I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming

downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss

Temple into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was not allowed

to go and speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom window,

and then not distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at

a distance under the verandah.

One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late

with Mary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves

from the others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our

way, and had to ask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman

lived, who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the

mast in the wood. When we got back, it was after moonrise: a

pony, which we knew to be the surgeon's, was standing at the garden

door. Mary Ann remarked that she supposed some one must be very

ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening.

She went into the house; I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in

my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and which

I feared would wither if I left them till the morning. This done,

I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as

the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm;

the still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the

morrow; the moon rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was

noting these things and enjoying them as a child might, when it

entered my mind as it had never done before:-

"How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of

dying! This world is pleasant -- it would be dreary to be called

from it, and to have to go who knows where?"

And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what

had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the

first time it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing

behind, on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed

gulf: it felt the one point where it stood -- the present; all the

rest was formless cloud and vacant depth; and it shuddered at the

thought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering

this new idea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out,

and with him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse

and depart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her.

"How is Helen Burns?"

"Very poorly," was the answer.

"Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?"

"Yes."

"And what does he say about her?"

"He says she'll not be here long."

This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed

the notion that she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to

her own home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was

dying; but I knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension

that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this world, and

that she was going to be taken to the region of spirits, if such

region there were. I experienced a shock of horror, then a strong

thrill of grief, then a desire -- a necessity to see her; and I

asked in what room she lay.

"She is in Miss Temple's room," said the nurse.

"May I go up and speak to her?"

"Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come

in; you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling."

The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrance which

led to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o'clock,

and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.

It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I -- not

having been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect

silence of the dormitory, that my companions were all wrapt in

profound repose -- rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress,

and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, and set off in quest

of Miss Temple's room. It was quite at the other end of the house;

but I knew my way; and the light of the unclouded summer moon,

entering here and there at passage windows, enabled me to find it

without difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned

me when I came near the fever room: and I passed its door quickly,

fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I

dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I MUST see Helen, --

I must embrace her before she died, -- I must give her one last

kiss, exchange with her one last word.

Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house

below, and succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two

doors, I reached another flight of steps; these I mounted, and then

just opposite to me was Miss Temple's room. A light shone through

the keyhole and from under the door; a profound stillness pervaded

the vicinity. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar;

probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness.

Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses -- soul and

senses quivering with keen throes -- I put it back and looked in.

My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.

Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains,

there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the

clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had

spoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed

candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen:

I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient

in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the crib side: my

hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew

it. I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.

"Helen!" I whispered softly, "are you awake?"

She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale,

wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that my

fear was instantly dissipated.

"Can it be you, Jane?" she asked, in her own gentle voice.

"Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she

could not speak and look so calmly if she were."

I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and

her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but

she smiled as of old.

"Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heard

it strike some minutes since."

"I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could

not sleep till I had spoken to you."

"You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably."

"Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?"

"Yes; to my long home -- my last home."

"No, no, Helen!" I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour

my tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake

the nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted;

then she whispered -

"Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with

my quilt."

I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close

to her. After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering -

"I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must

be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We

all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not

painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave

no one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately

married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape

great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way

very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault."

"But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?"

"I believe; I have faith: I am going to God."

"Where is God? What is God?"

"My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I

rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness:

I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore

me to Him, reveal Him to me."

"You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven,

and that our souls can get to it when we die?"

"I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can

resign my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my

father; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me."

"And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?"

"You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by

the same mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane."

Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. "Where is

that region? Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round

Helen; she seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could

not let her go; I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently

she said, in the sweetest tone -

"How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a

little; I feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; I

like to have you near me."

"I'll stay with you, DEAR Helen: no one shall take me away."

"Are you warm, darling?"

"Yes."

"Good-night, Jane."

"Good-night, Helen."

She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.

When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked

up; I was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying

me through the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded

for leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; no

explanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or

two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own

room at dawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face against

Helen Burns's shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and

Helen was -- dead.

Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after

her death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey

marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word

"Resurgam."

CHAPTER X

Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant

existence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost

as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography.

I am only bound to invoke Memory where I know her responses will

possess some degree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of

eight years almost in silence: a few lines only are necessary to

keep up the links of connection.

When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation

at Lowood, it gradually disappeared from thence; but not till its

virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention

on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and

by degrees various facts came out which excited public indignation

in a high degree. The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity

and quality of the children's food; the brackish, fetid water used

in its preparation; the pupils' wretched clothing and accommodations

-- all these things were discovered, and the discovery produced

a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the

institution.

Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed

largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better

situation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and

clothing introduced; the funds of the school were intrusted to the

management of a committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth

and family connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the

post of treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties

by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds: his

office of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how to

combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion

with uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly

useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls,

after its regeneration, for eight years: six as pupil, and two as

teacher; and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value

and importance.

During these eight years my life was uniform: but not unhappy,

because it was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent

education placed within my reach; a fondness for some of my studies,

and a desire to excel in all, together with a great delight in

pleasing my teachers, especially such as I loved, urged me on: I

availed myself fully of the advantages offered me. In time I rose

to be the first girl of the first class; then I was invested with

the office of teacher; which I discharged with zeal for two years:

but at the end of that time I altered.

Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent

of the seminary: to her instruction I owed the best part of

my acquirements; her friendship and society had been my continual

solace; she had stood me in the stead of mother, governess, and,

latterly, companion. At this period she married, removed with

her husband (a clergyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such

a wife) to a distant county, and consequently was lost to me.

From the day she left I was no longer the same: with her was gone

every settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in

some degree a home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her

nature and much of her habits: more harmonious thoughts: what

seemed better regulated feelings had become the inmates of my

mind. I had given in allegiance to duty and order; I was quiet;

I believed I was content: to the eyes of others, usually even to

my own, I appeared a disciplined and subdued character.

But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between

me and Miss Temple: I saw her in her travelling dress step into

a post-chaise, shortly after the marriage ceremony; I watched

the chaise mount the hill and disappear beyond its brow; and then

retired to my own room, and there spent in solitude the greatest

part of the half-holiday granted in honour of the occasion.

I walked about the chamber most of the time. I imagined myself

only to be regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it; but

when my reflections were concluded, and I looked up and found that

the afternoon was gone, and evening far advanced, another discovery

dawned on me, namely, that in the interval I had undergone a

transforming process; that my mind had put off all it had borrowed

of Miss Temple -- or rather that she had taken with her the serene

atmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity -- and that now I

was left in my natural element, and beginning to feel the stirring

of old emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn,

but rather as if a motive were gone: it was not the power to be

tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was

no more. My world had for some years been in Lowood: my experience

had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the real

world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of

sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go

forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its

perils.

I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There were the two

wings of the building; there was the garden; there were the skirts

of Lowood; there was the hilly horizon. My eye passed all other

objects to rest on those most remote, the blue peaks; it was those

I longed to surmount; all within their boundary of rock and heath

seemed prison-ground, exile limits. I traced the white road winding

round the base of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between

two; how I longed to follow it farther! I recalled the time when

I had travelled that very road in a coach; I remembered descending

that hill at twilight; an age seemed to have elapsed since the day

which brought me first to Lowood, and I had never quitted it since.

My vacations had all been spent at school: Mrs. Reed had never

sent for me to Gateshead; neither she nor any of her family had ever

been to visit me. I had had no communication by letter or message

with the outer world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits

and notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and

preferences, and antipathies -- such was what I knew of existence.

And now I felt that it was not enough; I tired of the routine of

eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I

gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the

wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler

supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept

off into vague space: "Then," I cried, half desperate, "grant me

at least a new servitude!"

Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me downstairs.

I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections

till bedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the same room

with me kept me from the subject to which I longed to recur, by a

prolonged effusion of small talk. How I wished sleep would silence

her. It seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea which

had last entered my mind as I stood at the window, some inventive

suggestion would rise for my relief.

Miss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till

now her habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any

other light than as a nuisance; to-night I hailed the first deep

notes with satisfaction; I was debarrassed of interruption; my

half-effaced thought instantly revived.

"A new servitude! There is something in that," I soliloquised

(mentally, be it understood; I did not talk aloud), "I know there

is, because it does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words

as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds truly; but

no more than sounds for me; and so hollow and fleeting that it is

mere waste of time to listen to them. But Servitude! That must

be matter of fact. Any one may serve: I have served here eight

years; now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much

of my own will? Is not the thing feasible? Yes -- yes -- the end

is not so difficult; if I had only a brain active enough to ferret

out the means of attaining it."

I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain: it was a chilly

night; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded

TO THINK again with all my might.

"What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces,

under new circumstances: I want this because it is of no use wanting

anything better. How do people do to get a new place? They apply

to friends, I suppose: I have no friends. There are many others

who have no friends, who must look about for themselves and be

their own helpers; and what is their resource?"

I could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my brain to

find a response, and quickly. It worked and worked faster: I felt

the pulses throb in my head and temples; but for nearly an hour

it worked in chaos; and no result came of its efforts. Feverish

with vain labour, I got up and took a turn in the room; undrew the

curtain, noted a star or two, shivered with cold, and again crept

to bed.

A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion

on my pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to

my mind. -- "Those who want situations advertise; you must advertise

in the -shire Herald."

"How? I know nothing about advertising."

Replies rose smooth and prompt now:-

"You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it

under a cover directed to the editor of the Herald; you must put

it, the first opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers

must be addressed to J.E., at the post-office there; you can go

and inquire in about a week after you send your letter, if any are

come, and act accordingly."

This scheme I went over twice, thrice; it was then digested in my

mind; I had it in a clear practical form: I felt satisfied, and

fell asleep.

With earliest day, I was up: I had my advertisement written,

enclosed, and directed before the bell rang to rouse the school;

it ran thus:-

"A young lady accustomed to tuition" (had I not been a teacher

two years?) "is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private

family where the children are under fourteen (I thought that as I

was barely eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of

pupils nearer my own age). She is qualified to teach the usual

branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing,

and Music" (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of

accomplishments, would have been held tolerably comprehensive).

"Address, J.E., Post-office, Lowton, -shire."

This document remained locked in my drawer all day: after tea,

I asked leave of the new superintendent to go to Lowton, in order

to perform some small commissions for myself and one or two of my

fellow-teachers; permission was readily granted; I went. It was a

walk of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the days were still

long; I visited a shop or two, slipped the letter into the post-office,

and came back through heavy rain, with streaming garments, but with

a relieved heart.

The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however,

like all sublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a

pleasant autumn day, I found myself afoot on the road to Lowton. A

picturesque track it was, by the way; lying along the side of the

beck and through the sweetest curves of the dale: but that day I

thought more of the letters, that might or might not be awaiting

me at the little burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of

lea and water.

My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for

a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it

was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from

the shoemaker's to the post-office: it was kept by an old dame, who

wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands.

"Are there any letters for J.E.?" I asked.

She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and

fumbled among its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes

began to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses

for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter,

accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance

-- it was for J.E.

"Is there only one?" I demanded.

"There are no more," said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned

my face homeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to

be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven.

Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls

during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers;

to see them to bed: afterwards I supped with the other teachers.

Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss

Gryce was still my companion: we had only a short end of candle

in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it

was all burnt out; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had

eaten produced a soporific effect: she was already snoring before

I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle:

I now took out my letter; the seal was an initial F.; I broke it;

the contents were brief.

"If J.E., who advertised in the -shire Herald of last Thursday,

possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position

to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a

situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little

girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds

per annum. J.E. is requested to send references, name, address,

and all particulars to the direction:-

"Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, -shire."

I examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and

rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance

was satisfactory: a private fear had haunted me, that in thus

acting for myself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting

into some scrape; and, above all things, I wished the result of my

endeavours to be respectable, proper, en regle. I now felt that an

elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand.

Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow's cap; frigid,

perhaps, but not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability.

Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house: a neat

orderly spot, I was sure; though I failed in my efforts to conceive

a correct plan of the premises. Millcote, - shire; I brushed up

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

shire and the town. -shire was seventy miles nearer London than

the remote county where I now resided: that was a recommendation

to me. I longed to go where there was life and movement: Millcote

was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A-; a busy place

enough, doubtless: so much the better; it would be a complete

change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea

of long chimneys and clouds of smoke -- "but," I argued, "Thornfield

will, probably, be a good way from the town."

Here the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out.

Next day new steps were to be taken; my plans could no longer be

confined to my own breast; I must impart them in order to achieve

their success. Having sought and obtained an audience of the

superintendent during the noontide recreation, I told her I had a

prospect of getting a new situation where the salary would be double

what I now received (for at Lowood I only got 15 pounds per annum);

and requested she would break the matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst,

or some of the committee, and ascertain whether they would permit

me to mention them as references. She obligingly consented to

act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day she laid the affair

before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to,

as she was my natural guardian. A note was accordingly addressed to

that lady, who returned for answer, that "I might do as I pleased:

she had long relinquished all interference in my affairs." This note

went the round of the committee, and at last, after what appeared

to me most tedious delay, formal leave was given me to better my

condition if I could; and an assurance added, that as I had always

conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupil, at Lowood, a

testimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspectors of

that institution, should forthwith be furnished me.

This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month, forwarded

a copy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady's reply, stating

that she was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period

for my assuming the post of governess in her house.

I now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed rapidly.

I had not a very large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my

wants; and the last day sufficed to pack my trunk, -- the same I

had brought with me eight years ago from Gateshead.

The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half-an-hour the

carrier was to call for it to take it to Lowton, whither I myself

was to repair at an early hour the next morning to meet the coach.

I had brushed my black stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet,

gloves, and muff; sought in all my drawers to see that no article

was left behind; and now having nothing more to do, I sat down and

tried to rest. I could not; though I had been on foot all day, I

could not now repose an instant; I was too much excited. A phase

of my life was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow:

impossible to slumber in the interval; I must watch feverishly

while the change was being accomplished.

"Miss," said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering

like a troubled spirit, "a person below wishes to see you."

"The carrier, no doubt," I thought, and ran downstairs without

inquiry. I was passing the back-parlour or teachers' sitting-room,

the door of which was half open, to go to the kitchen,

when some one ran out -

"It's her, I am sure! -- I could have told her anywhere!" cried

the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand.

I looked: I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant,

matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and

eyes, and lively complexion.

"Well, who is it?" she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half

recognised; "you've not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?"

In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously:

"Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!" that was all I said; whereat she half

laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlour. By the

fire stood a little fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and

trousers.

"That is my little boy," said Bessie directly.

"Then you are married, Bessie?"

"Yes; nearly five years since to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and

I've a little girl besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane."

"And you don't live at Gateshead?"

"I live at the lodge: the old porter has left."

"Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them,

Bessie: but sit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee,

will you?" but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother.

"You're not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout,"

continued Mrs. Leaven. "I dare say they've not kept you too well

at school: Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you

are; and Miss Georgiana would make two of you in breadth."

"Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?"

"Very. She went up to London last winter with her mama, and there

everybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her: but

his relations were against the match; and -- what do you think? --

he and Miss Georgiana made it up to run away; but they were found

out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found them out: I believe

she was envious; and now she and her sister lead a cat

and dog life together; they are always quarrelling -- "

"Well, and what of John Reed?"

"Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to

college, and he got -- plucked, I think they call it: and then

his uncles wanted him to be a barrister, and study the law: but he

is such a dissipated young man, they will never make much of him,

I think."

"What does he look like?"

"He is very tall: some people call him a fine-looking young man;

but he has such thick lips."

"And Mrs. Reed?"

"Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she's

not quite easy in her mind: Mr. John's conduct does not please

her- -he spends a deal of money."

"Did she send you here, Bessie?"

"No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard

that there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to

another part of the country, I thought I'd just set off, and get

a look at you before you were quite out of my reach."

"I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie." I said this

laughing: I perceived that Bessie's glance, though it expressed

regard, did in no shape denote admiration.

"No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you look like

a lady, and it is as much as ever I expected of you: you were no

beauty as a child."

I smiled at Bessie's frank answer: I felt that it was correct, but

I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import: at eighteen

most people wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an

exterior likely to second that desire brings anything but gratification.

"I dare say you are clever, though," continued Bessie, by way of

solace. "What can you do? Can you play on the piano?"

"A little."

There was one in the room; Bessie went and opened it, and then asked

me to sit down and give her a tune: I played a waltz or two, and

she was charmed.

"The Miss Reeds could not play as well!" said she exultingly. "I

always said you would surpass them in learning: and can you draw?"

"That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece." It was a

landscape in water colours, of which I had made a present to the

superintendent, in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with

the committee on my behalf, and which she had framed and glazed.

"Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as

any Miss Reed's drawing-master could paint, let alone the young

ladies themselves, who could not come near it: and have you learnt

French?"

"Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it."

"And you can work on muslin and canvas?"

"I can."

"Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be: you

will get on whether your relations notice you or not. There was

something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from

your father's kinsfolk, the Eyres?"

"Never in my life."

"Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite

despicable: and they may be poor; but I believe they are as much

gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a

Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you; Missis said you

were it school fifty miles off; he seemed so much disappointed, for

he could not stay: he was going on a voyage to a foreign country,

and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked

quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father's brother."

"What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?"

"An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine

-- the butler did tell me -- "

"Madeira?" I suggested.

"Yes, that is it -- that is the very word."

"So he went?"

"Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very

high with him; she called him afterwards a 'sneaking tradesman.'

My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant."

"Very likely," I returned; "or perhaps clerk or agent to a

wine-merchant."

Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, and then

she was obliged to leave me: I saw her again for a few minutes

the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We

parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst Arms there: each

went her separate way; she set off for the brow of Lowood Fell

to meet the conveyance which was to take her back to Gateshead, I

mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new

life in the unknown environs of Millcote.

CHAPTER XI

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play;

and when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you

see a room in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured

papering on the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such

furniture, such ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including

a portrait of George the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales,

and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible

to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and

by that of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and

bonnet; my muff and umbrella lie on the table, and I am warming

away the numbness and chill contracted by sixteen hours' exposure

to the rawness of an October day: I left Lowton at four o'clock

a.m., and the Millcote town clock is now just striking eight.

Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil

in my mind. I thought when the coach stopped here there would be

some one to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the

wooden steps the "boots" placed for my convenience, expecting to

hear my name pronounced, and to see some description of carriage

waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was

visible; and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire

after a Miss Eyre, I was answered in the negative: so I had no

resource but to request to be shown into a private room: and here

I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling my

thoughts.

It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel

itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection,

uncertain whether the port to which it is bound can be reached,

and prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has

quitted. The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow

of pride warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear

with me became predominant when half-an-hour elapsed and still I

was alone. I bethought myself to ring the bell.

"Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?" I

asked of the waiter who answered the summons.

"Thornfield? I don't know, ma'am; I'll inquire at the

bar." He vanished, but reappeared instantly -

"Is your name Eyre, Miss?"

"Yes."

"Person here waiting for you."

I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened into the inn-

passage: a man was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lit

street I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance.

"This will be your luggage, I suppose?" said the man rather abruptly

when he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage.

"Yes." He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of car,

and then I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how far it

was to Thornfield.

"A matter of six miles."

"How long shall we be before we get there?"

"Happen an hour and a half."

He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and

we set off. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me ample time

to reflect; I was content to be at length so near the end of my

journey; and as I leaned back in the comfortable though not elegant

conveyance, I meditated much at my ease.

"I suppose," thought I, "judging from the plainness of the servant

and carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person: so much

the better; I never lived amongst fine people but once, and I was

very miserable with them. I wonder if she lives alone except this

little girl; if so, and if she is in any degree amiable, I shall

surely be able to get on with her; I will do my best; it is a pity

that doing one's best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed,

I took that resolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but

with Mrs. Reed, I remember my best was always spurned with scorn.

I pray God Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but

if she does, I am not bound to stay with her! let the worst come

to the worst, I can advertise again. How far are we on our road

now, I wonder?"

I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us; judging

by the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable

magnitude, much larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could

see, on a sort of common; but there were houses scattered all over

the district; I felt we were in a different region to Lowood, more

populous, less picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.

The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse

walk all the way, and the hour and a half extended, I verily

believe, to two hours; at last he turned in his seat and said -

"You're noan so far fro' Thornfield now."

Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad

tower against the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw

a narrow galaxy of lights too, on a hillside, marking a village or

hamlet. About ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a

pair of gates: we passed through, and they clashed to behind us.

We now slowly ascended a drive, and came upon the long front of a

house: candlelight gleamed from one curtained bow-window; all the

rest were dark. The car stopped at the front door; it was opened

by a maid-servant; I alighted and went in.

"Will you walk this way, ma'am?" said the girl; and I followed

her across a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered me

into a room whose double illumination of fire and candle at first

dazzled me, contrasting as it did with the darkness to which my

eyes had been for two hours inured; when I could see, however, a

cosy and agreeable picture presented itself to my view.

A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair

high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable

little elderly lady, in widow's cap, black silk gown, and snowy

muslin apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only

less stately and milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a

large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting

to complete the beau-ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring

introduction for a new governess could scarcely be conceived;

there was no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass;

and then, as I entered, the old lady got up and promptly and kindly

came forward to meet me.

"How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride;

John drives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire."

"Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?" said I.

"Yes, you are right: do sit down."

She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my shawl

and untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she would not give herself

so much trouble.

"Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed

with cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or

two: here are the keys of the storeroom."

And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys,

and delivered them to the servant.

"Now, then, draw nearer to the fire," she continued. "You've

brought your luggage with you, haven't you, my dear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll see it carried into your room," she said, and bustled out.

"She treats me like a visitor," thought I. "I little expected such

a reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is

not like what I have heard of the treatment of governesses; but I

must not exult too soon."

She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus

and a book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which

Leah now brought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I

felt rather confused at being the object of more attention than

I had ever before received, and, that too, shown by my employer

and superior; but as she did not herself seem to consider she was

doing anything out of her place, I thought it better to take her

civilities quietly.

"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?" I

asked, when I had partaken of what she offered me.

"What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf," returned the good

lady, approaching her ear to my mouth.

I repeated the question more distinctly.

"Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of

your future pupil."

"Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?"

"No, -- I have no family."

I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in what way

Miss Varens was connected with her; but I recollected it was not

polite to ask too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in

time.

"I am so glad," she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and

took the cat on her knee; "I am so glad you are come; it will be

quite pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it

is pleasant at any time; for Thornfield is a fine old hall, rather

neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is a respectable

place; yet you know in winter-time one feels dreary quite alone in

the best quarters. I say alone -- Leah is a nice girl to be sure,

and John and his wife are very decent people; but then you see

they are only servants, and one can't converse with them on terms

of equality: one must keep them at due distance, for fear of losing

one's authority. I'm sure last winter (it was a very severe one,

if you recollect, and when it did not snow, it rained and blew),

not a creature but the butcher and postman came to the house, from

November till February; and I really got quite melancholy with sitting

night after night alone; I had Leah in to read to me sometimes;

but I don't think the poor girl liked the task much: she felt it

confining. In spring and summer one got on better: sunshine and

long days make such a difference; and then, just at the commencement

of this autumn, little Adela Varens came and her nurse: a child

makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be

quite gay."

My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk; and

I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere

wish that she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.

"But I'll not keep you sitting up late to-night," said she; "it is

on the stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all day:

you must feel tired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I'll

show you your bedroom. I've had the room next to mine prepared for

you; it is only a small apartment, but I thought you would like it

better than one of the large front chambers: to be sure they have

finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary, I never sleep

in them myself."

I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt

fatigued with my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire.

She took her candle, and I followed her from the room. First she

went to see if the hall-door was fastened; having taken the key

from the lock, she led the way upstairs. The steps and banisters

were of oak; the staircase window was high and latticed; both it

and the long gallery into which the bedroom doors opened looked

as if they belonged to a church rather than a house. A very chill

and vault-like air pervaded the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless

ideas of space and solitude; and I was glad, when finally ushered

into my chamber, to find it of small dimensions, and furnished in

ordinary, modern style.

When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night, and I had fastened

my door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced the

eerie impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious

staircase, and that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of

my little room, I remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue

and mental anxiety, I was now at last in safe haven. The impulse

of gratitude swelled my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside,

and offered up thanks where thanks were due; not forgetting, ere I

rose, to implore aid on my further path, and the power of meriting

the kindness which seemed so frankly offered me before it was

earned. My couch had no thorns in it that night; my solitary room

no fears. At once weary and content, I slept soon and soundly:

when I awoke it was broad day.

The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the sun shone

in between the gay blue chintz window curtains, showing papered

walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and stained

plaster of Lowood, that my spirits rose at the view. Externals

have a great effect on the young: I thought that a fairer era of

life was beginning for me, one that was to have its flowers and

pleasures, as well as its thorns and toils. My faculties, roused

by the change of scene, the new field offered to hope, seemed all

astir. I cannot precisely define what they expected, but it was

something pleasant: not perhaps that day or that month, but at an

indefinite future period.

I rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain -- for I

had no article of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity

-- I was still by nature solicitous to be neat. It was not my habit

to be disregardful of appearance or careless of the impression I

made: on the contrary, I ever wished to look as well as I could,

and to please as much as my want of beauty would permit. I sometimes

regretted that I was not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy

cheeks, a straight nose, and small cherry mouth; I desired to be

tall, stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune

that I was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and

so marked. And why had I these aspirations and these regrets?

It would be difficult to say: I could not then distinctly say it

to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too.

However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my black

frock -- which, Quakerlike as it was, at least had the merit of

fitting to a nicety -- and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought

I should do respectably enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and

that my new pupil would not at least recoil from me with antipathy.

Having opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all things

straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.

Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery

steps of oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there a minute; I

looked at some pictures on the walls (one, I remember, represented

a grim man in a cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a

pearl necklace), at a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great

clock whose case was of oak curiously carved, and ebon black with

time and rubbing. Everything appeared very stately and imposing to

me; but then I was so little accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door,

which was half of glass, stood open; I stepped over the threshold.

It was a fine autumn morning; the early sun shone serenely on

embrowned groves and still green fields; advancing on to the lawn,

I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion. It was three

storeys high, of proportions not vast, though considerable: a

gentleman's manor-house, not a nobleman's seat: battlements round

the top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front stood out well

from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants were now on

the wing: they flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in a great

meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and where

an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as

oaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansion's designation.

Farther off were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor so

craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living world;

but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace

Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to find existent

so near the stirring locality of Millcote. A little hamlet, whose

roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the side of one of these

hills; the church of the district stood nearer Thornfield: its

old tower-top looked over a knoll between the house and gates.

I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet

listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying

the wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place

it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit,

when that lady appeared at the door.

"What! out already?" said she. "I see you are an early riser."

I went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake

of the hand.

"How do you like Thornfield?" she asked. I told her I liked it

very much.

"Yes," she said, "it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be

getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his

head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it

rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require the presence

of the proprietor."

"Mr. Rochester!" I exclaimed. "Who is he?"

"The owner of Thornfield," she responded quietly. "Did you not

know he was called Rochester?"

Of course I did not -- I had never heard of him before; but the

old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood

fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

"I thought," I continued, "Thornfield belonged to you."

"To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the

housekeeper -- the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to

the Rochesters by the mother's side, or at least my husband was;

he was a clergyman, incumbent of Hay -- that little village yonder

on the hill -- and that church near the gates was his. The present

Mr. Rochester's mother was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my

husband: but I never presume on the connection -- in fact, it is

nothing to me; I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary

housekeeper: my employer is always civil, and I expect nothing

more."

"And the little girl -- my pupil!"

"She is Mr. Rochester's ward; he commissioned me to find a governess

for her. He intended to have her brought up in -shire, I believe.

Here she comes, with her 'bonne,' as she calls her nurse." The

enigma then was explained: this affable and kind little widow was

no great dame; but a dependant like myself. I did not like her the

worse for that; on the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever.

The equality between her and me was real; not the mere result of

condescension on her part: so much the better -- my position was

all the freer.

As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by

her attendant, came running up the lawn. I looked at my pupil,

who did not at first appear to notice me: she was quite a child,

perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly built, with a pale,

small-featured face, and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to

her waist.

"Good morning, Miss Adela," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Come and speak to

the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some

day." She approached.

"C'est le ma gouverante!" said she, pointing to me, and

addressing her nurse; who answered -

"Mais oui, certainement."

"Are they foreigners?" I inquired, amazed at hearing the French

language.

"The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent;

and, I believe, never left it till within six months ago. When

she first came here she could speak no English; now she can make

shift to talk it a little: I don't understand her, she mixes it

so with French; but you will make out her meaning very well, I dare

say."

Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a

French lady; and as I had always made a point of conversing with

Madame Pierrot as often as I could, and had besides, during the last

seven years, learnt a portion of French by heart daily -- applying

myself to take pains with my accent, and imitating as closely as

possible the pronunciation of my teacher, I had acquired a certain

degree of readiness and correctness in the language, and was not

likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She came and

shook hand with me when she heard that I was her governess; and as

I led her in to breakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her

own tongue: she replied briefly at first, but after we were seated

at the table, and she had examined me some ten minutes with her

large hazel eyes, she suddenly commenced chattering fluently.

"Ah!" cried she, in French, "you speak my language as well as

Mr. Rochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can

Sophie. She will be glad: nobody here understands her: Madame

Fairfax is all English. Sophie is my nurse; she came with me over

the sea in a great ship with a chimney that smoked -- how it did

smoke! -- and I was sick, and so was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester.

Mr. Rochester lay down on a sofa in a pretty room called the salon,

and Sophie and I had little beds in another place. I nearly fell

out of mine; it was like a shelf. And Mademoiselle -- what is your

name?"

"Eyre -- Jane Eyre."

"Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the

morning, before it was quite daylight, at a great city -- a huge

city, with very dark houses and all smoky; not at all like the

pretty clean town I came from; and Mr. Rochester carried me in his

arms over a plank to the land, and Sophie came after, and we all

got into a coach, which took us to a beautiful large house, larger

than this and finer, called an hotel. We stayed there nearly a

week: I and Sophie used to walk every day in a great green place

full of trees, called the Park; and there were many children there

besides me, and a pond with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with

crumbs."

"Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?" asked Mrs.

Fairfax.

I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the fluent

tongue of Madame Pierrot.

"I wish," continued the good lady, "you would ask her a question

or two about her parents: I wonder if she remembers them?"

"Adele," I inquired, "with whom did you live when you were in that

pretty clean town you spoke of?"

"I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy Virgin.

Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A

great many gentlemen and ladies came to see mama, and I used to

dance before them, or to sit on their knees and sing to them: I

liked it. Shall I let you hear me sing now?"

She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give a specimen

of her accomplishments. Descending from her chair, she came and

placed herself on my knee; then, folding her little hands demurely

before her, shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the

ceiling, she commenced singing a song from some opera. It was the

strain of a forsaken lady, who, after bewailing the perfidy of her

lover, calls pride to her aid; desires her attendant to deck her

in her brightest jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the

false one that night at a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of

her demeanour, how little his desertion has affected her.

The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but

I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of

love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very

bad taste that point was: at least I thought so.

Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the naivete

of her age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, "Now,

Mademoiselle, I will repeat you some poetry."

Assuming an attitude, she began, "La Ligue des Rats: fable de La

Fontaine." She then declaimed the little piece with an attention

to punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an

appropriateness of gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and

which proved she had been carefully trained.

"Was it your mama who taught you that piece?" I asked.

"Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: 'Qu' avez vous

donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!' She made me lift my hand

-- so -- to remind me to raise my voice at the question. Now shall

I dance for you?"

"No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy Virgin,

as you say, with whom did you live then?"

"With Madame Frederic and her husband: she took care of me, but

she is nothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had

not so fine a house as mama. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester

asked me if I would like to go and live with him in England, and I

said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Madame Frederic,

and he was always kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys:

but you see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to

England, and now he is gone back again himself, and I never see

him."

After breakfast, Adele and I withdrew to the library, which room,

it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the

schoolroom. Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors;

but there was one bookcase left open containing everything that

could be needed in the way of elementary works, and several volumes

of light literature, poetry, biography, travels, a few romances,

&c. I suppose he had considered that these were all the governess

would require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented

me amply for the present; compared with the scanty pickings I had

now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they seemed to offer an

abundant harvest of entertainment and information. In this room,

too, there was a cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone;

also an easel for painting and a pair of globes.

I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply:

she had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt

it would be injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when

I had talked to her a great deal, and got her to learn a little,

and when the morning had advanced to noon, I allowed her to return

to her nurse. I then proposed to occupy myself till dinner-time

in drawing some little sketches for her use.

As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs.

Fairfax called to me: "Your morning school-hours are over now, I

suppose," said she. She was in a room the folding-doors of which

stood open: I went in when she addressed me. It was a large,

stately apartment, with purple chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet,

walnut-panelled walls, one vast window rich in slanted glass, and

a lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some

vases of fine purple spar, which stood on a sideboard.

"What a beautiful room!" I exclaimed, as I looked round; for I

had never before seen any half so imposing.

"Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to

let in a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in

apartments that are seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels

like a vault."

She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like

it with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by

two broad steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glimpse

of a fairy place, so bright to my novice-eyes appeared the view

beyond. Yet it was merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within

it a boudoir, both spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid

brilliant garlands of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of

white grapes and vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast

crimson couches and ottomans; while the ornaments on the pale

Parisian mantelpiece were of sparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red;

and between the windows large mirrors repeated the general blending

of snow and fire.

"In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!" said I. "No

dust, no canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly, one

would think they were inhabited daily."

"Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester's visits here are rare, they

are always sudden and unexpected; and as I observed that it put

him out to find everything swathed up, and to have a bustle of

arrangement on his arrival, I thought it best to keep the rooms in

readiness."

"Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?"

"Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman's tastes and habits,

and he expects to have things managed in conformity to them."

"Do you like him? Is he generally liked?"

"Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost all

the land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged

to the Rochesters time out of mind."

"Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you like him?

Is he liked for himself?"

"I have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I believe he

is considered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants: but he

has never lived much amongst them."

"But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his character?"

"Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is rather

peculiar, perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great

deal of the world, I should think. I dare say he is clever, but

I never had much conversation with him."

"In what way is he peculiar?"

"I don't know -- it is not easy to describe -- nothing striking,

but you feel it when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure

whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the

contrary; you don't thoroughly understand him, in short -- at least,

I don't: but it is of no consequence, he is a very good master."

This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer

and mine. There are people who seem to have no notion of sketching

a character, or observing and describing salient points, either in

persons or things: the good lady evidently belonged to this class;

my queries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was

Mr. Rochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor --

nothing more: she inquired and searched no further, and evidently

wondered at my wish to gain a more definite notion of his identity.

When we left the dining-room, she proposed to show me over the rest

of the house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs, admiring

as I went; for all was well arranged and handsome. The large front

chambers I thought especially grand: and some of the third-storey

rooms, though dark and low, were interesting from their air of

antiquity. The furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments

had from time to time been removed here, as fashions changed:

and the imperfect light entering by their narrow casement showed

bedsteads of a hundred years old; chests in oak or walnut, looking,

with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs' heads,

like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs, high-backed

and narrow; stools still more antiquated, on whose cushioned tops

were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries, wrought by

fingers that for two generations had been coffin-dust. All these

relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a

home of the past: a shrine of memory. I liked the hush, the gloom,

the quaintness of these retreats in the day; but I by no means

coveted a night's repose on one of those wide and heavy beds: shut

in, some of them, with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought

old English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies

of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings,

-- all which would have looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam

of moonlight.

"Do the servants sleep in these rooms?" I asked.

"No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no

one ever sleeps here: one would almost say that, if there were a

ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt."

"So I think: you have no ghost, then?"

"None that I ever heard of," returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.

"Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?"

"I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather

a violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that

is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now."

"Yes -- 'after life's fitful fever they sleep well,'" I muttered.

"Where are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?" for she was moving away.

"On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?" I

followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence

by a ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I

was now on a level with the crow colony, and could see into their

nests. Leaning over the battlements and looking far down, I

surveyed the grounds laid out like a map: the bright and velvet

lawn closely girdling the grey base of the mansion; the field,

wide as a park, dotted with its ancient timber; the wood, dun and

sere, divided by a path visibly overgrown, greener with moss than

the trees were with foliage; the church at the gates, the road, the

tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day's sun; the horizon

bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with pearly white. No

feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all was pleasing. When

I turned from it and repassed the trap-door, I could scarcely see

my way down the ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault compared

with that arch of blue air to which I had been looking up, and to

that sunlit scene of grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the

hall was the centre, and over which I had been gazing with delight.

Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by

drift of groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded

to descend the narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long

passage to which this led, separating the front and back rooms of

the third storey: narrow, low, and dim, with only one little window

at the far end, and looking, with its two rows of small black doors

all shut, like a corridor in some Bluebeard's castle.

While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear in so

still a region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curious laugh;

distinct, formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only

for an instant; it began again, louder: for at first, though

distinct, it was very low. It passed off in a clamorous peal that

seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber; though it originated

but in one, and I could have pointed out the door whence the accents

issued.

"Mrs. Fairfax!" I called out: for I now heard her descending the

great stairs. "Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?"

"Some of the servants, very likely," she answered: "perhaps Grace

Poole."

"Did you hear it?" I again inquired.

"Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms.

Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together."

The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated

in an odd murmur.

"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was

as tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but

that it was high noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness

accompanied the curious cachinnation; but that neither scene nor

season favoured fear, I should have been superstitiously afraid.

However, the event showed me I was a fool for entertaining a sense

even of surprise.

The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out, -- a woman of

between thirty and forty; a set, square-made figure, red-haired,

and with a hard, plain face: any apparition less romantic or less

ghostly could scarcely be conceived.

"Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!"

Grace curtseyed silently and went in.

"She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid's

work," continued the widow; "not altogether unobjectionable in some

points, but she does well enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on

with your new pupil this morning?"

The conversation, thus turned on Adele, continued till we reached

the light and cheerful region below. Adele came running

to meet us in the hall, exclaiming -

"Mesdames, vous etes servies!" adding, "J'ai bien faim, moi!"

We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax's room.

CHAPTER XII

The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction

to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer

acquaintance with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned

out to be what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman,

of competent education and average intelligence. My pupil was a

lively child, who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was

sometimes wayward; but as she was committed entirely to my care,

and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my

plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and

became obedient and teachable. She had no great talents, no marked

traits of character, no peculiar development of feeling or taste

which raised her one inch above the ordinary level of childhood;

but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk her below

it. She made reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious,

though perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity,

gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with

a degree of attachment sufficient to make us both content in each

other's society.

This, par parenthese, will be thought cool language by persons who

entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children,

and the duty of those charged with their education to conceive

for them an idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter

parental egotism, to echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely

telling the truth. I felt a conscientious solicitude for Adele's

welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her little self: just

as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness,

and a pleasure in her society proportionate to the tranquil regard

she had for me, and the moderation of her mind and character.

Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and

then, when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went

down to the gates and looked through them along the road; or when,

while Adele played with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in

the storeroom, I climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door

of the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out afar over

sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line -- that then

I longed for a power of vision which might overpass that limit;

which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had

heard of but never seen -- that then I desired more of practical

experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of

acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my

reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good

in Adele; but I believed in the existence of other and more vivid

kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to behold.

Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented.

I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated

me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the

corridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the

silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell

on whatever bright visions rose before it -- and, certainly, they

were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant

movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it

with life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that

was never ended -- a tale my imagination created, and narrated

continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling,

that I desired and had not in my actual existence.

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with

tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if

they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than

mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody

knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in

the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be

very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need

exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as

much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint,

too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it

is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say

that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting

stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is

thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do

more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their

sex.

When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole's laugh: the

same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard,

had thrilled me: I heard, too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger

than her laugh. There were days when she was quite silent; but

there were others when I could not account for the sounds she made.

Sometimes I saw her: she would come out of her room with a basin,

or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go down to the kitchen and

shortly return, generally (oh, romantic reader, forgive me for

telling the plain truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance

always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by her oral oddities:

hard-featured and staid, she had no point to which interest could

attach. I made some attempts to draw her into conversation, but

she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually

cut short every effort of that sort.

The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah

the housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people;

but in no respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French,

and sometimes I asked her questions about her native country; but

she was not of a descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave

such vapid and confused answers as were calculated rather to check

than encourage inquiry.

October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January,

Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adele, because she had a cold;

and, as Adele seconded the request with an ardour that reminded me

how precious occasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood,

I accorded it, deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the

point. It was a fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of

sitting still in the library through a whole long morning: Mrs.

Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted,

so I put on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it to

Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon

walk. Having seen Adele comfortably seated in her little chair by

Mrs. Fairfax's parlour fireside, and given her her best wax doll

(which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a drawer) to

play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and having

replied to her "Revenez bientot, ma bonne amie, ma chere Mdlle.

Jeannette," with a kiss I set out.

The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I

walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and

analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and

situation. It was three o'clock; the church bell tolled as I passed

under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay in its approaching

dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile

from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts

and blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral

treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in

its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred,

it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen

to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still

as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path.

Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle

now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally

in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten

to drop.

This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached

the middle, I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field.

Gathering my mantle about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff,

I did not feel the cold, though it froze keenly; as was attested

by a sheet of ice covering the causeway, where a little brooklet,

now congealed, had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days since.

From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the grey and

battlemented hall was the principal object in the vale below me;

its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I lingered till

the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear

behind them. I then turned eastward.

On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud,

but brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost

in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet

a mile distant, but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its

thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in

what dales and depths I could not tell: but there were many hills

beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes. That

evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the

sough of the most remote.

A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at

once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic

clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture,

the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn

in dark and strong on the foreground, efface the aerial distance

of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds where tint melts

into tint.

The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of

the lane yet hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the

stile; yet, as the path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by.

In those days I was young, and all sorts of fancies bright and

dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery stories were there

amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added

to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give.

As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through

the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie's tales, wherein figured

a North-of-England spirit called a "Gytrash," which, in the form

of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes

came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming upon

me.

It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the

tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the

hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made

him a distinct object against the trees. It was exactly one form

of Bessie's Gytrash -- a lion-like creature with long hair and

a huge head: it passed me, however, quietly enough; not staying

to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half

expected it would. The horse followed, -- a tall steed, and on its

back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once.

Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins,

to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of

beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form.

No Gytrash was this, -- only a traveller taking the short cut to

Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a

sliding sound and an exclamation of "What the deuce is to do now?"

and a clattering tumble, arrested my attention. Man and horse

were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the

causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a

predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening

hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his

magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran

up to me; it was all he could do, -- there was no other help at

hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by

this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were

so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I

asked him the question -

"Are you injured, sir?"

I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was

pronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying to me

directly.

"Can I do anything?" I asked again.

"You must just stand on one side," he answered as he rose, first to

his knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving,

stamping, clattering process, accompanied by a barking and baying

which removed me effectually some yards' distance; but I would

not be driven quite away till I saw the event. This was finally

fortunate; the horse was re-established, and the dog was silenced

with a "Down, Pilot!" The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot

and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something

ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen,

and sat down.

I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think,

for I now drew near him again.

"If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either

from Thornfield Hall or from Hay."

"Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones, -- only a sprain;"

and again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted

an involuntary "Ugh!"

Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing

bright: I could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a

riding cloak, fur collared and steel clasped; its details were not

apparent, but I traced the general points of middle height and

considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with stern

features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked

ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached

middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of

him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking

young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning

him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I had

hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one.

I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance,

gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate

in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they

neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should

have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else

that is bright but antipathetic.

If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when

I addressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and

with thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation

to renew inquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller,

set me at my ease: I retained my station when he waved

to me to go, and announced -

"I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this

solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse."

He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in

my direction before.

"I should think you ought to be at home yourself," said he, "if

you have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you come from?"

"From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when

it is moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if

you wish it: indeed, I am going there to post a letter."

"You live just below -- do you mean at that house with the

battlements?" pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast

a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods that,

by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.

"Yes, sir."

"Whose house is it?"

"Mr. Rochester's."

"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"

"No, I have never seen him."

"He is not resident, then?"

"No."

"Can you tell me where he is?"

"I cannot."

"You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are -- "

He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite

simple: a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither

of them half fine enough for a lady's-maid. He seemed puzzled to

decide what I was; I helped him.

"I am the governess."

"Ah, the governess!" he repeated; "deuce take me, if I had not

forgotten! The governess!" and again my raiment underwent scrutiny.

In two minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain

when he tried to move.

"I cannot commission you to fetch help," he said; "but you may help

me a little yourself, if you will be so kind."

"Yes, sir."

"You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?"

"No."

"Try to get hold of my horse's bridle and lead him to me: you are

not afraid?"

I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when

told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the

stile, and went up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the

bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and would not let me come

near its head; I made effort on effort, though in vain: meantime,

I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore-feet. The traveller

waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed.

"I see," he said, "the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet,

so all you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must

beg of you to come here."

I came. "Excuse me," he continued: "necessity compels me to make

you useful." He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on

me with some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the

bridle, he mastered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grimacing

grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.

"Now," said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, "just

hand me my whip; it lies there under the hedge."

I sought it and found it.

"Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as

fast as you can."

A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and

then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished,

"Like heath that, in the wilderness, The wild wind whirls away."

I took up my muff and walked on. The incident had occurred and

was gone for me: it WAS an incident of no moment, no romance,

no interest in a sense; yet it marked with change one single hour

of a monotonous life. My help had been needed and claimed; I had

given it: I was pleased to have done something; trivial, transitory

though the deed was, it was yet an active thing, and I was weary

of an existence all passive. The new face, too, was like a new

picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar

to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was masculine;

and, secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I had it

still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the letter into

the post- office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way

home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round

and listened, with an idea that a horse's hoofs might ring on the

causeway again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like

Newfoundland dog, might be again apparent: I saw only the hedge

and a pollard willow before me, rising up still and straight to

meet the moonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft of wind roaming

fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when

I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing

the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded

me that I was late, and I hurried on.

I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was

to return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the

darksome staircase, to seek my own lonely little room, and then to

meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and spend the long winter evening with

her, and her only, was to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened

by my walk, -- to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters

of an uniform and too still existence; of an existence whose

very privileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of

appreciating. What good it would have done me at that time to have

been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling life, and to

have been taught by rough and bitter experience to long for the

calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as much good as it

would do a man tired of sitting still in a "too easy chair" to take

a long walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my

circumstances, as it would be under his.

I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards

and forwards on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were

closed; I could not see into the interior; and both my eyes and

spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house -- from the grey-hollow

filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to me -- to that sky

expanded before me, -- a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud;

the moon ascending it in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up

as she left the hill-tops, from behind which she had come, far and

farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight dark in its

fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for those trembling

stars that followed her course; they made my heart tremble, my

veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth;

the clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon

and stars, opened a side-door, and went in.

The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung

bronze lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the

oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room,

whose two-leaved door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the

grate, glancing on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing

purple draperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant

radiance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I had

scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling

of voices, amongst which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adele,

when the door closed.

I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax's room; there was a fire there too,

but no candle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting

upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld

a great black and white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of

the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and said -- "Pilot"

and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed

him, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature

to be alone with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I

rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an

account of this visitant. Leah entered.

"What dog is this?"

"He came with master."

"With whom?"

"With master -- Mr. Rochester -- he is just arrived."

"Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?"

"Yes, and Miss Adele; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone

for a surgeon; for master has had an accident; his horse fell and

his ankle is sprained."

"Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?"

"Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice."

"Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?"

Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated

the news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now

with Mr. Rochester: then she hurried out to give orders about tea,

and I went upstairs to take off my things.

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon's orders, went to bed early

that night; nor did he rise soon next morning. When he did come

down, it was to attend to business: his agent and some of his

tenants were arrived, and waiting to speak with him.

Adele and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily

requisition as a reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in

an apartment upstairs, and there I carried our books, and arranged

it for the future schoolroom. I discerned in the course of the

morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed place: no longer silent

as a church, it echoed every hour or two to a knock at the door,

or a clang of the bell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and

new voices spoke in different keys below; a rill from the outer world

was flowing through it; it had a master: for my part, I liked it

better.

Adele was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply: she

kept running to the door and looking over the banisters to see if

she could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester; then she coined pretexts

to go downstairs, in order, as I shrewdly suspected, to visit the

library, where I knew she was not wanted; then, when I got a little

angry, and made her sit still, she continued to talk incessantly

of her "ami, Monsieur Edouard Fairfax DE Rochester," as she dubbed

him (I had not before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture

what presents he had brought her: for it appears he had intimated

the night before, that when his luggage came from Millcote, there

would be found amongst it a little box in whose contents she had

an interest.

"Et cela doit signifier," said she, "qu'il y aura le dedans un cadeau

pour moi, et peut-etre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur

a parle de vous: il m'a demande le nom de ma gouvernante, et si

elle n'etait pas une petite personne, assez mince et un peu pale.

J'ai dit qu'oui: car c'est vrai, n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?"

I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax's parlour; the

afternoon was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom.

At dark I allowed Adele to put away books and work, and to

run downstairs; for, from the comparative silence below, and from

the cessation of appeals to the door-bell, I conjectured that Mr.

Rochester was now at liberty. Left alone, I walked to the window;

but nothing was to be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together

thickened the air, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down

the curtain and went back to the fireside.

In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I

remembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine,

when Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by her entrance the fiery

mosaic I had been piercing together, and scattering too some heavy

unwelcome thoughts that were beginning to throng on my solitude.

"Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea

with him in the drawing-room this evening," said she: "he has been

so much engaged all day that he could not ask to see you before."

"When is his tea-time?" I inquired.

"Oh, at six o'clock: he keeps early hours in the country. You

had better change your frock now; I will go with you and fasten

it. Here is a candle."

"Is it necessary to change my frock?"

"Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr.

Rochester is here."

This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired

to my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax's aid, replaced my black stuff

dress by one of black silk; the best and the only additional one

I had, except one of light grey, which, in my Lowood notions of

the toilette, I thought too fine to be worn, except on first-rate

occasions.

"You want a brooch," said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl

ornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put

it on, and then we went downstairs. Unused as I was to strangers,

it was rather a trial to appear thus formally summoned in

Mr. Rochester's presence. I let Mrs. Fairfax precede me into the

dining-room, and kept in her shade as we crossed that apartment;

and, passing the arch, whose curtain was now dropped, entered the

elegant recess beyond.

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece;

basking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot -- Adele

knelt near him. Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester,

his foot supported by the cushion; he was looking at Adele and the

dog: the fire shone full on his face. I knew my traveller with

his broad and jetty eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by

the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive

nose, more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils,

denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw -- yes,

all three were very grim, and no mistake. His shape, now divested

of cloak, I perceived harmonised in squareness with his physiognomy:

I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term

-- broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful.

Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax

and myself; but it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us,

for he never lifted his head as we approached.

"Here is Miss Eyre, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way.

He bowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and

child.

"Let Miss Eyre be seated," said he: and there was something in the

forced stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed

further to express, "What the deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre

be there or not? At this moment I am not disposed to accost her."

I sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished politeness

would probably have confused me: I could not have returned or

repaid it by answering grace and elegance on my part; but harsh

caprice laid me under no obligation; on the contrary, a decent

quiescence, under the freak of manner, gave me the advantage.

Besides, the eccentricity of the proceeding was piquant: I felt

interested to see how he would go on.

He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved.

Mrs. Fairfax seemed to think it necessary that some one should be

amiable, and she began to talk. Kindly, as usual -- and, as usual,

rather trite -- she condoled with him on the pressure of business

he had had all day; on the annoyance it must have been to him with

that painful sprain: then she commended his patience and perseverance

in going through with it.

"Madam, I should like some tea," was the sole rejoinder she got.

She hastened to ring the bell; and when the tray came, she proceeded

to arrange the cups, spoons, &c., with assiduous celerity. I and

Adele went to the table; but the master did not leave his couch.

"Will you hand Mr. Rochester's cup?" said Mrs. Fairfax to me;

"Adele might perhaps spill it."

I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adele, thinking

the moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out -

"N'est-ce pas, monsieur, qu'il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre

dans votre petit coffre?"

"Who talks of cadeaux?" said he gruffly. "Did you expect a

present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?" and he searched

my face with eyes that I saw were dark, irate, and piercing.

"I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are

generally thought pleasant things."

"Generally thought? But what do YOU think?"

"I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you

an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to

it, has it not? and one should consider all, before pronouncing

an opinion as to its nature."

"Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adele: she demands

a 'cadeau,' clamorously, the moment she sees me: you beat about

the bush."

"Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adele has: she

can prefer the claim of old acquaintance, and the right too of

custom; for she says you have always been in the habit of giving

her playthings; but if I had to make out a case I should be puzzled,

since I am a stranger, and have done nothing to entitle me to an

acknowledgment."

"Oh, don't fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Adele, and

find you have taken great pains with her: she is not bright, she

has no talents; yet in a short time she has made much improvement."

"Sir, you have now given me my 'cadeau;' I am obliged to you: it

is the meed teachers most covet -- praise of their pupils' progress."

"Humph!" said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.

"Come to the fire," said the master, when the tray was taken away,

and Mrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting;

while Adele was leading me by the hand round the room, showing me

the beautiful books and ornaments on the consoles and chiffonnieres.

We obeyed, as in duty bound; Adele wanted to take a seat on my

knee, but she was ordered to amuse herself with Pilot.

"You have been resident in my house three months?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you came from -- ?"

"From Lowood school, in -shire."

"Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you there?"

"Eight years."

"Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half the

time in such a place would have done up any constitution! No wonder

you have rather the look of another world. I marvelled where you

had got that sort of face. When you came on me in Hay Lane last

night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind

to demand whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet.

Who are your parents?"

"I have none."

"Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them?"

"No."

"I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you

sat on that stile?"

"For whom, sir?"

"For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them.

Did I break through one of your rings, that you spread that damned

ice on the causeway?"

I shook my head. "The men in green all forsook England a hundred

years ago," said I, speaking as seriously as he had done. "And not

even in Hay Lane, or the fields about it, could you find a trace

of them. I don't think either summer or harvest, or winter moon,

will ever shine on their revels more."

Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows,

seemed wondering what sort of talk this was.

"Well," resumed Mr. Rochester, "if you disown parents, you must

have some sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?"

"No; none that I ever saw."

"And your home?"

"I have none."

"Where do your brothers and sisters live?"

"I have no brothers or sisters."

"Who recommended you to come here?"

"I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement."

"Yes," said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon,

"and I am daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make.

Miss Eyre has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and

careful teacher to Adele."

"Don't trouble yourself to give her a character," returned Mr.

Rochester: "eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself.

She began by felling my horse."

"Sir?" said Mrs. Fairfax.

"I have to thank her for this sprain."

The widow looked bewildered.

"Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?"

"No, sir."

"Have you seen much society?"

"None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now the inmates

of Thornfield."

"Have you read much?"

"Only such books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous

or very learned."

"You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled

in religious forms; -- Brocklehurst, who I understand directs

Lowood, is a parson, is he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent full of

religieuses would worship their director."

"Oh, no."

"You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest!

That sounds blasphemous."

"I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling.

He is a harsh man; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our

hair; and for economy's sake bought us bad needles and thread, with

which we could hardly sew."

"That was very false economy," remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again

caught the drift of the dialogue.

"And was that the head and front of his offending?" demanded Mr.

Rochester.

"He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision

department, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with

long lectures once a week, and with evening readings from books of

his own inditing, about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us

afraid to go to bed."

"What age were you when you went to Lowood?"

"About ten."

"And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then, eighteen?"

I assented.

"Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should hardly

have been able to guess your age. It is a point difficult to fix

where the features and countenance are so much at variance as in

your case. And now what did you learn at Lowood? Can you play?"

"A little."

"Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the library

-- I mean, if you please. -- (Excuse my tone of command; I am used

to say, 'Do this,' and it is done: I cannot alter my customary

habits for one new inmate.) -- Go, then, into the library; take a

candle with you; leave the door open; sit down to the piano, and

play a tune."

I departed, obeying his directions.

"Enough!" he called out in a few minutes. "You play A LITTLE, I

see; like any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than

some, but not well."

I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued -- "Adele

showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours.

I don't know whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a

master aided you?"

"No, indeed!" I interjected.

"Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you

can vouch for its contents being original; but don't pass your word

unless you are certain: I can recognise patchwork."

"Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir."

I brought the portfolio from the library.

"Approach the table," said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adele

and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.

"No crowding," said Mr. Rochester: "take the drawings from my hand

as I finish with them; but don't push your faces up to mine."

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he

laid aside; the others, when he had examined them, he swept from

him.

"Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax," said he, "and

look at them with Adele; -- you" (glancing at me) "resume your seat,

and answer my questions. I perceive those pictures were done by

one hand: was that hand yours?"

"Yes."

"And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time,

and some thought."

"I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I

had no other occupation."

"Where did you get your copies?"

"Out of my head."

"That head I see now on your shoulders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has it other furniture of the same kind within?"

"I should think it may have: I should hope -- better."

He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.

While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are:

and first, I must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The

subjects had, indeed, risen vividly on my mind. As I saw them with

the spiritual eye, before I attempted to embody them, they were

striking; but my hand would not second my fancy, and in each case

it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.

These pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds

low and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was

in eclipse; so, too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest

billows, for there was no land. One gleam of light lifted into

relief a half-submerged mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and

large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak held a gold bracelet

set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints as my

palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil

could impart. Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse

glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb

clearly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak

of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze.

Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight:

rising into the sky was a woman's shape to the bust, portrayed in

tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. The dim forehead was

crowned with a star; the lineaments below were seen as through the

suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamed

shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail.

On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight; the same faint

lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed

this vision of the Evening Star.

The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter

sky: a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close

serried, along the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose,

in the foreground, a head, -- a colossal head, inclined towards

the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thin hands, joined under

the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower features a

sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow

and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone

were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of

black drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud,

gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid

tinge. This pale crescent was "the likeness of a kingly crown;"

what it diademed was "the shape which shape had none."

"Were you happy when you painted these pictures?" asked Mr.

Rochester presently.

"I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in

short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known."

"That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account,

have been few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist's

dreamland while you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did

you sit at them long each day?"

"I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat

at them from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the

length of the midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply."

"And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?"

"Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and

my handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was

quite powerless to realise."

"Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no

more, probably. You had not enough of the artist's skill and science

to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl,

peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the

Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make

them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet

above quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn

depth? And who taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale

in that sky, and on this hill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For

that is Latmos. There! put the drawings away!"

I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking

at his watch, he said abruptly -

"It is nine o'clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adele

sit up so long? Take her to bed."

Adele went to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the

caress, but scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have

done, nor so much.

"I wish you all good-night, now," said he, making a movement of the

hand towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company,

and wished to dismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I

took my portfolio: we curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in

return, and so withdrew.

"You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax,"

I observed, when I rejoined her in her room, after putting Adele

to bed.

"Well, is he?"

"I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt."

"True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so

accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has

peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made."

"Why?"

"Partly because it is his nature -- and we can none of us help our

nature; and partly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to

harass him, and make his spirits unequal."

"What about?"

"Family troubles, for one thing."

"But he has no family."

"Not now, but he has had -- or, at least, relatives. He lost his

elder brother a few years since."

"His ELDER brother?"

"Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession

of the property; only about nine years."

"Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother

as to be still inconsolable for his loss?"

"Why, no -- perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings

between them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr.

Edward; and perhaps he prejudiced his father against him. The old

gentleman was fond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate

together. He did not like to diminish the property by division,

and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too,

to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he was of

age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a

great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined

to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position, for

the sake of making his fortune: what the precise nature of that

position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook

what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke

with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled

kind of life. I don't think he has ever been resident at Thornfield

for a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without

a will left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder he

shuns the old place."

"Why should he shun it?"

"Perhaps he thinks it gloomy."

The answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but

Mrs. Fairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit

information of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester's trials.

She averred they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew

was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she

wished me to drop the subject, which I did accordingly.

CHAPTER XIV

For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the

mornings he seemed much engaged with business, and, in the afternoon,

gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes

stayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit

of horse exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return

these visits, as he generally did not come back till late at night.

During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence,

and all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional

rencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he

would sometimes pass me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging

my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance, and sometimes bow

and smile with gentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood did

not offend me, because I saw that I had nothing to do with their

alternation; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite disconnected

with me.

One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio;

in order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went

away early, to attend a public meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax

informed me; but the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester

did not accompany them. Soon after they were gone he rang the bell:

a message came that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed

Adele's hair and made her neat, and having ascertained that I was

myself in my usual Quaker trim, where there was nothing to retouch

-- all being too close and plain, braided locks included, to admit

of disarrangement -- we descended, Adele wondering whether the

petit coffre was at length come; for, owing to some mistake, its

arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified: there it

stood, a little carton, on the table when we entered the dining-room.

She appeared to know it by instinct.

"Ma boite! ma boite!" exclaimed she, running towards it.

"Yes, there is your 'boite' at last: take it into a corner, you

genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling

it," said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester,

proceeding from the depths of an immense easy-chair at the fireside.

"And mind," he continued, "don't bother me with any details of the

anatomical process, or any notice of the condition of the entrails:

let your operation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille,

enfant; comprends-tu?"

Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning -- she had already retired

to a sofa with her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which

secured the lid. Having removed this impediment, and lifted

certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed -

"Oh ciel! Que c'est beau!" and then remained absorbed in ecstatic

contemplation.

"Is Miss Eyre there?" now demanded the master, half rising from

his seat to look round to the door, near which I still stood.

"Ah! well, come forward; be seated here." He drew a chair near

his own. "I am not fond of the prattle of children," he continued;

"for, old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations

connected with their lisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass

a whole evening tete-e-tete with a brat. Don't draw that chair

farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it -- if

you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually

forget them. Nor do I particularly affect simple-minded old ladies.

By-the-bye, I must have mine in mind; it won't do to neglect her;

she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and blood is said to be thicker

than water."

He rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon

arrived, knitting-basket in hand.

"Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I

have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents, and she is

bursting with repletion: have the goodness to serve her as auditress

and interlocutrice; it will be one of the most benevolent acts you

ever performed."

Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she summoned her

to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain,

the ivory, the waxen contents of her "boite;" pouring out, meantime,

explanations and raptures in such broken English as she was mistress

of.

"Now I have performed the part of a good host," pursued Mr. Rochester,

"put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at

liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair

still a little farther forward: you are yet too far back; I cannot

see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair,

which I have no mind to do."

I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained

somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of

giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.

We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which

had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of

light; the large fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains

hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch;

everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adele (she dared

not speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter

rain against the panes.

Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked

different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern

-- much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes

sparkled, whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it

very probable. He was, in short, in his after-dinner mood; more

expanded and genial, and also more self-indulgent than the frigid

and rigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim,

cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair,

and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features,

and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very

fine eyes, too -- not without a certain change in their depths

sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least,

of that feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking

the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught

my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

"You examine me, Miss Eyre," said he: "do you think me handsome?"

I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by

something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow

slipped from my tongue before I was aware -- "No, sir."

"Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you," said

he: "you have the air of a little nonnette; quaint, quiet, grave,

and simple, as you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes

generally bent on the carpet (except, by-the-bye, when they are

directed piercingly to my face; as just now, for instance); and

when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you are

obliged to reply, you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if not

blunt, is at least brusque. What do you mean by it?"

"Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied

that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question

about appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is

of little consequence, or something of that sort."

"You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little consequence,

indeed! And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage,

of stroking and soothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife

under my ear! Go on: what fault do you find with me, pray? I

suppose I have all my limbs and all my features like any other

man?"

"Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no

pointed repartee: it was only a blunder."

"Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it. Criticise

me: does my forehead not please you?"

He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over

his brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs,

but an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should

have risen.

"Now, ma'am, am I a fool?"

"Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired

in return whether you are a philanthropist?"

"There again! Another stick of the penknife, when she pretended

to pat my head: and that is because I said I did not like the

society of children and old women (low be it spoken!). No, young

lady, I am not a general philanthropist; but I bear a conscience;"

and he pointed to the prominences which are said to indicate

that faculty, and which, fortunately for him, were sufficiently

conspicuous; giving, indeed, a marked breadth to the upper part of

his head: "and, besides, I once had a kind of rude tenderness of

heart. When I was as old as you, I was a feeling fellow enough,

partial to the unfledged, unfostered, and unlucky; but Fortune has

knocked me about since: she has even kneaded me with her knuckles,

and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-rubber

ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with one

sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes: does that leave

hope for me?"

"Hope of what, sir?"

"Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh?"

"Decidedly he has had too much wine," I thought; and I did not

know what answer to make to his queer question: how could I tell

whether he was capable of being re-transformed?

"You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not

pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you;

besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of

yours away from my physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted

flowers of the rug; so puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be

gregarious and communicative to-night."

With this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning

his arm on the marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape was

seen plainly as well as his face; his unusual breadth of chest,

disproportionate almost to his length of limb. I am sure most

people would have thought him an ugly man; yet there was so much

unconscious pride in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; such

a look of complete indifference to his own external appearance; so

haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic or

adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere personal attractiveness,

that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared the indifference,

and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the confidence.

"I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night,"

he repeated, "and that is why I sent for you: the fire and the

chandelier were not sufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have

been, for none of these can talk. Adele is a degree better, but

still far below the mark; Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded,

can suit me if you will: you puzzled me the first evening I

invited you down here. I have almost forgotten you since: other

ideas have driven yours from my head; but to-night I am resolved

to be at ease; to dismiss what importunes, and recall what pleases.

It would please me now to draw you out -- to learn more of you --

therefore speak."

Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive

smile either.

"Speak," he urged.

"What about, sir?"

"Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and the

manner of treating it entirely to yourself."

Accordingly I sat and said nothing: "If he expects me to talk

for the mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has

addressed himself to the wrong person," I thought.

"You are dumb, Miss Eyre."

I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me, and with

a single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.

"Stubborn?" he said, "and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put

my request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg

your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you

like an inferior: that is" (correcting himself), "I claim only

such superiority as must result from twenty years' difference in

age and a century's advance in experience. This is legitimate,

et j'y tiens, as Adele would say; and it is by virtue of this

superiority, and this alone, that I desire you to have the goodness

to talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled

with dwelling on one point -- cankering as a rusty nail."

He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not

feel insensible to his condescension, and would not seem so.

"I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir -- quite willing; but I

cannot introduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest

you? Ask me questions, and I will do my best to answer them."

"Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right

to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes,

on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your

father, and that I have battled through a varied experience with

many men of many nations, and roamed over half the globe, while

you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?"

"Do as you please, sir."

"That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because a

very evasive one. Reply clearly."

"I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because

you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world

than I have; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have

made of your time and experience."

"Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won't allow that, seeing that it

would never suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to

say a bad, use of both advantages. Leaving superiority out of the

question, then, you must still agree to receive my orders now and

then, without being piqued or hurt by the tone of command. Will

you?"

I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester IS peculiar -- he

seems to forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for receiving

his orders.

"The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing

expression; "but speak too."

"I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves

to inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and

hurt by their orders."

"Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate, are you?

Oh yes, I had forgotten the salary! Well then, on that mercenary

ground, will you agree to let me hector a little?"

"No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you did forget

it, and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in

his dependency, I agree heartily."

"And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional

forms and phrases, without thinking that the omission arises from

insolence?"

"I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence:

one I rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to,

even for a salary."

"Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary;

therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of

which you are intensely ignorant. However, I mentally shake hands

with you for your answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for

the manner in which it was said, as for the substance of the speech;

the manner was frank and sincere; one does not often see such a

manner: no, on the contrary, affectation, or coldness, or stupid,

coarse-minded misapprehension of one's meaning are the usual rewards

of candour. Not three in three thousand raw school-girl-governesses

would have answered me as you have just done. But I don't mean to

flatter you: if you are cast in a different mould to the majority,

it is no merit of yours: Nature did it. And then, after all,

I go too fast in my conclusions: for what I yet know, you may

be no better than the rest; you may have intolerable defects to

counterbalance your few good points."

"And so may you," I thought. My eye met his as the idea crossed

my mind: he seemed to read the glance, answering as if

its import had been spoken as well as imagined -

"Yes, yes, you are right," said he; "I have plenty of faults of

my own: I know it, and I don't wish to palliate them, I assure

you. God wot I need not be too severe about others; I have a past

existence, a series of deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within

my own breast, which might well call my sneers and censures from

my neighbours to myself. I started, or rather (for like other

defaulters, I like to lay half the blame on ill fortune and adverse

circumstances) was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and-

twenty, and have never recovered the right course since: but I

might have been very different; I might have been as good as you

-- wiser -- almost as stainless. I envy you your peace of mind,

your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a

memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure

-- an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?"

"How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?"

"All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water had

turned it to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen -- quite

your equal. Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss

Eyre; one of the better kind, and you see I am not so. You would

say you don't see it; at least I flatter myself I read as much in

your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what you express with that organ;

I am quick at interpreting its language). Then take my word for

it, -- I am not a villain: you are not to suppose that -- not

to attribute to me any such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily

believe, rather to circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a

trite commonplace sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations

with which the rich and worthless try to put on life. Do you wonder

that I avow this to you? Know, that in the course of your future

life you will often find yourself elected the involuntary confidant

of your acquaintances' secrets: people will instinctively find

out, as I have done, that it is not your forte to tell of yourself,

but to listen while others talk of themselves; they will feel, too,

that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion,

but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comforting and

encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations."

"How do you know? -- how can you guess all this, sir?"

"I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were

writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I should have been

superior to circumstances; so I should -- so I should; but you see

I was not. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain

cool: I turned desperate; then I degenerated. Now, when any vicious

simpleton excites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot

flatter myself that I am better than he: I am forced to confess

that he and I are on a level. I wish I had stood firm -- God

knows I do! Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre;

remorse is the poison of life."

"Repentance is said to be its cure, sir."

"It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could

reform -- I have strength yet for that -- if -- but where is the

use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides,

since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get

pleasure out of life: and I WILL get it, cost what it may."

"Then you will degenerate still more, sir."

"Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure?

And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee

gathers on the moor."

"It will sting -- it will taste bitter, sir."

"How do you know? -- you never tried it. How very serious -- how

very solemn you look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as

this cameo head" (taking one from the mantelpiece). "You have no

right to preach to me, you neophyte, that have not passed the porch

of life, and are absolutely unacquainted with its mysteries."

"I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brought

remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence."

"And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion

that flittered across my brain was an error. I believe it was an

inspiration rather than a temptation: it was very genial, very

soothing -- I know that. Here it comes again! It is no devil,

I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of

light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance

to my heart."

"Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel."

"Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to

distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger

from the eternal throne -- between a guide and a seducer?"

"I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you

said the suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will

work you more misery if you listen to it."

"Not at all -- it bears the most gracious message in the world: for

the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don't make yourself

uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wanderer!"

He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but

his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his

chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.

"Now," he continued, again addressing me, "I have received the

pilgrim -- a disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it

has done me good: my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be

a shrine."

"To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all: I cannot keep

up the conversation, because it has got out of my depth. Only one

thing, I know: you said you were not as good as you should like

to be, and that you regretted your own imperfection; -- one thing

I can comprehend: you intimated that to have a sullied memory

was a perpetual bane. It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you

would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would

approve; and that if from this day you began with resolution to

correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have

laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which you

might revert with pleasure."

"Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I

am paving hell with energy."

"Sir?"

"I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as

flint. Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than

they have been."

"And better?"

"And better -- so much better as pure ore is than foul dross. You

seem to doubt me; I don't doubt myself: I know what my aim is,

what my motives are; and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable

as that of the Medes and Persians, that both are right."

"They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalise

them."

"They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute:

unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules."

"That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once

that it is liable to abuse."

"Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods

not to abuse it."

"You are human and fallible."

"I am: so are you -- what then?"

"The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the

divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted."

"What power?"

"That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action, --

'Let it be right.'"

"'Let it be right' -- the very words: you have pronounced them."

"MAY it be right then," I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to

continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides,

sensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my

penetration; at least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the

uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity, which accompanies a

conviction of ignorance.

"Where are you going?"

"To put Adele to bed: it is past her bedtime."

"You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx."

"Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered,

I am certainly not afraid."

"You ARE afraid -- your self-love dreads a blunder."

"In that sense I do feel apprehensive -- I have no wish to talk

nonsense."

"If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should

mistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't

trouble yourself to answer -- I see you laugh rarely; but you can

laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere,

any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraint still

clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your

voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of

a man and a brother -- or father, or master, or what you will --

to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but,

in time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find

it impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and

movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer

now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird

through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute

captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high. You

are still bent on going?"

"It has struck nine, sir."

"Never mind, -- wait a minute: Adele is not ready to go to bed

yet. My position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face

to the room, favours observation. While talking to you, I have

also occasionally watched Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking

her a curious study, -- reasons that I may, nay, that I shall,

impart to you some day). She pulled out of her box, about ten

minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit her face as she

unfolded it; coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains,

and seasons the marrow of her bones. 'Il faut que je l'essaie!'

cried she, 'et e l'instant meme!' and she rushed out of the room.

She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes

she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see, -- a miniature of

Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of

-- But never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about

to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see

whether it will be realised."

Ere long, Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall.

She entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress

of rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as

it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously

worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were

dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals.

"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she, bounding forwards; "et

mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!"

And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room till,

having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before

him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming -

"Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;" then

rising, she added, "C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce

pas, monsieur?"

"Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and, 'comme cela,' she charmed

my English gold out of my British breeches' pocket. I have been

green, too, Miss Eyre, -- ay, grass green: not a more vernal

tint freshens you now than once freshened me. My Spring is gone,

however, but it has left me that French floweret on my hands, which,

in some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not valuing now the root

whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort which nothing

but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the blossom,

especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and

rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous

sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all this some

day. Good-night."

CHAPTER XV

Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one

afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds:

and while she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me

to walk up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.

He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer,

Celine Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called

a "grande passion." This passion Celine had professed to return

with even superior ardour. He thought himself her idol, ugly as

he was: he believed, as he said, that she preferred his "taille

d'athlete" to the elegance of the Apollo Belvidere.

"And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference of

the Gallic sylph for her British gnome, that I installed her in an

hotel; gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage,

cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &c. In short, I began the process

of ruining myself in the received style, like any other spoony. I

had not, it seems, the originality to chalk out a new road to shame

and destruction, but trode the old track with stupid exactness not

to deviate an inch from the beaten centre. I had -- as I deserved

to have -- the fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one

evening when Celine did not expect me, I found her out; but it was

a warm night, and I was tired with strolling through Paris, so I

sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air consecrated so

lately by her presence. No, -- I exaggerate; I never thought there

was any consecrating virtue about her: it was rather a sort of

pastille perfume she had left; a scent of musk and amber, than an

odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fumes

of conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences, when I bethought

myself to open the window and step out on to the balcony. It was

moonlight and gaslight besides, and very still and serene. The

balcony was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and took

out a cigar, -- I will take one now, if you will excuse me."

Here ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and lighting

of a cigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail

of Havannah incense on the freezing and sunless air, he went on -

"I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was croquant

-- (overlook the barbarism) -- croquant chocolate comfits, and

smoking alternately, watching meantime the equipages that rolled

along the fashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house,

when in an elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of

English horses, and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night,

I recognised the 'voiture' I had given Celine. She was returning:

of course my heart thumped with impatience against the iron rails

I leant upon. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the

hotel door; my flame (that is the very word for an opera inamorata)

alighted: though muffed in a cloak -- an unnecessary encumbrance,

by-the-bye, on so warm a June evening -- I knew her instantly by

her little foot, seen peeping from the skirt of her dress, as she

skipped from the carriage-step. Bending over the balcony, I was

about to murmur 'Mon ange' -- in a tone, of course, which should

be audible to the ear of love alone -- when a figure jumped from

the carriage after her; cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel

which had rung on the pavement, and that was a hatted head which

now passed under the arched porte cochere of the hotel.

"You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I

need not ask you; because you never felt love. You have both

sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet

to be given which shall waken it. You think all existence lapses

in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hitherto slid

away. Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither

see the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor

hear the breakers boil at their base. But I tell you -- and you

may mark my words -- you will come some day to a craggy pass in the

channel, where the whole of life's stream will be broken up into

whirl and tumult, foam and noise: either you will be dashed to

atoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave

into a calmer current -- as I am now.

"I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness

and stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield,

its antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees,

its grey facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal

welkin: and yet how long have I abhorred the very thought of it,

shunned it like a great plague-house? How I do still abhor -"

He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck

his boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to

have him in its grip, and to hold him so tightly that he could not

advance.

We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused; the hall was before

us. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a glare

such as I never saw before or since. Pain, shame, ire, impatience,

disgust, detestation, seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict

in the large pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the

wrestle which should be paramount; but another feeling rose and

triumphed: something hard and cynical: self-willed and resolute:

it settled his passion and petrified his countenance: he went on -

"During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point

with my destiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk -- a hag

like one of those who appeared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres.

'You like Thornfield?' she said, lifting her finger; and then she

wrote in the air a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all

along the house-front, between the upper and lower row of windows,

'Like it if you can! Like it if you dare!'

"'I will like it,' said I; 'I dare like it;' and" (he subjoined

moodily) "I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to happiness,

to goodness -- yes, goodness. I wish to be a better man than I

have been, than I am; as Job's leviathan broke the spear, the dart,

and the habergeon, hindrances which others count as iron and brass,

I will esteem but straw and rotten wood."

Adele here ran before him with her shuttlecock. "Away!" he cried

harshly; "keep at a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!" Continuing

then to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall

him to the point whence he had abruptly diverged -

"Did you leave the balcony, sir," I asked, "when Mdlle. Varens

entered?"

I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed question,

but, on the contrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he

turned his eyes towards me, and the shade seemed to clear off his

brow. "Oh, I had forgotten Celine! Well, to resume. When I saw

my charmer thus come in accompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to

hear a hiss, and the green snake of jealousy, rising on undulating

coils from the moonlit balcony, glided within my waistcoat, and ate

its way in two minutes to my heart's core. Strange!" he exclaimed,

suddenly starting again from the point. "Strange that I should

choose you for the confidant of all this, young lady; passing

strange that you should listen to me quietly, as if it were the most

usual thing in the world for a man like me to tell stories of his

opera-mistresses to a quaint, inexperienced girl like you! But the

last singularity explains the first, as I intimated once before:

you, with your gravity, considerateness, and caution were made to

be the recipient of secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a mind

I have placed in communication with my own: I know it is one not

liable to take infection: it is a peculiar mind: it is a unique

one. Happily I do not mean to harm it: but, if I did, it would

not take harm from me. The more you and I converse, the better;

for while I cannot blight you, you may refresh me." After

this digression he proceeded -

"I remained in the balcony. 'They will come to her boudoir, no

doubt,' thought I: 'let me prepare an ambush.' So putting my hand

in through the open window, I drew the curtain over it, leaving only

an opening through which I could take observations; then I closed

the casement, all but a chink just wide enough to furnish an outlet

to lovers' whispered vows: then I stole back to my chair; and as

I resumed it the pair came in. My eye was quickly at the aperture.

Celine's chamber-maid entered, lit a lamp, left it on the table,

and withdrew. The couple were thus revealed to me clearly: both

removed their cloaks, and there was 'the Varens,' shining in satin

and jewels, -- my gifts of course, -- and there was her companion

in an officer's uniform; and I knew him for a young roue of a

vicomte -- a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met

in society, and had never thought of hating because I despised him

so absolutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy

was instantly broken; because at the same moment my love for Celine

sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could betray me for such

a rival was not worth contending for; she deserved only scorn;

less, however, than I, who had been her dupe.

"They began to talk; their conversation eased me completely: frivolous,

mercenary, heartless, and senseless, it was rather calculated to

weary than enrage a listener. A card of mine lay on the table;

this being perceived, brought my name under discussion. Neither

of them possessed energy or wit to belabour me soundly, but they

insulted me as coarsely as they could in their little way: especially

Celine, who even waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects --

deformities she termed them. Now it had been her custom to launch

out into fervent admiration of what she called my 'beaute male:'

wherein she differed diametrically from you, who told me point-blank,

at the second interview, that you did not think me handsome. The

contrast struck me at the time and -- "

Adele here came running up again.

"Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called

and wishes to see you."

"Ah! in that case I must abridge. Opening the window, I walked

in upon them; liberated Celine from my protection; gave her notice

to vacate her hotel; offered her a purse for immediate exigencies;

disregarded screams, hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions;

made an appointment with the vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de

Boulogne. Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him; left

a bullet in one of his poor etiolated arms, feeble as the wing of

a chicken in the pip, and then thought I had done with the whole

crew. But unluckily the Varens, six months before, had given me

this filette Adele, who, she affirmed, was my daughter; and perhaps

she may be, though I see no proofs of such grim paternity written

in her countenance: Pilot is more like me than she. Some years

after I had broken with the mother, she abandoned her child, and

ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I acknowledged no

natural claim on Adele's part to be supported by me, nor do I now

acknowledge any, for I am not her father; but hearing that she was

quite destitute, I e'en took the poor thing out of the slime and

mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the

wholesome soil of an English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found

you to train it; but now you know that it is the illegitimate

offspring of a French opera- girl, you will perhaps think differently

of your post and protegee: you will be coming to me some day with

notice that you have found another place -- that you beg me to look

out for a new governess, &c. -- Eh?"

"No: Adele is not answerable for either her mother's faults or

yours: I have a regard for her; and now that I know she is, in a

sense, parentless -- forsaken by her mother and disowned by you, sir

-- I shall cling closer to her than before. How could I possibly

prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess

as a nuisance, to a lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as

a friend?"

"Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go in

now; and you too: it darkens."

But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adele and Pilot -- ran

a race with her, and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock.

When we went in, and I had removed her bonnet and coat, I took her

on my knee; kept her there an hour, allowing her to prattle as she

liked: not rebuking even some little freedoms and trivialities into

which she was apt to stray when much noticed, and which betrayed

in her a superficiality of character, inherited probably from her

mother, hardly congenial to an English mind. Still she had her

merits; and I was disposed to appreciate all that was good in her

to the utmost. I sought in her countenance and features a likeness

to Mr. Rochester, but found none: no trait, no turn of expression

announced relationship. It was a pity: if she could but have been

proved to resemble him, he would have thought more of her.

It was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the

night, that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me.

As he had said, there was probably nothing at all extraordinary

in the substance of the narrative itself: a wealthy Englishman's

passion for a French dancer, and her treachery to him, were everyday

matters enough, no doubt, in society; but there was something decidedly

strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him

when he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of

his mood, and his newly revived pleasure in the old hall and its

environs. I meditated wonderingly on this incident; but gradually

quitting it, as I found it for the present inexplicable, I turned to

the consideration of my master's manner to myself. The confidence

he had thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute to my discretion: I

regarded and accepted it as such. His deportment had now for some

weeks been more uniform towards me than at the first. I never seemed

in his way; he did not take fits of chilling hauteur: when he met

me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome; he had always a word

and sometimes a smile for me: when summoned by formal invitation

to his presence, I was honoured by a cordiality of reception that

made me feel I really possessed the power to amuse him, and that

these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as

for my benefit.

I, indeed, talked comparatively little, but I heard him talk with

relish. It was his nature to be communicative; he liked to open

to a mind unacquainted with the world glimpses of its scenes and

ways (I do not mean its corrupt scenes and wicked ways, but such

as derived their interest from the great scale on which they were

acted, the strange novelty by which they were characterised);

and I had a keen delight in receiving the new ideas he offered,

in imagining the new pictures he portrayed, and following him in

thought through the new regions he disclosed, never startled or

troubled by one noxious allusion.

The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint: the friendly

frankness, as correct as cordial, with which he treated me, drew

me to him. I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than

my master: yet he was imperious sometimes still; but I did not mind

that; I saw it was his way. So happy, so gratified did I become

with this new interest added to life, that I ceased to pine after

kindred: my thin crescent-destiny seemed to enlarge; the blanks

of existence were filled up; my bodily health improved; I gathered

flesh and strength.

And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader: gratitude,

and many associations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face

the object I best liked to see; his presence in a room was more

cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his faults;

indeed, I could not, for he brought them frequently before me. He

was proud, sardonic, harsh to inferiority of every description:

in my secret soul I knew that his great kindness to me was balanced

by unjust severity to many others. He was moody, too; unaccountably

so; I more than once, when sent for to read to him, found him sitting

in his library alone, with his head bent on his folded arms; and,

when he looked up, a morose, almost a malignant, scowl blackened

his features. But I believed that his moodiness, his harshness,

and his former faults of morality (I say FORMER, for now he seemed

corrected of them) had their source in some cruel cross of fate.

I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher

principles, and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed,

education instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there were

excellent materials in him; though for the present they hung together

somewhat spoiled and tangled. I cannot deny that I grieved for his

grief, whatever that was, and would have given much to assuage it.

Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed,

I could not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the

avenue, and told how his destiny had risen up before him, and dared

him to be happy at Thornfield.

"Why not?" I asked myself. "What alienates him from the house?

Will he leave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed

here longer than a fortnight at a time; and he has now been resident

eight weeks. If he does go, the change will be doleful. Suppose

he should be absent spring, summer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine

and fine days will seem!"

I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any

rate, I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and

lugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I

had kept my candle burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits

were depressed. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound

was hushed.

I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my inward

tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two.

Just then it seemed my chamber-door was touched; as if fingers had

swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside.

I said, "Who is there?" Nothing answered. I was chilled with

fear.

All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the

kitchen-door chanced to be left open, not unfrequently found his

way up to the threshold of Mr. Rochester's chamber: I had seen him

lying there myself in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat:

I lay down. Silence composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush

now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel the return

of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night.

A dream had scarcely approached my ear, when it fled affrighted,

scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough.

This was a demoniac laugh -- low, suppressed, and deep -- uttered,

as it seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of

my bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher

stood at my bedside -- or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I

rose, looked round, and could see nothing; while, as I still gazed,

the unnatural sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behind

the panels. My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my

next, again to cry out, "Who is there?"

Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the

gallery towards the third-storey staircase: a door had lately been

made to shut in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all

was still.

"Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?" thought

I. Impossible now to remain longer by myself: I must go to Mrs.

Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt

and opened the door with a trembling hand. There was a candle

burning just outside, and on the matting in the gallery. I was

surprised at this circumstance: but still more was I amazed to

perceive the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke; and, while

looking to the right hand and left, to find whence these blue

wreaths issued, I became further aware of a strong smell of burning.

Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr.

Rochester's, and the smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought

no more of Mrs. Fairfax; I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the

laugh: in an instant, I was within the chamber. Tongues of flame

darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire. In the midst of

blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep

sleep.

"Wake! wake!" I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and

turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost:

the very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer;

fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled

with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and its occupant,

flew back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the

couch afresh, and, by God's aid, succeeded in extinguishing the

flames which were devouring it.

The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which

I flung from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the

splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr.

Rochester at last. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake;

because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself

lying in a pool of water.

"Is there a flood?" he cried.

"No, sir," I answered; "but there has been a fire: get up, do;

you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle."

"In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?"

he demanded. "What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who

is in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?"

"I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven's name, get up.

Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who

and what it is."

"There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet:

wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry

there be -- yes, here is my dressing-gown. Now run!"

I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the

gallery. He took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the

bed, all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet

round swimming in water.

"What is it? and who did it?" he asked. I briefly related to him

what had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery:

the step ascending to the third storey; the smoke, -- the smell of

fire which had conducted me to his room; in what state I had found

matters there, and how I had deluged him with all the water I could

lay hands on.

He listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed more

concern than astonishment; he did not immediately speak when I had

concluded.

"Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?" I asked.

"Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for? What

can she do? Let her sleep unmolested."

"Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife."

"Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not

warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and

sit down in the arm-chair: there, -- I will put it on. Now place

your feet on the stool, to keep them out of the wet. I am going

to leave you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where

you are till I return; be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit

to the second storey. Don't move, remember, or call any one."

He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery

very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as

possible, shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I was left

in total darkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing.

A very long time elapsed. I grew weary: it was cold, in spite of

the cloak; and then I did not see the use of staying, as I was not

to rouse the house. I was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester's

displeasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once more

gleamed dimly on the gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet

tread the matting. "I hope it is he," thought I, "and not something

worse."

He re-entered, pale and very gloomy. "I have found it all out,"

said he, setting his candle down on the washstand; "it is as I

thought."

"How, sir?"

He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the

ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather

a peculiar tone -

"I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your

chamber door."

"No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground."

"But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I

should think, or something like it?"

"Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole, --

she laughs in that way. She is a singular person."

"Just so. Grace Poole -- you have guessed it. She is, as you say,

singular -- very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime,

I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted

with the precise details of to-night's incident. You are no talking

fool: say nothing about it. I will account for this state of

affairs" (pointing to the bed): "and now return to your own room.

I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the

night. It is near four:- in two hours the servants will be up."

"Good-night, then, sir," said I, departing.

He seemed surprised -- very inconsistently so, as he had just told

me to go.

"What!" he exclaimed, "are you quitting me already, and in that

way?"

"You said I might go, sir."

"But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of

acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry

fashion. Why, you have saved my life! -- snatched me from a horrible

and excruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual

strangers! At least shake hands."

He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one,

them in both his own.

"You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a

debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have

been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an

obligation: but you: it is different; -- I feel your benefits no

burden, Jane."

He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,-

-but his voice was checked.

"Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden,

obligation, in the case."

"I knew," he continued, "you would do me good in some way, at some

time; -- I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their

expression and smile did not" -- (again he stopped) -- "did not"

(he proceeded hastily) "strike delight to my very inmost heart so

for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of

good genii: there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My

cherished preserver, goodnight!"

Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.

"I am glad I happened to be awake," I said: and then I was going.

"What! you WILL go?"

"I am cold, sir."

"Cold? Yes, -- and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!" But

he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought

myself of an expedient.

"I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir," said I.

"Well, leave me:" he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.

I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning

dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows

of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw

beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and

now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit

triumphantly towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even

in fancy -- a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually

drove me back. Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn

passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.

CHAPTER XVI

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which

followed this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again,

yet feared to meet his eye. During the early part of the morning,

I momentarily expected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit

of entering the schoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes

sometimes, and I had the impression that he was sure to visit it

that day.

But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened to interrupt

the quiet course of Adele's studies; only soon after breakfast, I

heard some bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester's chamber,

Mrs. Fairfax's voice, and Leah's, and the cook's -- that is, John's

wife -- and even John's own gruff tones. There were exclamations

of "What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!" "It is always

dangerous to keep a candle lit at night." "How providential that

he had presence of mind to think of the water-jug!" "I wonder

he waked nobody!" "It is to be hoped he will not take cold with

sleeping on the library sofa," &c.

To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to

rights; and when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner,

I saw through the open door that all was again restored to complete

order; only the bed was stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up

in the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke.

I was about to address her, for I wished to know what account had

been given of the affair: but, on advancing, I saw a second person

in the chamber -- a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, and

sewing rings to new curtains. That woman was no other than Grace

Poole.

There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown

stuff gown, her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap. She was

intent on her work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed:

on her hard forehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing

either of the paleness or desperation one would have expected to

see marking the countenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and

whose intended victim had followed her last night to her lair, and

(as I believed), charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate.

I was amazed -- confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at

her: no start, no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion,

consciousness of guilt, or fear of detection. She said "Good

morning, Miss," in her usual phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking

up another ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.

"I will put her to some test," thought I: "such absolute impenetrability

is past comprehension."

"Good morning, Grace," I said. "Has anything happened here? I

thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago."

"Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep

with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately,

he awoke before the bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and

contrived to quench the flames with the water in the ewer."

"A strange affair!" I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her

fixedly -- "Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him

move?"

She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something

of consciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine

me warily; then she answered -

"The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be

likely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax's room and yours are the nearest to

master's; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people

get elderly, they often sleep heavy." She paused, and then added,

with a sort of assumed indifference, but still in a marked and

significant tone -- "But you are young, Miss; and I should say a

light sleeper: perhaps you may have heard a noise?"

"I did," said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still

polishing the panes, could not hear me, "and at first I thought

it was Pilot: but Pilot cannot laugh; and I am certain I heard a

laugh, and a strange one."

She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her

needle with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure -

"It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when

he was in such danger: You must have been dreaming."

"I was not dreaming," I said, with some warmth, for her brazen

coolness provoked me. Again she looked at me; and with the same

scrutinising and conscious eye.

"Have you told master that you heard a laugh?" she inquired.

"I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning."

"You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the

gallery?" she further asked.

She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from

me information unawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered

I knew or suspected her guilt, she would be playing of some of her

malignant pranks on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard.

"On the contrary," said I, "I bolted my door."

"Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night

before you get into bed?"

"Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans

accordingly!" Indignation again prevailed over prudence: I replied

sharply, "Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten the bolt: I did

not think it necessary. I was not aware any danger or annoyance

was to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall: but in future" (and I laid

marked stress on the words) "I shall take good care to make all

secure before I venture to lie down."

"It will be wise so to do," was her answer: "this neighbourhood

is as quiet as any I know, and I never heard of the hall being

attempted by robbers since it was a house; though there are hundreds

of pounds' worth of plate in the plate-closet, as is well known.

And you see, for such a large house, there are very few servants,

because master has never lived here much; and when he does come,

being a bachelor, he needs little waiting on: but I always think

it best to err on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it

is as well to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that

may be about. A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to

Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the means,

though He often blesses them when they are used discreetly." And

here she closed her harangue: a long one for her, and uttered with

the demureness of a Quakeress.

I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her

miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when

the cook entered.

"Mrs. Poole," said she, addressing Grace, "the servants' dinner

will soon be ready: will you come down?"

"No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and

I'll carry it upstairs."

"You'll have some meat?"

"Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that's all."

"And the sago?"

"Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime:

I'll make it myself."

The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting

for me: so I departed.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration

during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the

enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering

the problem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why

she had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very

least, dismissed from her master's service. He had almost as much

as declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what

mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he

enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold, vindictive,

and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the

meanest of his dependants; so much in her power, that even when

she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge

her with the attempt, much less punish her for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to

think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr.

Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she

was, the idea could not be admitted. "Yet," I reflected, "she has

been young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master's:

Mrs. Fairfax told me once, she had lived here many years. I don't

think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she

may possess originality and strength of character to compensate

for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur

of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccentric at least. What

if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and

headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she now

exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own

indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?"

But, having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square,

flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so

distinctly to my mind's eye, that I thought, "No; impossible! my

supposition cannot be correct. Yet," suggested the secret voice

which talks to us in our own hearts, "you are not beautiful either,

and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any rate, you have often

felt as if he did; and last night -- remember his words; remember

his look; remember his voice!"

I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the

moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Adele was

drawing; I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up

with a sort of start.

"Qu' avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said she. "Vos doigts tremblent

comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme

des cerises!"

"I am hot, Adele, with stooping!" She went on sketching; I went

on thinking.

I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been

conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared

myself with her, and found we were different. Bessie Leaven had

said I was quite a lady; and she spoke truth -- I was a lady. And

now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me; I had more

colour and more flesh, more life, more vivacity, because I had

brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.

"Evening approaches," said I, as I looked towards the window. "I

have never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step in the house to-day;

but surely I shall see him before night: I feared the meeting in

the morning; now I desire it, because expectation has been so long

baffled that it is grown impatient."

When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go and play in

the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened

for the bell to ring below; I listened for Leah coming up with

a message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester's own tread,

and I turned to the door, expecting it to open and admit him.

The door remained shut; darkness only came in through the window.

Still it was not late; he often sent for me at seven and eight

o'clock, and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be wholly

disappointed to- night, when I had so many things to say to him! I

wanted again to introduce the subject of Grace Poole, and to hear

what he would answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if he really

believed it was she who had made last night's hideous attempt; and

if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It little mattered

whether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the pleasure of vexing

and soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and

a sure instinct always prevented me from going too far; beyond

the verge of provocation I never ventured; on the extreme brink I

liked well to try my skill. Retaining every minute form of respect,

every propriety of my station, I could still meet him in argument

without fear or uneasy restraint; this suited both him and me.

A tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her appearance;

but it was only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax's

room. Thither I repaired, glad at least to go downstairs; for that

brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr. Rochester's presence.

"You must want your tea," said the good lady, as I joined her;

"you ate so little at dinner. I am afraid," she continued, "you

are not well to-day: you look flushed and feverish."

"Oh, quite well! I never felt better."

"Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill

the teapot while I knit off this needle?" Having completed her

task, she rose to draw down the blind, which she had hitherto kept

up, by way, I suppose, of making the most of daylight, though dusk

was now fast deepening into total obscurity.

"It is fair to-night," said she, as she looked through the panes,

"though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a

favourable day for his journey."

"Journey! -- Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he

was out."

"Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the

Leas, Mr. Eshton's place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I

believe there is quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir

George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and others."

"Do you expect him back to-night?"

"No -- nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay

a week or more: when these fine, fashionable people get together,

they are so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with

all that can please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate.

Gentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions; and Mr.

Rochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he

is a general favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though

you would not think his appearance calculated to recommend him

particularly in their eyes: but I suppose his acquirements and

abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any

little fault of look."

"Are there ladies at the Leas?"

"There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters -- very elegant young

ladies indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram,

most beautiful women, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six

or seven years since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She came

here to a Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave. You should

have seen the dining-room that day -- how richly it was decorated,

how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies

and gentlemen present -- all of the first county families; and Miss

Ingram was considered the belle of the evening."

"You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?"

"Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown open; and, as

it was Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in

the hall, to hear some of the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester

would have me to come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and

watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene: the ladies were

magnificently dressed; most of them -- at least most of the younger

ones -- looked handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen."

"And what was she like?"

"Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive

complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr.

Rochester's: large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And

then she had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly

arranged: a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest,

the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white; an

amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her

breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends

below her knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her

hair: it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls."

"She was greatly admired, of course?"

"Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments.

She was one of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her

on the piano. She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet."

"Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing."

"Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music."

"And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?"

"A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it was a treat

to listen to her; -- and she played afterwards. I am no judge of

music, but Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say her execution was

remarkably good."

"And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?"

"It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very

large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram's estates were chiefly entailed,

and the eldest son came in for everything almost."

"But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy

to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not?"

"Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age:

Mr. Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five."

"What of that? More unequal matches are made every day."

"True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain

an idea of the sort. But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted

since you began tea."

"No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another cup?"

I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between

Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adele came in, and

the conversation was turned into another channel.

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked

into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured

to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through

imagination's boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of

common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the

hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night

-- of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly

a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own

quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the

real, and rabidly devoured the ideal; -- I pronounced judgment to

this effect:-

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath

of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself

on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

"YOU," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester? YOU gifted with the

power of pleasing him? YOU of importance to him in any way? Go!

your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional

tokens of preference -- equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of

family and a man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How

dared you? Poor stupid dupe! -- Could not even self-interest make

you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene

of last night? -- Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something

in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared

lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good

to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly

intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret

love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must

devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded

to, must lead, ignis-fatus-like, into miry wilds whence there is

no extrication.

"Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow, place the

glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully,

without softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no

displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess,

disconnected, poor, and plain.'

"Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory -- you have one prepared

in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest,

clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils;

delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint

it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the

description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the

raven ringlets, the oriental eye; -- What! you revert to Mr. Rochester

as a model! Order! No snivel! -- no sentiment! -- no regret! I

will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet

harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round

and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither

diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,

aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose;

call it 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.'

"Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester

thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them:

say, 'Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if

he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious

thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?'"

"I'll do it," I resolved: and having framed this determination,

I grew calm, and fell asleep.

I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait

in crayons; and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory

miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face

enough, and when compared with the real head in chalk, the contrast

was as great as self-control could desire. I derived benefit from

the task: it had kept my head and hands employed, and had given

force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp

indelibly on my heart.

Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course

of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to

submit. Thanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences

with a decent calm, which, had they found me unprepared, I should

probably have been unequal to maintain, even externally.

CHAPTER XVII

A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester: ten days,

and still he did not come. Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be

surprised if he were to go straight from the Leas to London, and

thence to the Continent, and not show his face again at Thornfield

for a year to come; he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner

quite as abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was beginning

to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was actually

permitting myself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment;

but rallying my wits, and recollecting my principles, I at once

called my sensations to order; and it was wonderful how I got over

the temporary blunder -- how I cleared up the mistake of supposing

Mr. Rochester's movements a matter in which I had any cause to take

a vital interest. Not that I humbled myself by a slavish

notion of inferiority: on the contrary, I just said -

"You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than

to receive the salary he gives you for teaching his protegee, and

to be grateful for such respectful and kind treatment as, if you do

your duty, you have a right to expect at his hands. Be sure that

is the only tie he seriously acknowledges between you and him; so

don't make him the object of your fine feelings, your raptures,

agonies, and so forth. He is not of your order: keep to your

caste, and be too self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole

heart, soul, and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and

would be despised."

I went on with my day's business tranquilly; but ever and anon

vague suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I

should quit Thornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements

and pondering conjectures about new situations: these thoughts I

did not think to check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they

could.

Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post

brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.

"It is from the master," said she, as she looked at the direction.

"Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return

or not."

And while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on

taking my coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed

to that circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose to my face.

Why my hand shook, and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents

of my cup into my saucer, I did not choose to consider.

"Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of

being busy enough now: for a little while at least," said Mrs.

Fairfax, still holding the note before her spectacles.

Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string

of Adele's pinafore, which happened to be loose: having helped her

also to another bun and refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly -

"Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?"

"Indeed he is -- in three days, he says: that will be next Thursday;

and not alone either. I don't know how many of the fine people

at the Leas are coming with him: he sends directions for all the

best bedrooms to be prepared; and the library and drawing-rooms are

to be cleaned out; I am to get more kitchen hands from the George

Inn, at Millcote, and from wherever else I can; and the ladies will

bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have

a full house of it." And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and

hastened away to commence operations.

The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought

all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged;

but it appears I was mistaken. Three women were got to help; and

such scrubbing, such brushing, such washing of paint and beating of

carpets, such taking down and putting up of pictures, such polishing

of mirrors and lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such

airing of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld,

either before or since. Adele ran quite wild in the midst of it:

the preparations for company and the prospect of their arrival,

seemed to throw her into ecstasies. She would have Sophie to look

over all her "toilettes," as she called frocks; to furbish up any

that were "passees," and to air and arrange the new. For herself,

she did nothing but caper about in the front chambers, jump on and

off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and piled-up bolsters

and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys.

From school duties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed

me into her service, and I was all day in the storeroom, helping

(or hindering) her and the cook; learning to make custards and

cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish desert-dishes.

The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time

for dinner at six. During the intervening period I had no time to

nurse chimeras; and I believe I was as active and gay as anybody

-- Adele excepted. Still, now and then, I received a damping check

to my cheerfulness; and was, in spite of myself, thrown back on

the region of doubts and portents, and dark conjectures. This was

when I chanced to see the third-storey staircase door (which of

late had always been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to

the form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; when

I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in

a list slipper; when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-turvy

bedrooms, -- just say a word, perhaps, to the charwoman about the

proper way to polish a grate, or clean a marble mantelpiece, or

take stains from papered walls, and then pass on. She would thus

descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate

pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with

her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. Only

one hour in the twenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants

below; all the rest of her time was spent in some low-ceiled,

oaken chamber of the second storey: there she sat and sewed --

and probably laughed drearily to herself, -- as companionless as

a prisoner in his dungeon.

The strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house,

except me, noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them: no one

discussed her position or employment; no one pitied her solitude

or isolation. I once, indeed, overheard part of a dialogue between

Leah and one of the charwomen, of which Grace formed the subject.

Leah had been saying something I had not caught, and the

charwoman remarked -

"She gets good wages, I guess?"

"Yes," said Leah; "I wish I had as good; not that mine are to

complain of, -- there's no stinginess at Thornfield; but they're

not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives. And she is laying

by: she goes every quarter to the bank at Millcote. I should

not wonder but she has saved enough to keep her independent if she

liked to leave; but I suppose she's got used to the place; and then

she's not forty yet, and strong and able for anything. It is too

soon for her to give up business."

"She is a good hand, I daresay," said the charwoman.

"Ah! -- she understands what she has to do, -- nobody better,"

rejoined Leah significantly; "and it is not every one could fill

her shoes -- not for all the money she gets."

"That it is not!" was the reply. "I wonder whether the master -- "

The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned and perceived me,

and she instantly gave her companion a nudge.

"Doesn't she know?" I heard the woman whisper.

Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped.

All I had gathered from it amounted to this, -- that there was a

mystery at Thornfield; and that from participation in that mystery

I was purposely excluded.

Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening;

carpets were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white

counterpanes spread, toilet tables arranged, furniture rubbed,

flowers piled in vases: both chambers and saloons looked as fresh

and bright as hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured;

and the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of

the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the

dining-room, the sideboard flashed resplendent with plate; in the

drawing-room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed on all sides.

Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown,

her gloves, and her gold watch; for it was her part to receive the

company, -- to conduct the ladies to their rooms, &c. Adele, too,

would be dressed: though I thought she had little chance of being

introduced to the party that day at least. However, to please her,

I allowed Sophie to apparel her in one of her short, full muslin

frocks. For myself, I had no need to make any change; I should not

be called upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum

it was now become to me, -- "a very pleasant refuge in time of

trouble."

It had been a mild, serene spring day -- one of those days which,

towards the end of March or the beginning of April, rise shining

over the earth as heralds of summer. It was drawing to an end now;

but the evening was even warm, and I sat at work in the schoolroom

with the window open.

"It gets late," said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state.

"I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester

mentioned; for it is past six now. I have sent John down to the

gates to see if there is anything on the road: one can see a long

way from thence in the direction of Millcote." She went to the

window. "Here he is!" said she. "Well, John" (leaning out), "any

news?"

"They're coming, ma'am," was the answer. "They'll be here in ten

minutes."

Adele flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one

side, so that, screened by the curtain, I could see without being

seen.

The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels

were heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them

came two open carriages. Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled

the vehicles; two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-looking

gentlemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour,

Pilot bounding before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she

were the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept

the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with

its transparent folds, and gleaming through them, shone rich raven

ringlets.

"Miss Ingram!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she hurried to

her post below.

The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly turned the

angle of the house, and I lost sight of it. Adele now petitioned

to go down; but I took her on my knee, and gave her to understand

that she must not on any account think of venturing in sight of

the ladies, either now or at any other time, unless expressly sent

for: that Mr. Rochester would be very angry, &c. "Some natural

tears she shed" on being told this; but as I began to look very

grave, she consented at last to wipe them.

A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen's deep

tones and ladies' silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and

distinguishable above all, though not loud, was the sonorous voice

of the master of Thornfield Hall, welcoming his fair and gallant

guests under its roof. Then light steps ascended the stairs; and

there was a tripping through the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs,

and opening and closing doors, and, for a time, a hush.

"Elles changent de toilettes," said Adele; who, listening attentively,

had followed every movement; and she sighed.

"Chez maman," said she, "quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais

partout, au salon et e leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les

femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller les dames, et c'etait si

amusant: comme cela on apprend."

"Don't you feel hungry, Adele?"

"Mais oui, mademoiselle: voile cinq ou six heures que nous n'avons

pas mange."

"Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down

and get you something to eat."

And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a back-stairs

which conducted directly to the kitchen. All in that region was

fire and commotion; the soup and fish were in the last stage of

projection, and the cook hung over her crucibles in a frame of mind

and body threatening spontaneous combustion. In the servants' hall

two coachmen and three gentlemen's gentlemen stood or sat round the

fire; the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses;

the new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were bustling

about everywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last reached the

larder; there I took possession of a cold chicken, a roll of bread,

some tarts, a plate or two and a knife and fork: with this booty

I made a hasty retreat. I had regained the gallery, and was just

shutting the back-door behind me, when an accelerated hum warned me

that the ladies were about to issue from their chambers. I could

not proceed to the schoolroom without passing some of their doors,

and running the risk of being surprised with my cargo of victualage;

so I stood still at this end, which, being windowless, was dark:

quite dark now, for the sun was set and twilight gathering.

Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another:

each came out gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous

through the dusk. For a moment they stood grouped together at

the other extremity of the gallery, conversing in a key of sweet

subdued vivacity: they then descended the staircase almost as

noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill. Their collective

appearance had left on me an impression of high-born elegance, such

as I had never before received.

I found Adele peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held

ajar. "What beautiful ladies!" cried she in English. "Oh, I wish

I might go to them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send for us

by-and-bye, after dinner?"

"No, indeed, I don't; Mr. Rochester has something else to think

about. Never mind the ladies to-night; perhaps you will see them

to-morrow: here is your dinner."

She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to divert

her attention for a time. It was well I secured this forage, or

both she, I, and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share of our repast,

would have run a chance of getting no dinner at all: every one

downstairs was too much engaged to think of us. The dessert was not

carried out till after nine and at ten footmen were still running

to and fro with trays and coffee-cups. I allowed Adele to sit up

much later than usual; for she declared she could not possibly go

to sleep while the doors kept opening and shutting below, and people

bustling about. Besides, she added, a message might possibly come

from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed; "et alors quel dommage!"

I told her stories as long as she would listen to them; and then

for a change I took her out into the gallery. The hall lamp was

now lit, and it amused her to look over the balustrade and watch

the servants passing backwards and forwards. When the evening

was far advanced, a sound of music issued from the drawing-room,

whither the piano had been removed; Adele and I sat down on the

top step of the stairs to listen. Presently a voice blent with

the rich tones of the instrument; it was a lady who sang, and very

sweet her notes were. The solo over, a duet followed, and then a

glee: a joyous conversational murmur filled up the intervals. I

listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was wholly intent

on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to discriminate amidst

the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester; and when it caught

them, which it soon did, it found a further task in framing the

tones, rendered by distance inarticulate, into words.

The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adele, whose head leant

against my shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up

in my arms and carried her off to bed. It was near one before the

gentlemen and ladies sought their chambers.

The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by

the party to an excursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They

set out early in the forenoon, some on horseback, the rest in

carriages; I witnessed both the departure and the return. Miss

Ingram, as before, was the only lady equestrian; and, as before,

Mr. Rochester galloped at her side; the two rode a little apart from

the rest. I pointed out this circumstance to Mrs. Fairfax,

who was standing at the window with me -

"You said it was not likely they should think of being married,"

said I, "but you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of

the other ladies."

"Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her."

"And she him," I added; "look how she leans her head towards him

as if she were conversing confidentially; I wish I could see her

face; I have never had a glimpse of it yet."

"You will see her this evening," answered Mrs. Fairfax. "I happened

to remark to Mr. Rochester how much Adele wished to be introduced

to the ladies, and he said: 'Oh! let her come into the drawing-room

after dinner; and request Miss Eyre to accompany her.'"

"Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I am sure,"

I answered.

"Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, I did

not think you would like appearing before so gay a party -- all

strangers; and he replied, in his quick way -- 'Nonsense! If she

objects, tell her it is my particular wish; and if she resists,

say I shall come and fetch her in case of contumacy.'"

"I will not give him that trouble," I answered. "I will go, if

no better may be; but I don't like it. Shall you be there, Mrs.

Fairfax?"

"No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I'll tell you how to

manage so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance,

which is the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go

into the drawing-room while it is empty, before the ladies leave

the dinner-table; choose your seat in any quiet nook you like; you

need not stay long after the gentlemen come in, unless you please:

just let Mr. Rochester see you are there and then slip away --

nobody will notice you."

"Will these people remain long, do you think?"

"Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the

Easter recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected member for

Millcote, will have to go up to town and take his seat; I daresay

Mr. Rochester will accompany him: it surprises me that he has

already made so protracted a stay at Thornfield."

It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach

when I was to repair with my charge to the drawing-room. Adele

had been in a state of ecstasy all day, after hearing she was to be

presented to the ladies in the evening; and it was not till Sophie

commenced the operation of dressing her that she sobered down. Then

the importance of the process quickly steadied her, and by the time

she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her

pink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens

adjusted, she looked as grave as any judge. No need to warn her not

to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed, she sat demurely

down in her little chair, taking care previously to lift up the

satin skirt for fear she should crease it, and assured me she would

not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly was: my best

dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss Temple's wedding,

and never worn since) was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed;

my sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended.

Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than

that through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We

found the apartment vacant; a large fire burning silently on the

marble hearth, and wax candles shining in bright solitude, amid the

exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorned. The crimson

curtain hung before the arch: slight as was the separation

this drapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they

spoke in so low a key that nothing of their conversation could be

distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.

Adele, who appeared to be still under the influence of a most

solemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on the footstool I

pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat, and taking a book

from a table near, endeavoured to read. Adele brought her stool

to my feet; ere long she touched my knee.

"What is it, Adele?"

"Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs

magnifiques, mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma toilette."

"You think too much of your 'toilette,' Adele: but you may have

a flower." And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her

sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup

of happiness were now full. I turned my face away to conceal a

smile I could not suppress: there was something ludicrous as well

as painful in the little Parisienne's earnest and innate devotion

to matters of dress.

A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept

back from the arch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its

lit lustre pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent

dessert-service covering a long table; a band of ladies stood in

the opening; they entered, and the curtain fell behind them.

There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave

the impression of a much larger number. Some of them were very

tall; many were dressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude

of array that seemed to magnify their persons as a mist magnifies

the moon. I rose and curtseyed to them: one or two bent their

heads in return, the others only stared at me.

They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the lightness and

buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some

of them threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas

and ottomans: some bent over the tables and examined the flowers

and books: the rest gathered in a group round the fire: all

talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I

knew their names afterwards, and may as well mention them now.

First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had

evidently been a handsome woman, and was well preserved still.

Of her daughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather little: naive,

and child-like in face and manner, and piquant in form; her white

muslin dress and blue sash became her well. The second, Louisa,

was taller and more elegant in figure; with a very pretty face,

of that order the French term minois chiffone: both sisters were

fair as lilies.

Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty, very erect,

very haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful

sheen: her dark hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure

plume, and within the circlet of a band of gems.

Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more lady-like.

She had a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her

black satin dress, her scarf of rich foreign lace, and her pearl

ornaments, pleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled

dame.

But the three most distinguished -- partly, perhaps, because the

tallest figures of the band -- were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her

daughters, Blanche and Mary. They were all three of the loftiest

stature of women. The Dowager might be between forty and fifty:

her shape was still fine; her hair (by candle-light at least) still

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

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

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

almost insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance.

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

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

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

by the same principle, in a position of almost preternatural

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

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

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

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

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

thought) with a truly imperial dignity.

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

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

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

First, I wished to see whether her appearance accorded with

Mrs. Fairfax's description; secondly, whether it at all resembled

the fancy miniature I had painted of her; and thirdly -- it will

out! -- whether it were such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr.

Rochester's taste.

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

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

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

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

a youthful unfurrowed likeness: the same low brow, the same high

features, the same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a

pride! she laughed continually; her laugh was satirical, and so

was the habitual expression of her arched and haughty lip.

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

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

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

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

though, as she said, she liked flowers, "especially wild ones;"

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

presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed) TRAILING

Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance -- her TRAIL might be

clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played: her

execution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she talked

French apart to her mamma; and she talked it well, with fluency

and with a good accent.

Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche; softer

features too, and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark

as a Spaniard) -- but Mary was deficient in life: her face lacked

expression, her eye lustre; she had nothing to say, and having once

taken her seat, remained fixed like a statue in its niche. The

sisters were both attired in spotless white.

And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester

would be likely to make? I could not tell -- I did not know his

taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic, she was the

very type of majesty: then she was accomplished, sprightly. Most

gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and that he DID admire her,

I already seemed to have obtained proof: to remove the last shade

of doubt, it remained but to see them together.

You are not to suppose, reader, that Adele has all this time been

sitting motionless on the stool at my feet: no; when the ladies

entered, she rose, advanced to meet them, made a stately

reverence, and said with gravity -

"Bon jour, mesdames."

And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking air, and

exclaimed, "Oh, what a little puppet!"

Lady Lynn had remarked, "It is Mr. Rochester's ward, I suppose --

the little French girl he was speaking of."

Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a kiss.

Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously -- "What a love

of a child!"

And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensconced

between them, chattering alternately in French and broken English;

absorbing not only the young ladies' attention, but that of Mrs.

Eshton and Lady Lynn, and getting spoilt to her heart's content.

At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. I

sit in the shade -- if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit

apartment; the window-curtain half hides me. Again the arch yawns;

they come. The collective appearance of the gentlemen, like that

of the ladies, is very imposing: they are all costumed in black;

most of them are tall, some young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are

very dashing sparks indeed; and Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly

man. Mr. Eshton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like:

his hair is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark,

which gives him something of the appearance of a "pere noble de

theatre." Lord Ingram, like his sisters, is very tall; like them,

also, he is handsome; but he shares Mary's apathetic and listless

look: he seems to have more length of limb than vivacity of blood

or vigour of brain.

And where is Mr. Rochester?

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

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

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

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

silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his

figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just

after I had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and

he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with

eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose

emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that moment!

What had occurred since, calculated to change his and my relative

positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were! So

far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me.

I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at

the other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the

ladies.

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

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

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

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

an acute pleasure in looking, -- a precious yet poignant pleasure;

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

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

crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.

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

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

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

energy, decision, will, -- were not beautiful, according to rule;

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

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

my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love

him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul

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

of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me

love him without looking at me.

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

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

distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native

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

their expression: yet I could imagine that most observers would

call them attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce

Mr. Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I

saw them smile, laugh -- it was nothing; the light of the candles

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

much significance as their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile:- his

stern features softened; his eye grew both brilliant and gentle,

its ray both searching and sweet. He was talking, at the moment,

to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I wondered to see them receive with

calm that look which seemed to me so penetrating: I expected their

eyes to fall, their colour to rise under it; yet I was glad when I

found they were in no sense moved. "He is not to them what he is

to me," I thought: "he is not of their kind. I believe he is of

mine; -- I am sure he is -- I feel akin to him -- I understand the

language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth

sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my

blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say,

a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive

my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any

other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every

good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him.

I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must

remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I

am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence,

and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes

and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually

that we are for ever sundered:- and yet, while I breathe and think,

I must love him."

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

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

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

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

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

very big, and very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before

their sofa, coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word.

Mr. Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is

showing her the engravings of a splendid volume: she looks, smiles

now and then, but apparently says little. The tall and phlegmatic

Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the chair-back of the little

and lively Amy Eshton; she glances up at him, and chatters like

a wren: she likes him better than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry

Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa:

Adele shares it with him: he is trying to talk French with her,

and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whom will Blanche Ingram

pair? She is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully over

an album. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not wait

too long: she herself selects a mate.

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

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

her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.

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

"Nor am I."

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

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

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

"You should have sent her to school."

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

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

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

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

quite as expensive, -- more so; for you have them both to keep in

addition."

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

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

into the shade: but he never turned his eyes.

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

straight before him.

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

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

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

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

"Did you speak, my own?"

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

reiterated her question with an explanation.

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

I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice.

I thank Heaven I have now done with them!"

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

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

that one of the anathematised race was present.

"Tant pis!" said her Ladyship, "I hope it may do her good!" Then,

in a lower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, "I noticed

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

of her class."

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

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

turban three times with portentous significancy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

spirit. The best fun was with Madame Joubert: Miss Wilson was

a poor sickly thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the

trouble of vanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and

insensible; no blow took effect on her. But poor Madame Joubert!

I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had driven her to

extremities -- spilt our tea, crumbled our bread and butter, tossed

our books up to the ceiling, and played a charivari with the ruler

and desk, the fender and fire-irons. Theodore, do you remember

those merry days?"

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

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

sermonised her on the presumption of attempting to teach such clever

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

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

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

pip, as we used to call him. He and Miss Wilson took the liberty

of falling in love with each other -- at least Tedo and I thought

so; we surprised sundry tender glances and sighs which we interpreted

as tokens of 'la belle passion,' and I promise you the public soon

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

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

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

of an immoral tendency. Did you not, my lady-mother?"

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

there are a thousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and

tutors should never be tolerated a moment in any well-regulated

house; firstly -- "

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

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

distractions and consequent neglect of duty on the part of the attached

-- mutual alliance and reliance; confidence thence resulting --

insolence accompanying -- mutiny and general blow-up. Am I right,

Baroness Ingram, of Ingram Park?"

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

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

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

her soft, infantine tone: "Louisa and I used to quiz our governess

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

nothing put her out. She was never cross with us; was she, Louisa?"

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

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

natured, she would give us anything we asked for."

"I suppose, now," said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically,

"we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses

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

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

motion?"

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

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

are you in voice to-night?"

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

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

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

service."

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

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

curls, as she moved to the piano. "It is my opinion the fiddler

David must have been an insipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell

better: to my mind a man is nothing without a spice of the devil

in him; and history may say what it will of James Hepburn, but I

have a notion, he was just the sort of wild, fierce, bandit hero

whom I could have consented to gift with my hand."

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

cried Mr. Rochester.

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

Dent.

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

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

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

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

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

excite not only the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors:

she was evidently bent on striking them as something very dashing

and daring indeed.

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

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

to stir a step beyond papa's park gates: nor to go even so far

without mama's permission and guardianship! Creatures so absorbed

in care about their pretty faces, and their white hands, and

their small feet; as if a man had anything to do with beauty! As

if loveliness were not the special prerogative of woman -- her

legitimate appanage and heritage! I grant an ugly WOMAN is a blot

on the fair face of creation; but as to the GENTLEMEN, let them be

solicitous to possess only strength and valour: let their motto

be:- Hunt, shoot, and fight: the rest is not worth a fillip. Such

should be my device, were I a man."

"Whenever I marry," she continued after a pause which none interrupted,

"I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me.

I will suffer no competitor near the throne; I shall exact an

undivided homage: his devotions shall not be shared between me

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

I will play for you."

"I am all obedience," was the response.

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

for that reason, sing it con spirito."

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

milk and water."

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

showing how such things SHOULD be done."

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

to fail."

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

proportionate punishment."

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

inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance."

"Ha! explain!" commanded the lady.

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

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

for capital punishment."

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

accompaniment in spirited style.

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

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

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

which he threw his own feeling, his own force; finding a way through

the ear to the heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I

waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired -- till

the tide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow; I then

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

which was fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the

hall: in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped

to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of

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

came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him: it was

Mr. Rochester.

"How do you do?" he asked.

"I am very well, sir."

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

I thought I might have retorted the question on him who

put it: but I would not take that freedom. I answered -

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

"What have you been doing during my absence?"

"Nothing particular; teaching Adele as usual."

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

sight. What is the matter?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

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

"Not the least."

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

"I am tired, sir."

He looked at me for a minute.

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

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

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

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

now, shining and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash

and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was not in mortal

dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know what

all this means. Well, to-night I excuse you; but understand that

so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room

every evening; it is my wish; don't neglect it. Now go, and send

Sophie for Adele. Good-night, my -- " He stopped, bit his lip,

and abruptly left me.

CHAPTER XVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady's-maid or a

dandy valet.

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

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

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

weather called their occupants out into the grounds. Even when

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

no damp seemed cast over enjoyment: indoor amusements only became

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

gaiety.

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

of entertainment was proposed: they spoke of "playing charades,"

but in my ignorance I did not understand the term. The servants

were called in, the dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights

otherwise disposed, the chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the

arch. While Mr. Rochester and the other gentlemen directed these

alterations, the ladies were running up and down stairs ringing

for their maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give information

respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of

any kind; and certain wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked,

and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats,

satin sacques, black modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought down in

armfuls by the abigails; then a selection was made, and such things

as were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the drawing-room.

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

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

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

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

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

which had got loose.

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

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

quietly to my usual seat.

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

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

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

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

negatived the notion.

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

sort."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

round her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her

arm. Then appeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad

in white, a long veil on her head, and a wreath of roses round her

brow; by her side walked Mr. Rochester, and together they drew near

the table. They knelt; while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed

also in white, took up their stations behind them. A ceremony

followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the

pantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent and his

party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then the Colonel called out -

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

A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second

rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last.

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

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

yard or two back within the room, appeared a large marble basin --

which I recognised as an ornament of the conservatory -- where it

usually stood, surrounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish

-- and whence it must have been transported with some trouble, on

account of its size and weight.

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

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

dark eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features suited the costume

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

or a victim of the bowstring. Presently advanced into view Miss

Ingram. She, too, was attired in oriental fashion: a crimson

scarf tied sash-like round the waist: an embroidered handkerchief

knotted about her temples; her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one

of them upraised in the act of supporting a pitcher, poised gracefully

on her head. Both her cast of form and feature, her complexion and

her general air, suggested the idea of some Israelitish princess

of the patriarchal days; and such was doubtless the character she

intended to represent.

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

she again lifted it to her head. The personage on the well-brink

now seemed to accost her; to make some request:- "She hasted, let

down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him to drink." From the

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

magnificent bracelets and earrings; she acted astonishment and

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

and delight were expressed by her looks and gestures; the stranger

fastened the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears. It

was Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were wanting.

The divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they

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

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

whereupon the curtain again descended.

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

the rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort of dark

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

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

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

being all extinguished.

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

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

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

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

in a scuffle), the desperate and scowling countenance, the rough,

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

clanked; to his wrists were attached fetters.

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

A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume

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

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

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

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

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

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

her.

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

to your complexion than that ruffian's rouge."

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

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

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

pirate."

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

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

and her colour rose.

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

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

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

diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did

not now watch the actors; I no longer waited with interest for the

curtain to rise; my attention was absorbed by the spectators; my

eyes, erewhile fixed on the arch, were now irresistibly attracted

to the semicircle of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party

played, what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no

longer remember; but I still see the consultation which followed

each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss Ingram, and Miss

Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards him, till the

jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek;

I hear their mutual whisperings; I recall their interchanged glances;

and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns

in memory at this moment.

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

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

ceased to notice me -- because I might pass hours in his presence,

and he would never once turn his eyes in my direction -- because

I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned

to touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever

her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw

it instantly as from an object too mean to merit observation. I

could not unlove him, because I felt sure he would soon marry this

very lady -- because I read daily in her a proud security in his

intentions respecting her -- because I witnessed hourly in him

a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing rather to be

sought than to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness, captivating,

and in its very pride, irresistible.

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

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

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

to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram's. But I was not jealous:

or very rarely; -- the nature of the pain I suffered could not be

explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy:

she was too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming

paradox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not

genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments; but

her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature: nothing bloomed

spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted by

its freshness. She was not good; she was not original: she used

to repeat sounding phrases from books: she never offered, nor had,

an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but

she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and

truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this, by the undue

vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had conceived against

little Adele: pushing her away with some contumelious epithet if

she happened to approach her; sometimes ordering her from the room,

and always treating her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes

besides mine watched these manifestations of character -- watched

them closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes; the future bridegroom,

Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over his intended a ceaseless

surveillance; and it was from this sagacity -- this guardedness of

his -- this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one's defects

-- this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her,

that my ever-torturing pain arose.

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

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

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

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

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

fever was sustained and fed: SHE COULD NOT CHARM HIM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

should have admired her -- acknowledged her excellence, and been

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

the deeper would have been my admiration -- the more truly tranquil

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

efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester, to witness their repeated

failure -- herself unconscious that they did fail; vainly fancying

that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming

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

further and further what she wished to allure -- to witness THIS,

was to be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.

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

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

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

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

stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face; or, better still,

without weapons a silent conquest might have been won.

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

so near to him?" I asked myself. "Surely she cannot truly like

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

coin her smiles so lavishly, flash her glances so unremittingly,

manufacture airs so elaborate, graces so multitudinous. It seems

to me that she might, by merely sitting quietly at his side, saying

little and looking less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his

face a far different expression from that which hardens it now while

she is so vivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself:

it was not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres;

and one had but to accept it -- to answer what he asked without

pretension, to address him when needful without grimace -- and

it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like

a fostering sunbeam. How will she manage to please him when they

are married? I do not think she will manage it; and yet it might

be managed; and his wife might, I verily believe, be the very

happiest woman the sun shines on."

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

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

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

man unlikely to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice

of a wife; but the longer I considered the position, education, &c.,

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

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

principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood.

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

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

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

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

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

convinced me that there must be arguments against its general

adoption of which I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all

the world would act as I wished to act.

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

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

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

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

from the just weighing of both, to form an equitable judgment. Now

I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that

had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice

dish: their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt

as comparatively insipid. And as for the vague something -- was it

a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expression?

-- that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, in his eye,

and closed again before one could fathom the strange depth partially

disclosed; that something which used to make me fear and shrink,

as if I had been wandering amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had

suddenly felt the ground quiver and seen it gape: that something,

I, at intervals, beheld still; and with throbbing heart, but not

with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only

to dare -- to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because

one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its

secrets and analyse their nature.

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

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

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

with their own separate interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn

and Ingram continued to consort in solemn conferences, where they

nodded their two turbans at each other, and held up their four

hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror,

according to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair of

magnified puppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-natured Mrs.

Eshton; and the two sometimes bestowed a courteous word or smile

on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and Mr. Eshton discussed

politics, or county affairs, or justice business. Lord Ingram

flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang to and with one

of the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the

gallant speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent,

suspended their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors:

for, after all, Mr. Rochester and -- because closely connected

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

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

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

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

The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blanche Ingram, after having repelled, by supercilious taciturnity,

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

conversation, had first murmured over some sentimental tunes and

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

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

to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence.

The room and the house were silent: only now and then the merriment

of the billiard-players was heard from above.

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

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

by me in the drawing-room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed -

"Voile, Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!"

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

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

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

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

"What can possess him to come home in that style?" said Miss Ingram.

"He rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went out?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

were in fault.

Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the new-comer

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

present.

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

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

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

acquaintance as to instal myself here till he returns."

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

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

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

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

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

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

failed to please. His features were regular, but too relaxed: his

eye was large and well cut, but the life looking out of it was a

tame, vacant life -- at least so I thought.

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

till after dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at

his ease. But I liked his physiognomy even less than before: it

struck me as being at the same time unsettled and inanimate. His

eye wandered, and had no meaning in its wandering: this gave him

an odd look, such as I never remembered to have seen. For a handsome

and not an unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there

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

firmness in that aquiline nose and small cherry mouth; there was

no thought on the low, even forehead; no command in that blank,

brown eye.

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

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

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

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

I think (with deference be it spoken) the contrast could not be

much greater between a sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between

a meek sheep and the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian.

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

theirs must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old

adage that "extremes meet."

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

scraps of their conversation across the room. At first I could

not make much sense of what I heard; for the discourse of Louisa

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

sentences that reached me at intervals. These last were discussing

the stranger; they both called him "a beautiful man." Louisa

said he was "a love of a creature," and she "adored him;" and Mary

instanced his "pretty little mouth, and nice nose," as her ideal

of the charming.

"And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!" cried Louisa, -- "so

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

and such a placid eye and smile!"

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

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

excursion to Hay Common.

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

and I presently gathered that the new-comer was called Mr. Mason;

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

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

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

wore a surtout in the house. Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston,

Spanish Town, indicated the West Indies as his residence; and it

was with no little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he had there

first seen and become acquainted with Mr. Rochester. He spoke

of his friend's dislike of the burning heats, the hurricanes, and

rainy seasons of that region. I knew Mr. Rochester had been a

traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but I thought the continent

of Europe had bounded his wanderings; till now I had never heard

a hint given of visits to more distant shores.

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

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

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

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

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

in going out, stopped near Mr. Eshton's chair, and said something

to him in a low voice, of which I heard only the words, "old woman,"

-- "quite troublesome."

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

herself off," replied the magistrate.

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

Eshton; we might turn the thing to account; better consult the

ladies." And speaking aloud, he continued -- "Ladies, you talked

of going to Hay Common to visit the gipsy camp; Sam here says that

one of the old Mother Bunches is in the servants' hall at this

moment, and insists upon being brought in before 'the quality,' to

tell them their fortunes. Would you like to see her?"

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

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

"But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady," said the footman;

"nor can any of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now,

entreating her to be gone; but she has taken a chair in the chimney-

comer, and says nothing shall stir her from it till she gets leave

to come in here."

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

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

swears she must and will do it."

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

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

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

her in, of course."

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

to throw away such a chance of fun."

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

"I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding,"

chimed in the Dowager Ingram.

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

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

till now she had sat silent, apparently examining sundry sheets of

music. "I have a curiosity to hear my fortune told: therefore,

Sam, order the beldame forward."

"My darling Blanche! recollect -- "

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

-- quick, Sam!"

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

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

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

he.

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

Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of

raillery and jests was proceeding when Sam returned.

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

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

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

must go to her one by one."

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

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

"Show her into the library, of course," cut in the "angel girl." "It

is not my mission to listen to her before the vulgar herd either:

I mean to have her all to myself. Is there a fire in the library?"

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

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

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

full flow once more.

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

to know who will be her first visitor."

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

go," said Colonel Dent.

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

Sam went and returned.

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

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

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

single."

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

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

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

in the van of his men.

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

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

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

library.

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

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

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

Eshton tittered under their breath, and looked a little frightened.

The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the

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

arch.

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

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

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

walked stiffly to her seat, and took it in silence.

"Well, Blanche?" said Lord Ingram.

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

"What did you think? How do you feel? -- Is she a real fortune-teller?"

demanded the Misses Eshton.

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

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

you seem, by the importance 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 science of palmistry and told me what such people usually tell.

My whim is gratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will do well to

put the hag in the stocks to-morrow morning, as he threatened."

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

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

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

darker, more dissatisfied, and more sourly expressive of disappointment.

She had obviously not heard anything to her advantage: and it

seemed to me, from her prolonged fit of gloom and taciturnity, that

she herself, notwithstanding her professed indifference, attached

undue importance to whatever revelations had been made her.

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

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

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

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

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

extorted from the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait upon her

in a body.

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

hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library;

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

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

of their wits.

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

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

breathless into the various seats the gentlemen hastened to bring

them.

Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them

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

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

keepsakes that different relations had presented to them. They

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

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

world, and informed them of what they most wished for.

Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further

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

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

importunity. The matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and

wielded fans; and again and again reiterated the expression of

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

the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged their services

on the agitated fair ones.

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

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

I turned, and saw Sam.

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

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

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

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

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

unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I

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

were gathered in one mass about the trembling trio just returned

-- and I closed the door quietly behind me.

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

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

"No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid."

Nor was I; but I was a good deal interested and excited.

CHAPTER XIX

The library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sibyl

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

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

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

handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on

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

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

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

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

she wished to finish a paragraph.

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

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

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

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

and slowly looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet

I could see, as she raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked

all brown and black: elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white

band which passed under her chin, and came half over her cheeks,

or rather jaws: her eye confronted me at once, with a bold and

direct gaze.

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

decided as her glance, as harsh as her features.

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

ought to warn you, I have no faith."

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

it in your step as you crossed the threshold."

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

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

"You need them all in your trade."

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

don't you tremble?"

"I'm not cold."

"Why don't you turn pale?"

"I am not sick."

"Why don't you consult my art?"

"I'm not silly."

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

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

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

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

said very deliberately -- "You are cold; you are sick; and you are

silly."

"Prove it," I rejoined.

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

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

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

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

as you may, you will not beckon it to approach, nor will you stir

one step to meet it where it waits you."

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

smoking with vigour.

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

solitary 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 another precisely

placed as you are."

"It would be easy to find you thousands."

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

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

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

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

and bliss results."

"I don't understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my

life."

"If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm."

"And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?"

"To be sure."

I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which

she took out of her pocket, and having tied it round and returned

it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did. She arched her face

to the palm, and pored over it without touching it.

"It is too fine," said she. "I can make nothing of such a hand as

that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a palm? Destiny

is not written there."

"I believe you," said I.

"No," she continued, "it is in the face: on the forehead, about

the eyes, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and lift up your head."

"Ah! now you are coming to reality," I said, as I obeyed her. "I

shall begin to put some faith in you presently."

I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so

that a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare,

however, as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine,

it illumined.

"I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night," she said,

when she had examined me a while. "I wonder what thoughts are busy

in your heart during all the hours you sit in yonder room with the

fine people flitting before you like shapes in a magic-lantern:

just as little sympathetic communion passing between you and them

as if they were really mere shadows of human forms, and not the

actual substance."

"I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad."

"Then you have some secret hope to buoy you up and please you with

whispers of the future?"

"Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my earnings

to set up a school some day in a little house rented by myself."

"A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on: and sitting

in that window-seat (you see I know your habits ) -- "

"You have learned them from the servants."

"Ah! you think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have: to speak

truth, I have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole -- "

I started to my feet when I heard the name.

"You have -- have you?" thought I; "there is diablerie in the

business after all, then!"

"Don't be alarmed," continued the strange being; "she's a safe

hand is Mrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose confidence

in her. But, as I was saying: sitting in that window-seat, do

you think of nothing but your future school? Have you no present

interest in any of the company who occupy the sofas and chairs

before you? Is there not one face you study? one figure whose

movements you follow with at least curiosity?"

"I like to observe all the faces and all the figures."

"But do you never single one from the rest -- or it may be, two?"

"I do frequently; when the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling

a tale: it amuses me to watch them."

"What tale do you like best to hear?"

"Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same theme

-- courtship; and promise to end in the same catastrophe -- marriage."

"And do you like that monotonous theme?"

"Positively, I don't care about it: it is nothing to me."

"Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and

health, charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank

and fortune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you -- "

"I what?"

"You know -- and perhaps think well of."

"I don't know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged

a syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I

consider some respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others

young, dashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all

at liberty to be the recipients of whose smiles they please, without

my feeling disposed to consider the transaction of any moment to

me."

"You don't know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged a

syllable with one of them? Will you say that of the master of the

house!"

"He is not at home."

"A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went to Millcote

this morning, and will be back here to-night or to-morrow: does

that circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance

-- blot him, as it were, out of existence?"

"No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the

theme you had introduced."

"I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of

late so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester's eyes that

they overflow like two cups filled above the brim: have you never

remarked that?"

"Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his guests."

"No question about his right: but have you never observed that,

of all the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been

favoured with the most lively and the most continuous?"

"The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator." I

said this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk,

voice, manner, had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One

unexpected sentence came from her lips after another, till I got

involved in a web of mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit

had been sitting for weeks by my heart watching its workings and

taking record of every pulse.

"Eagerness of a listener!" repeated she: "yes; Mr. Rochester has

sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took

such delight in their task of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was

so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given

him; you have noticed this?"

"Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face."

"Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if

not gratitude?"

I said nothing.

"You have seen love: have you not? -- and, looking forward, you

have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?"

"Humph! Not exactly. Your witch's skill is rather at fault

sometimes."

"What the devil have you seen, then?"

"Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known

that Mr. Rochester is to be married?"

"Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram."

"Shortly?"

"Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt (though,

with an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to

question it), they will be a superlatively happy pair. He must

love such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably

she loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse. I know

she considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree;

though (God pardon me!) I told her something on that point about

an hour ago which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her

mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her 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 doubtful: when I examined your face, one trait

contradicted another. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness:

that I know. I knew it before I came here this evening. She has

laid it carefully on one side for you. I saw her do it. It depends

on yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up: but whether

you will do so, is the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug."

"Don't keep me long; the fire scorches me."

I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed,

leaning back in her chair. She began muttering, -

"The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks

soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is susceptible;

impression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it

ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the

lid: that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns

from me; it will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny,

by a mocking glance, the truth of the discoveries I have already

made, -- to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin:

its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye is

favourable.

"As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed

to impart all that the brain conceives; though I daresay it would

be silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible,

it was never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of

solitude: it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often,

and have human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too

is propitious.

"I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that

brow professes to say, -- 'I can live alone, if self-respect, and

circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy

bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me

alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered

only at a price I cannot afford to give.' The forehead declares,

'Reason sits firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the

feelings burst away and hurry her to wild chasms. The passions may

rage furiously, like true heathens, as they are; and the desires

may imagine all sorts of vain things: but judgment shall still

have the last word in every argument, and the casting vote in

every decision. Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass

by: but I shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which

interprets the dictates of conscience.'

"Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have

formed my plans -- right plans I deem them -- and in them I have

attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I

know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup

of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse

were detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution --

such is not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight -- to earn

gratitude, not to wring tears of blood -- no, nor of brine: my

harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet -- That will

do. I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish

now to protract this moment ad infinitum; but I dare not. So far

I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore

I would act; but further might try me beyond my strength. Rise,

Miss Eyre: leave me; the play is played out'."

Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I

dream still? The old woman's voice had changed: her accent, her

gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass

-- as the speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I

looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again: but she drew her

bonnet and her bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me

to depart. The flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused

now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at once noticed that

hand. It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own; it was

a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned;

a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward,

I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before.

Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me --

on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the

head advanced.

"Well, Jane, do you know me?" asked the familiar voice.

"Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then -- "

"But the string is in a knot -- help me."

"Break it, sir."

"There, then -- 'Off, ye lendings!'" And Mr. Rochester stepped

out of his disguise.

"Now, sir, what a strange idea!"

"But well carried out, eh? Don't you think so?"

"With the ladies you must have managed well."

"But not with you?"

"You did not act the character of a gipsy with me."

"What character did I act? My own?"

"No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been

trying to draw me out -- or in; you have been talking nonsense to

make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir."

"Do you forgive me, Jane?"

"I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection,

I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive

you; but it was not right."

"Oh, you have been very correct -- very careful, very sensible."

I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort;

but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of

the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies

and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old

woman had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice,

her anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running

on Grace Poole -- that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries,

as I considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.

"Well," said he, "what are you musing about? What does that grave

smile signify?"

"Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to

retire now, I suppose?"

"No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room

yonder are doing."

"Discussing the gipsy, I daresay."

"Sit down! -- Let me hear what they said about me."

"I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o'clock.

Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here

since you left this morning?"

"A stranger! -- no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he gone?"

"No; he said he had known you long, and that he could take the

liberty of installing himself here till you returned."

"The devil he did! Did he give his name?"

"His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West Indies; from

Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think."

Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if

to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive

grip; the smile on his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his

breath.

"Mason! -- the West Indies!" he said, in the tone one might fancy

a speaking automaton to enounce its single words; "Mason! -- the

West Indies!" he reiterated; and he went over the syllables three

times, growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes:

he hardly seemed to know what he was doing.

"Do you feel ill, sir?" I inquired.

"Jane, I've got a blow; I've got a blow, Jane!" He staggered.

"Oh, lean on me, sir."

"Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it

now."

"Yes, sir, yes; and my arm."

He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both

his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the

most troubled and dreary look.

"My little friend!" said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island

with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections

removed from me."

"Can I help you, sir? -- I'd give my life to serve you."

"Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your hands; I promise you

that."

"Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do, -- I'll try, at least, to do

it."

"Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they

will be at supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and

what he is doing."

I went. I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as Mr.

Rochester had said; they were not seated at table, -- the supper was

arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they

stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in

their hands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation

were general and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking

to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. I

filled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did

so: she thought I was taking a liberty, I daresay), and I returned

to the library.

Mr. Rochester's extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked once

more firm and stern. He took the glass from my hand.

"Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!" he said. He swallowed

the contents and returned it to me. "What are they doing, Jane?"

"Laughing and talking, sir."

"They don't look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard something

strange?"

"Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety."

"And Mason?"

"He was laughing too."

"If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you

do, Jane?"

"Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could."

He half smiled. "But if I were to go to them, and they only looked

at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then

dropped off and left me one by one, what then? Would you go with

them?"

"I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in staying

with you."

"To comfort me?"

"Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could."

"And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?"

"I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if I did,

I should care nothing about it."

"Then, you could dare censure for my sake?"

"I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence;

as you, I am sure, do."

"Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper

in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show

him in here and then leave me."

"Yes, sir."

I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight

among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded

him from the room: I ushered him into the library, and then I went

upstairs.

At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the

visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester's

voice, and heard him say, "This way, Mason; this is your room."

He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease. I was

soon asleep.

CHAPTER XX

I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also

to let down my window-blind. The consequence was, that when the

moon, which was full and bright (for the night was fine), came in

her course to that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked

in at me through the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me.

Awaking in the dead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk --

silver-white and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn;

I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain.

Good God! What a cry!

The night -- its silence -- its rest, was rent in twain by a savage,

a sharp, a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield

Hall.

My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was

paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever

being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it: not

the widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession,

send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing

delivering such utterance must rest ere it could repeat the effort.

It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead. And

overhead -- yes, in the room just above my chamber-ceiling -- I now

heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed from the noise;

and a half-smothered voice shouted -

"Help! help! help!" three times rapidly.

"Will no one come?" it cried; and then, while the staggering and

stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster:-

"Rochester! Rochester! for God's sake, come!"

A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the gallery.

Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell; and

there was silence.

I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs; I issued

from my apartment. The sleepers were all aroused: ejaculations,

terrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after door unclosed;

one looked out and another looked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen

and ladies alike had quitted their beds; and "Oh! what is it?" --

"Who is hurt?" -- "What has happened?" -- "Fetch a light!" -- "Is

it fire?" -- "Are there robbers?" -- "Where shall we run?" was

demanded confusedly on all hands. But for the 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 Rochester?" cried Colonel Dent. "I cannot

find him in his bed."

"Here! here!" was shouted in return. "Be composed, all of you:

I'm coming."

And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester

advanced with a candle: he had just descended from the upper storey.

One of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was

Miss Ingram.

"What awful event has taken place?" said she. "Speak! let us

know the worst at once!"

"But don't pull me down or strangle me," he replied: for the Misses

Eshton were clinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast

white wrappers, were bearing down on him like ships in full sail.

"All's right! -- all's right!" he cried. "It's a mere rehearsal of

Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous."

And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks. Calming

himself by an effort, he added -

"A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She's an excitable,

nervous person: she construed her dream into an apparition, or

something of that sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with fright.

Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms; for, till the

house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the

goodness to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure

you will not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and

Louisa, return to your nests like a pair of doves, as you are.

Mesdames" (to the dowagers), "you will take cold to a dead certainty,

if you stay in this chill gallery any longer."

And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived

to get them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories.

I did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed,

as unnoticed I had left it.

Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and dressed

myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the

words that had been uttered, had probably been heard only by me;

for they had proceeded from the room above mine: but they assured

me that it was not a servant's dream which had thus struck horror

through the house; and that the explanation Mr. Rochester had given

was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. I dressed,

then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed, I sat a long

time by the window looking out over the silent grounds and silvered

fields and waiting for I knew not what. It seemed to me that some

event must follow the strange cry, struggle, and call.

No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually,

and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a

desert. It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire.

Meantime the moon declined: she was about to set. Not liking to

sit in the cold and darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed,

dressed as I was. I left the window, and moved with little noise

across the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious

hand tapped low at the door.

"Am I wanted?" I asked.

"Are you up?" asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master's.

"Yes, sir."

"And dressed?"

"Yes."

"Come out, then, quietly."

I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

"I want you," he said: "come this way: take your time, and make

no noise."

My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as

a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in

the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed

and stood at his side.

"Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any salts -- volatile salts?"

"Yes."

"Go back and fetch both."

I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my

drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held

a key in his hand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he

put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again.

"You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"

"I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet."

I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no

faintness.

"Just give me your hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a

fainting fit."

I put my fingers into his. "Warm and steady," was his remark: he

turned the key and opened the door.

I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs.

Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with tapestry; but

the tapestry was now looped up in one part, and there was a door

apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open;

a light shone out of the room within: I heard thence a snarling,

snatching sound, almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester,

putting down his candle, said to me, "Wait a minute," and he went

forward to the inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his

entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole's own goblin

ha! ha! SHE then was there. He made some sort of arrangement

without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him: he came

out and closed the door behind him.

"Here, Jane!" he said; and I walked round to the other side of a

large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable

portion of the chamber. An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a

man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat; he was still;

his head leant back; his eyes were closed. Mr. Rochester held the

candle over him; I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless

face -- the stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side,

and one arm, was almost soaked in blood.

"Hold the candle," said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched

a basin of water from the washstand: "Hold that," said he. I

obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the

corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle, and applied it

to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned.

Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and

shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away blood, trickling fast

down.

"Is there immediate danger?" murmured Mr. Mason.

"Pooh! No -- a mere scratch. Don't be so overcome, man: bear

up! I'll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you'll be able to

be removed by morning, I hope. Jane," he continued.

"Sir?"

"I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for

an hour, or perhaps two hours: you will sponge the blood as I

do when it returns: if he feels faint, you will put the glass of

water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You

will not speak to him on any pretext -- and -- Richard, it will be

at the peril of your life if you speak to her: open your lips --

agitate yourself- -and I'll not answer for the consequences."

Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear,

either of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse

him. Mr. Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my hand, and

I proceeded to use it as he had done. He watched me a second,

then saying, "Remember! -- No conversation," he left the room. I

experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and

the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard.

Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of its mystic

cells; night around me; a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes

and hands; a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door:

yes -- that was appalling -- the rest I could bear; but I shuddered

at the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me.

I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly

countenance -- these blue, still lips forbidden to unclose --

these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room,

now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must

dip my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water, and

wipe away the trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed

candle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the wrought,

antique tapestry round me, and grow black under the hangings of

the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a great

cabinet opposite -- whose front, divided into twelve panels, bore,

in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles, each enclosed in

its separate panel as in a frame; while above them at the top rose

an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ.

According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered

here or glanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke,

that bent his brow; now St. John's long hair that waved; and anon

the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the panel, and seemed

gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor --

of Satan himself -- in his subordinate's form.

Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen for

the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den.

But since Mr. Rochester's visit it seemed spellbound: all the

night I heard but three sounds at three long intervals, -- a step

creak, a momentary renewal of the snarling, canine noise, and a

deep human groan.

Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this that lived

incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled

nor subdued by the owner? -- what mystery, that broke out now in

fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night? What creature

was it, that, masked in an ordinary woman's face and shape, uttered

the voice, now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking

bird of prey?

And this man I bent over -- this commonplace, quiet stranger --

how had he become involved in the web of horror? and why had the

Fury flown at him? What made him seek this quarter of the house

at an untimely season, when he should have been asleep in bed? I

had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below -- what

brought him here! And why, now, was he so tame under the violence

or treachery done him? Why did he so quietly submit to the

concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why DID Mr. Rochester enforce

this concealment? His guest had been outraged, his own life

on a former occasion had been hideously plotted against; and both

attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion! Lastly, I

saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous

will of the latter held complete sway over the inertness of the

former: the few words which had passed between them assured me of

this. It was evident that in their former intercourse, the passive

disposition of the one had been habitually influenced by the active

energy of the other: whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester's dismay

when he heard of Mr. Mason's arrival? Why had the mere name of

this unresisting individual -- whom his word now sufficed to control

like a child -- fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt

might fall on an oak?

Oh! I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered:

"Jane, I have got a blow -- I have got a blow, Jane." I could not

forget how the arm had trembled which he rested on my shoulder:

and it was no light matter which could thus bow the resolute spirit

and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester.

"When will he come? When will he come?" I cried inwardly, as

the night lingered and lingered -- as my bleeding patient drooped,

moaned, sickened: and neither day nor aid arrived. I had, again

and again, held the water to Mason's white lips; again and again

offered him the stimulating salts: my efforts seemed ineffectual:

either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of blood, or all three

combined, were fast prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and

looked so weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; and I might

not even speak to him.

The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I perceived

streaks of grey light edging the window curtains: dawn was

then approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of

his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope revived. Nor was it

unwarranted: in five minutes more the grating key, the yielding

lock, warned me my watch was relieved. It could not have lasted

more than two hours: many a week has seemed shorter.

Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to

fetch.

"Now, Carter, be on the alert," he said to this last: "I give you

but half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages,

getting the patient downstairs and all."

"But is he fit to move, sir?"

"No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his spirits

must be kept up. Come, set to work."

Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the holland

blind, let in all the daylight he could; and I was surprised and

cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks were

beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom

the surgeon was already handling.

"Now, my good fellow, how are you?" he asked.

"She's done for me, I fear," was the faint reply.

"Not a whit! -- courage! This day fortnight you'll hardly be a pin

the worse of it: you've lost a little blood; that's all. Carter,

assure him there's no danger."

"I can do that conscientiously," said Carter, who had now undone

the bandages; "only I wish I could have got here sooner: he would

not have bled so much -- but how is this? The flesh on the shoulder

is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife:

there have been teeth here!"

"She bit me," he murmured. "She worried me like a tigress, when

Rochester got the knife from her."

"You should not have yielded: you should have grappled with her

at once," said Mr. Rochester.

"But under such circumstances, what could one do?" returned Mason.

"Oh, it was frightful!" he added, shuddering. "And I did not

expect it: she looked so quiet at first."

"I warned you," was his friend's answer; "I said -- be on your

guard when you go near her. Besides, you might have waited till

to- morrow, and had me with you: it was mere folly to attempt the

interview to-night, and alone."

"I thought I could have done some good."

"You thought! you thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to hear

you: but, however, you have suffered, and are likely to suffer

enough for not taking my advice; so I'll say no more. Carter --

hurry! -- hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off."

"Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this

other wound in the arm: she has had her teeth here too, I think."

"She sucked the blood: she said she'd drain my heart," said Mason.

I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust,

horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion;

but he only said -

"Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don't

repeat it."

"I wish I could forget it," was the answer.

"You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to

Spanish Town, you may think of her as dead and buried -- or rather,

you need not think of her at all."

"Impossible to forget this night!"

"It is not impossible: have some energy, man. You thought you

were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive

and talking now. There! -- Carter has done with you or nearly so;

I'll make you decent in a trice. Jane" (he turned to me for the

first time since his re-entrance), "take this key: go down into

my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room: open

the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and

neck-handkerchief: bring them here; and be nimble."

I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles

named, and returned with them.

"Now," said he, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his

toilet; but don't leave the room: you may be wanted again."

I retired as directed.

"Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?" inquired

Mr. Rochester presently.

"No, sir; all was very still."

"We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be better, both

for your sake, and for that of the poor creature in yonder. I have

striven long to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come

at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his waist-coat. Where

did you leave your furred cloak? You can't travel a mile without

that, I know, in this damned cold climate. In your room? -- Jane,

run down to Mr. Mason's room, -- the one next mine, -- and fetch

a cloak you will see there."

Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined

and edged with fur.

"Now, I've another errand for you," said my untiring master; "you

must away to my room again. What a mercy you are shod with velvet,

Jane! -- a clod-hopping messenger would never do at this juncture.

You must open the middle drawer of my toilet-table and take out a

little phial and a little glass you will find there, -- quick!"

I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.

"That's well! Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering

a dose myself, on my own responsibility. I got this cordial at

Rome, of an Italian charlatan -- a fellow you would have kicked,

Carter. It is not a thing to be used indiscriminately, but it is

good upon occasion: as now, for instance. Jane, a little water."

He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the water-bottle

on the 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 after

he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his arm -

"Now I am sure you can get on your feet," he said -- "try."

The patient rose.

"Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer,

Richard; step out -- that's it!"

"I do feel better," remarked Mr. Mason.

"I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the

backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of

the post-chaise you will see in the yard -- or just outside, for I

told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement -- to

be ready; we are coming: and, Jane, if any one is about, come to

the foot of the stairs and hem."

It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of

rising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent. The side-

passage door was fastened; I opened it with as little noise as

possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open,

and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver

seated on the box, stationed outside. I approached him, and said

the gentlemen were coming; he nodded: then I looked carefully round

and listened. The stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere;

the curtains were yet drawn over the servants' chamber windows;

little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched orchard

trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall

enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped from

time to time in their closed stables: all else was still.

The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and

the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable ease: they assisted

him into the chaise; Carter followed.

"Take care of him," said Mr. Rochester to the latter, "and keep

him at your house till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a

day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with you?"

"The fresh air revives me, Fairfax."

"Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind --

good- bye, Dick."

"Fairfax -- "

"Well what is it?"

"Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may

be: let her -- " he stopped and burst into tears.

"I do my best; and have done it, and will do it," was the answer:

he shut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove away.

"Yet would to God there was an end of all this!" added Mr. Rochester,

as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.

This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a

door in the wall bordering the orchard. I, supposing he had done

with me, prepared to return to the house; again, however, I heard

him call "Jane!" He had opened feel portal and stood at it, waiting

for me.

"Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments," he said;

"that house is a mere dungeon: don't you feel it so?"

"It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir."

"The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes," he answered; "and

you see it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the

gilding is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs; that the marble

is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly

bark. Now HERE" (he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered)

"all is real, sweet, and pure."

He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees,

and cherry trees on one side, and a border on the other full of all

sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses,

pansies, mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant

herbs. They were fresh now as a succession of April showers and

gleams, followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the

sun was just entering the dappled east, and his light illumined

the wreathed and dewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks

under them.

"Jane, will you have a flower?"

He gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and offered

it to me.

"Thank you, sir."

"Do you like this sunrise, Jane? That sky with its high and light

clouds which are sure to melt away as the day waxes warm -- this

placid and balmly atmosphere?"

"I do, very much."

"You have passed a strange night, Jane."

"Yes, sir."

"And it has made you look pale -- were you afraid when I left you

alone with Mason?"

"I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room."

"But I had fastened the door -- I had the key in my pocket: I should

have been a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb -- my pet lamb

-- so near a wolf's den, unguarded: you were safe."

"Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?"

"Oh yes! don't trouble your head about her -- put the thing out

of your thoughts."

"Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she stays."

"Never fear -- I will take care of myself."

"Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now, sir?"

"I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor even

then. To live, for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust which

may crack and spue fire any day."

"But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence, sir, is

evidently potent with him: he will never set you at defiance or

wilfully injure you."

"Oh, no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt

me -- but, unintentionally, he might in a moment, by one careless

word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of happiness."

"Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear, and

show him how to avert the danger."

He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw

it from him.

"If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger be? Annihilated

in a moment. Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say

to him 'Do that,' and the thing has been done. But I cannot give

him orders in this case: I cannot say 'Beware of harming me,

Richard;' for it is imperative that I should keep him ignorant that

harm to me is possible. Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle

you further. You are my little friend, are you not?"

"I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is right."

"Precisely: I see you do. I see genuine contentment in your gait

and mien, your eye and face, when you are helping me and pleasing

me -- working for me, and with me, in, as you characteristically

say, 'ALL THAT IS RIGHT:' for if I bid you do what you thought wrong,

there would be no light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no

lively glance and animated complexion. My friend would then turn

to me, quiet and pale, and would say, 'No, sir; that is impossible:

I cannot do it, because it is wrong;' and would become immutable

as a fixed star. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure

me: yet I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful

and friendly as you are, you should transfix me at once."

"If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me,

sir, you are very safe."

"God grant it may be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down."

The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained

a rustic seat. Mr. Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for

me: but I stood before him.

"Sit," he said; "the bench is long enough for two. You don't

hesitate to take a place at my side, do you? Is that wrong, Jane?"

I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been

unwise.

"Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew -- while all

the flowers in this old garden awake and expand, and the birds

fetch their young ones' breakfast out of the Thornfield, and the

early bees do their first spell of work -- I'll put a case to you,

which you must endeavour to suppose your own: but first, look

at me, and tell me you are at ease, and not fearing that I err in

detaining you, or that you err in staying."

"No, sir; I am content."

"Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy:- suppose you were no

longer a girl well reared and disciplined, but a wild boy indulged

from childhood upwards; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land;

conceive that you there commit a capital error, no matter of what

nature or from what motives, but one whose consequences must follow

you through life and taint all your existence. Mind, I don't say

a CRIME; I am not speaking of shedding of blood or any other guilty

act, which might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my word

is ERROR. The results of what you have done become in time to you

utterly insupportable; you take measures to obtain relief: unusual

measures, but neither unlawful nor culpable. Still you are

miserable; for hope has quitted you on the very confines of life:

your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which you feel will not

leave it till the time of setting. Bitter and base associations

have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here and

there, seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure -- I mean in

heartless, sensual pleasure -- such as dulls intellect and blights

feeling. Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years

of voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance -- how or

where no matter: you find in this stranger much of the good and

bright qualities which you have sought for twenty years, and never

before encountered; and they are all fresh, healthy, without soil

and without taint. Such society revives, regenerates: you feel

better days come back -- higher wishes, purer feelings; you desire

to recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of days

in a way more worthy of an immortal being. To attain this end,

are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom -- a mere

conventional impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies

nor your judgment approves?"

He paused for an answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for some

good spirit to suggest a judicious and satisfactory response! Vain

aspiration! The west wind whispered in the ivy round me; but no

gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as a medium of speech: the birds

sang in the tree-tops; but their song, however sweet, was inarticulate.

Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query:

"Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant,

man justified in daring the world's opinion, in order to attach

to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby

securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?"

"Sir," I answered, "a wanderer's repose or a sinner's reformation

should never depend on a fellow-creature. Men and women die;

philosophers falter in wisdom, and Christians in goodness: if any

one you know has suffered and erred, let him look higher than his

equals for strength to amend and solace to heal."

"But the instrument -- the instrument! God, who does the work,

ordains the instrument. I have myself -- I tell it you without

parable -- been a worldly, dissipated, restless man; and

I believe I have found the instrument for my cure in -- "

He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling.

I almost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to

catch the suspended revelation; but they would have had to wait many

minutes -- so long was the silence protracted. At last I looked

up at the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me.

"Little friend," said he, in quite a changed tone -- while his

face changed too, losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming

harsh and sarcastic -- "you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss

Ingram: don't you think if I married her she would regenerate me

with a vengeance?"

He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and

when he came back he was humming a tune.

"Jane, Jane," said he, stopping before me, "you are quite pale with

your vigils: don't you curse me for disturbing your rest?"

"Curse you? No, sir."

"Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fingers!

They were warmer last night when I touched them at the door of the

mysterious chamber. Jane, when will you watch with me again?"

"Whenever I can be useful, sir."

"For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I shall

not be able to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear

me company? To you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have

seen her and know her."

"Yes, sir."

"She's a rare one, is she not, Jane?"

"Yes, sir."

"A strapper -- a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with

hair just such as the ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me!

there's Dent and Lynn in the stables! Go in by the shrubbery,

through that wicket."

As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in

the yard, saying cheerfully -

"Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before

sunrise: I rose at four to see him off."

CHAPTER XXI

Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so

are signs; and the three combined make one mystery 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 source 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

worn 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 water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing

one the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me;

but whatever mood the apparition evinced, 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 one idea -- this strange recurrence

of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached 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 thither, 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 remember 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 years 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?"

"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," 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 worst 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 frightful. Robert Leaven resumed -

"Missis had been out of health 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 kept making signs to my wife and mumbling.

It was only yesterday morning, however, 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, 'Jane, Jane,' so many

times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday:

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 ready: 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;" and having directed him to the

servants' hall, and recommended him to the care 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 rooms; 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 Ingram.

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 their 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, "What 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 striking: 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?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and

Mr. Rochester turned to see who the "person" was. He made a curious

grimace -- one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations -- 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?"

"To see a sick lady who has sent for me."

"What sick lady? -- where does she live?"

"At Gateshead; in -shire."

"-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends

for people to see her that distance?"

"Her name is Reed, sir -- Mrs. Reed."

"Reed of Gateshead? There was 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 her? 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 neglect her wishes now."

"How long will you stay?"

"As short a time as possible, sir."

"Promise me only to stay a week -- "

"I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it."

"At all events you WILL come back: you will not be induced 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?"

"Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family."

Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you wish to go?"

"Early to-morrow morning, sir."

"Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money,

and I daresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet.

How much have you in the world, Jane?" he asked, smiling.

I drew out my purse; a meagre thing 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 know 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 give 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."

"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 ought 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 sense 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 exclaimed, 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 terms with my relatives as would justify

me in asking favours of them -- but I shall advertise."

"You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!" he growled. "At your

peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign

instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, 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 cash."

"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 trust this quest of a situation to me.

I'll find you one in time."

"I shall be glad so to do, sir, 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 that 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 notions, 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 stand with his back against that door?"

I asked myself; "I want to commence my packing." The dinner-bell

rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I

saw him no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in

the morning.

I reached the lodge at Gateshead about 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 were

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 the 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. Reed? -- 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 laid 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 looked 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 undress 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

me 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

accommodate 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 Bessie listened with interest: they

were precisely of the kind she relished.

In such conversation an hour was soon 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 and embittered heart -- a sense of outlawry and almost

of reprobation -- to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that

bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again

rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet 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 dread 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 hall; "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 the morning I was

first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood 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 place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the

Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not

changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.

Two young ladies appeared before me; 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 augmented

by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress,

a starched 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 Georgiana: 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 one trait of the mother -- and only

one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm

eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour 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; and then she sat down again,

fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgiana

added to her "How d'ye do?" several commonplaces about 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 plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young

ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they

think you a "quiz" without actually saying the 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 between 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 mortify, 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 potent than any they could raise

-- pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite 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 mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt

if you can see her to-night."

"If," said I, "you 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 disturbed in an evening," remarked Eliza. I

soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet 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 addressed 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 know 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 door: 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 certain 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 face, and I eagerly sought the

familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells 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 hands in amity.

The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever -- there

was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and 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 sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I

stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me.

"Is this Jane Eyre?" she 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 pressed mine

kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But

unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural

antipathies 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 sense 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 said, "and I am here; and it is my intention

to stay till I see how you get on."

"Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?"

"Yes."

"Well, you may tell them I wish 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 there 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. Turning restlessly, she drew the

bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt,

fixed it down: she was at once irritated.

"Sit up!" said she; "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 incomprehensible 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: but 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 mother always; for she was my husband's only

sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family's

disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of

her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby;

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, whining, 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

friendly 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

resemble 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 money? 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 submit 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. "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!" exclaimed 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 her. Meantime,

I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were

very 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 would 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, and some sheets of paper, I used

to take a seat apart from them, near the window, 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 soft 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 brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined

nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-

looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, 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 required the most careful working. I drew them

large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre;

the irids lustrous and large. "Good! but not quite the thing,"

I thought, as I surveyed the effect: "they want more force and

spirit;" and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights 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 course, I lied:

it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester.

But 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 ugly man." They both seemed surprised at my

skill. I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn,

sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced 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 been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation:

she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she

had spent in London two seasons ago -- of the admiration she had

there excited -- the attention she had received; 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

conversations 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 theme -- 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 five 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 be; 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 day 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

carpet. 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 want no company; no

conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine

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 place safe barriers

between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would

accompany her.

"Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they

never had had. She would not be burdened with 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, till

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 gloomy 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

have music, dancing, and society -- or you languish, you die away.

Have you no sense 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 minutes, five minutes

-- include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method,

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 vacant 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 want me or

any one else, happen what may. Neglect it -- go on as heretofore,

craving, 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 to 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 leave you in the old world,

and betake myself to the new."

She closed her lips.

"You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that

tirade," answered Georgiana. "Everybody knows you are the most

selfish, heartless creature in existence: and I know your spiteful

hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the

trick you played me about Lord Edwin 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 the spy and

informer, and ruined my prospects for ever." Georgiana took out

her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza

sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.

True, generous feeling is made small 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

too 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 went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days

as there were prayers.

I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped,

who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a

remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after,

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 found 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, gazed 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?"

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 whispered 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."

"Who -- I?" was her answer. "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."

"Aunt," she repeated. "Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the

Gibsons; and yet I know you -- that face, 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, "I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive

me. I wished to see Jane Eyre, 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 supposed 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," 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 present 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. "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. "Read 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 as 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."

It was dated three years back.

"Why did I never hear of this?" 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 turned 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 miserable 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 was 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 forget 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 said

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 persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and

to regard me with kindness and forgiveness"

"You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day

I feel it impossible 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 bad as you think: I am passionate, but

not vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, 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 again 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 forgiveness: 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 amity: but she

gave none. She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind

again 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 morning 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

still: 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 sweet, nothing pitying,

or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish

for HER woes -- not MY loss -- and a sombre tearless dismay 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." 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.

CHAPTER XXII

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 and 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 wailings 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; and I thought to myself, "If you and I were destined

to live always together, cousin, we would commence matters on a

different footing. I should not settle 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 happens 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 now 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 communication with any one. She wished me to look

after the house, to see callers, and answer 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

nunnery you would call it; there I shall be quiet and unmolested.

I shall devote myself 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 suspect 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 this 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: "Good-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 mention 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 endowed 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; and later,

what it was to come back from church to Lowood, to long for

a plenteous 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 point, 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 moments; 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 cell; and I dwelt on

and analysed their separate peculiarities of person and character.

The evening arrival at the great town of -- scattered these thoughts;

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 dispersed;

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. "I don't

doubt it."

The question followed, "Where was I to go?" I dreamt of Miss

Ingram all the night: in a vivid morning 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 me at Millcote. I

proposed to walk the distance quietly by myself; and very quietly,

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 summer evening, though fair and soft:

the haymakers were at work all along the road; 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

cloud 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: and 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 waited my

arrival. "Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure,"

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:

but a few more days or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him

for ever!" 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 arrive. 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 gather 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 does 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 can 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 please."

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 face

-- 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 yet 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 mortal, 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 last month?"

"I have been with my aunt, sir, 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 scattered 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 forgot 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 that 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; and whether she won't look like

Queen Boadicea, leaning back against those purple 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 occasions.

He seemed to think it too good for common purposes: it was the

real sunshine 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 weary little wandering feet at a friend's

threshold."

All I had now to do was to obey him 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 turned

me round. I said -- or something in me said for me, and in spite of me -

"Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely

glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home --

my only home."

I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken me

had he tried. Little Adele was half wild with delight 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 resolutely against the future: I stopped

my cars against the voice that kept warning me of near separation

and coming grief. When tea was over and Mrs. Fairfax had taken

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 e 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 succeeded my return to Thornfield Hall.

Nothing was said of the master's marriage, and 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 Ingram 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 indefatigable a horseman as Mr. Rochester, it would be but a

morning's ride. I began to cherish 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, alas! never had I loved him

so well.

CHAPTER XXIII

A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so

radiant as were then seen in long succession, seldom favour even

singly, our wave-girt land. It was as if a band of Italian 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 tinted, 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 cool 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 solitary 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 lonely 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 quarter, my step is stayed -- not by

sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning fragrance.

Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, 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 ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood

half a mile off; no moving form 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 entering. 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 lifting the gooseberry-

tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they

are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping

towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to

admire the dew-beads 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 softly, 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 crossed 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 eyes behind -- could his shadow

feel? I started at first, and then I approached him.

"Look at his wings," said 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 sheepishly retreating also; but Mr.

Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said -

"Turn back: on so lovely a night 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 though my tongue is sometimes prompt

enough at an answer, there are times when it sadly 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 painful 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 him. 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.

"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, and a good deal of the

organ of Adhesiveness?"

"I am attached to it, indeed."

"And though I don't comprehend 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," 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 hour 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 intimated to you that it was

my intention to put my old bachelor's neck into the sacred 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 which 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:" 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 shall 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

Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You'll like Ireland, I think: they're

such warm-hearted people there, they say."

"It is a long way off, sir."

"No matter -- a girl of your sense 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 -- wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and

what I naturally and inevitably loved.

"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, Jane: 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 close 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 heaven

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 if 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, "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

hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that

cord of communion 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 convulsively; 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 leave it?"

The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me,

was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting

a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at

last: yes, -- and to speak.

"I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:- I love it, because

I have lived in it a full and delightful 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 every

glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high.

I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I

delight in, -- with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I

have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and

anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see

the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity

of death."

"Where do you see the necessity?" he asked suddenly.

"Where? You, sir, have placed it before me."

"In what shape?"

"In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman, -- your

bride."

"My bride! What bride? I have no bride!"

"But you will have."

"Yes; -- I will! -- I will!" He set his teeth.

"Then I must go:- you have said 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, and 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 through 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 rejoined: "and yet not so; for you are a married

man -- or as good as a married man, 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?"

"Yes -- to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere

now."

"Jane, be still; don't struggle 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 life at my side -- to be my second self,

and best earthly companion."

"For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide

by it."

"Jane, be still a few moments: 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 away -- away --

to an indefinite distance -- it died. The nightingale's song was

then the 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."

"Your bride stands between us."

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?"

"Entirely."

"You have no faith in me?"

"Not a whit."

"Am I a liar in your eyes?" 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 prove: 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 coldness 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 husband."

"What, me!" I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness -- and

especially in his incivility -- to credit his 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 strange gleams in the

eyes

"Oh, Jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed. "With that searching

and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!"

"How can I do that? If you are 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 -- give 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!"

"Dear Edward!"

"Come to me -- come to me entirely 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," he said. And if I had loved

him less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation

savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting

-- called to the paradise of union -- I thought only of the bliss

given me to drink 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 comfortless? Will I not

guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart,

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 thereof. For man's opinion -- I defy it."

But what had befallen the night? The 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 morning, Jane."

"And so," thought I, "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 against Mr.

Rochester's shoulder.

The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds,

and into the house; but we were quite wet before 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

her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester.

The lamp was lit. 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 looked 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 time,"

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 ask if

I was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength

for anything.

Before I left my bed in the morning, 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 of it

split away.

CHAPTER XXIV

As I rose and dressed, I thought over 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 words 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 pleased 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 me, because none had I

ever worn in so blissful a mood.

I was not surprised, when I ran down 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 breathing 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 purse -- 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 looking out of the window with a

sad countenance, and saying gravely -- "Miss Eyre, 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

explanations; and so must she. I ate what I could, and then I

hastened upstairs. I met Adele leaving the schoolroom.

"Where are you going? It is time for lessons."

"Mr. Rochester has sent me away 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-morning," 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 this 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 the

mistake: for him they were new-dyed, I suppose.)

"It is Jane Eyre, sir."

"Soon to be Jane Rochester," he added: "in four weeks, Janet; not

a day more. Do you hear that?"

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 and stunned.

It was, I think almost fear.

"You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?"

"Because you gave me a new name -- 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 does 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 realise. 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 Thornfield. In a day

or two I hope to pour them into your lap: for every privilege, every

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 diamond chain round your neck, and the circlet

on your forehead, -- which it will become: 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-like

fingers with rings."

"No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things,

and in another strain. Don't address me 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 uneasy 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 harlequin'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, without noticing my deprecation.

"This very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and

you must choose some dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be

married in four weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in

the church 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 French vineyards and Italian plains;

and she shall see whatever is famous in old story 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 you, 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 mad;

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 you: which

I do not at all anticipate."

"What do you anticipate of me?"

"For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now, -- a very

little while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be

capricious; and then you will be stern, and I shall have 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. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion,

I hope never to become quite distasteful 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 nor 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 will 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 very 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 made 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 and 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 refined 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; you 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 do 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 the confession, and begin

and coax and entreat -- even cry and be sulky if necessary -- 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 in. 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 Christian, 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 civil 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 is 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 you

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 was 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 small -- not one whit bigger than the

end of my little finger. It was a burning shame and a scandalous

disgrace to act in that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram's

feelings, sir?"

"Her feelings are concentrated 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 feel

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, designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid

your principles on some points are eccentric."

"My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a

little awry for want of attention."

"Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been

vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any 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 say -- more than

words had power to express.

"Ask something more," he said presently; "it is my delight to be

entreated, and to yield."

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 Millcote 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 love, and considered

it well lost?"

"I believe she thought I had forgotten my station, and yours, sir."

"Station! station! -- your station 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 heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs.

Fairfax's parlour, I hurried down to it. The old lady, 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 spectacles,

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 alone and fancy things that

have never happened. It has seemed to me more than once when I

have been in a doze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years

since, 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 actually 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 you

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. "I could never have thought it. He

is a proud man: all the Rochesters were proud: and his father,

at least, liked money. He, too, has always been called careful.

He means to marry you?"

"He tells me so."

She surveyed my whole person: in her 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 fortune 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!" 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, and 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," pursued the widow; "but you are

so young, and so little acquainted with 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 found

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 always 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 trusted to protect yourself. Last

night I cannot tell you what I suffered when I sought 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," 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. Gentlemen 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 on the 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. Rochester, if you please: it would be better."

"Not it: she will be a restraint."

He was quite peremptory, both in look 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 hopes.

I half lost the sense of power over him. I was about mechanically

to obey him, without further remonstrance; but as he helped me into

the carriage, he looked 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, and 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 shortly 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 peeped round to

where I sat; so stern a neighbour was too restrictive to him, in

his present fractious mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor

ask of him any information.

"Let her come to me," I entreated: "she will, perhaps, trouble

you, sir: there is plenty of room on this side."

He handed her over as if she had been 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, "absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take

mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall 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 eat: 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 herself: 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 clothes, they

will wear out: how can she get new ones?"

Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. "Hem!" said he. "What

would you do, Adele? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How

would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown, do you 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 tired of living with only you in

the moon. If I were mademoiselle, I would never consent 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 fly."

"Adele, look at that field." 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 the 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 raking 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, though daylight was fading from the leaf, when

something came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked

at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head.

I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at my knee. I never

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 from Elf-land, it said; and its errand

was to make me happy: I must go with it out 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 in my breeches-pocket, under the disguise of

a sovereign: but I mean soon to change it to a ring again."

"But what has mademoiselle to 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," 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 "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 live 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 silk 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

now. By dint of entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I

reduced the half-dozen to two: these however, he vowed he would

select himself. With anxiety I watched his eye rove over the gay

stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye,

and a superb pink satin. I told him in a new series of whispers,

that he might as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bonnet at

once: I should 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."

Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of

a jewellers shop: the more he bought me, the more 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 hurry 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 going 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 moment, 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 way," 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 series 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 black 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 your 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 coercion, your first

act, when released, would be to violate its conditions."

"Why, Jane, what would you have? 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, sir; 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 that I

shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides.

I'll furnish my own wardrobe out of that money, and you

shall give me nothing but -- "

"Well, but what?"

"Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be

quit."

"Well, for cool native impudence 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?" he asked, as we re-entered

the gates.

"No, thank you, sir."

"And what for, 'no, thank you?' 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 supposition 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

other time."

"I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under

all this, 'pour me donner une contenance,' 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 hold, 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 alight 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 presence in the evening. I had prepared

an occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole

time in a tete-e-tete 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 said 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 the 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 sing. I hied

me to the window-recess. And while I sat there and looked out on

the still trees and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow

tones the following strain:-

"The truest love that ever heart

Felt at its kindled core,

Did through each vein, in quickened start,

The tide of being pour.

"Her coming was my hope each day,

Her parting was my pain;

The chance that did her steps delay

Was ice in every vein.

"I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,

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 dangerous as the foamy race

Of ocean-surges green.

"And haunted as a robber-path

Through wilderness or wood;

For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,

Between our spirits stood.

"I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned

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

Disasters 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,

Swear endless enmity.

"My love has placed her little hand

With noble faith in mine,

And vowed that wedlock's sacred band

Our nature shall entwine.

"My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,

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 scene,

daring demonstration, I would not have; and I stood in peril of

both: a weapon 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 very 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."

"Indeed it was: I had as good 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 excused."

Here I heard myself apostrophised as a "hard little thing;" and

it was added, "any other woman would have been melted to marrow at

hearing such stanzas crooned in her praise."

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 ensuing 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 liked, and as to talking rationally, I

flattered myself I was doing that now."

He fretted, pished, and pshawed. "Very good," I thought; "you may

fume and fidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue

with you, I am certain. I like you more than I can 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,

maintain by its pungent aid that distance between you and myself

most conducive to our real mutual advantage."

From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then,

after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the 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 pursued during the whole season of

probation; and with the best success. He was kept, 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 for: 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; though 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 "provoking puppet," "malicious elf," "sprite,"

"changeling," &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

affirmed 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 virtue, another must be

devised."

Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have

pleased than teased him. My future husband was 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 God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.

CHAPTER XXV

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 complete. I,

at least, had nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed,

locked, corded, ranged in a row along the wall 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 written 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 time 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 already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw

bonnet: for not to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment;

the pearl-coloured robe, the vapoury 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."

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 circumstances 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 anxious thought. Something had

happened which I could not comprehend; no one knew of 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 drew 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 walk, I faced the wreck of

the chestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk, split

down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken

from 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: their great boughs on each side were

dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both

to earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one 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 scorched, there must

be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion

at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves

more -- never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in

your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but

you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade 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 bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly

in the deep drift of cloud. 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 off again.

Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples

with which the grass round the tree roots was 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 table 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 the 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

pale 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

fast on the gale.

"I wish he would come! I wish 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 interpreted it

as a warning of disaster. I feared my hopes were too bright to be

realised; 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 will 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 horseman 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 took 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 without me, that is evident. Step on

my boot-toe; give me both hands: mount!"

I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty

kissing I got for a welcome, and some boastful triumph, 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 meet 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 there anything

the matter?

"Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy."

"Then you have been both?"

"Rather: but I'll tell you all about it by-and-bye, sir; and I

daresay you will only laugh at me for my pains."

"I'll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then I

dare not: my prize is not certain. This is you, 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 boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now

let me get down."

He landed me on the pavement. As John 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 before you, Jane? Is it the

thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?"

"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. "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 the tray. When we were again

alone, I stirred the fire, and then took a low seat 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," 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?"

"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 knows 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 the heart's core."

I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was

ardent and flushed.

"Give me your confidence, Jane," he said: "relieve your mind of

any weight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you

fear?- -that I shall not prove a good husband?"

"It is the idea farthest from 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 look and tone of sorrowful audacity

perplex and pain me. I want an explanation."

"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 think 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 beheld you in

imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence.

I thought of the life that lay before me -- YOUR life, sir -- an

existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much more

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 from

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 though 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

could bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections.

I saw plainly how you would look; and heard your impetuous republican

answers, and your haughty 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 look 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 demon. 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 house

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 child: 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 movements were fettered, and my voice still died

away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther

every moment."

"And these dreams weigh on your 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 whole heart."

"Well," he said, after some minutes' silence, "it is strange; but

that sentence has penetrated 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 sublime 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, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me -- tease

me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather be incensed

than saddened."

"I will tease you and vex you to your heart's content, when I have

finished my tale: but hear me to the end."

"I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the

source of your melancholy in a dream."

I shook my head. "What! is there 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 proceeded.

"I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary

ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I thought 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 grass-grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble

hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up

in a shawl, I still carried the unknown 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

of a horse at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and

you were departing for many years and for a distant country. I

climbed the thin wall with frantic 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 clung round

my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I gained the

summit. 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."

"All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a

gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought -- Oh, it is daylight! But I was

mistaken; it was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come

in. 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 heard a rustling there. I asked, 'Sophie,

what are you doing?' No one answered; but 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 veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie,

it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: 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 them," interrupted my master.

"No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape

standing before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts

of Thornfield Hall before; the height, the contour were new to me."

"Describe it, Jane."

"It seemed, sir, a woman, tall 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 blackened inflation

of the lineaments!"

"Ghosts are usually pale, Jane."

"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, trampled 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: the 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 mine,

and I lost consciousness: for the second time in my life -- only

the second time -- 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 treasure: 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, were they real too? Is Thornfield

Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am

I leaving you without a tear -- without a kiss -- without a word?"

"Not yet."

"Am I about to do it? Why, the 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 that."

"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, Jane, 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!"

He drew his breath short, and strained 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, enter 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 long 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 in 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?"

I reflected, and in truth it appeared 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 leave 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 is no wonder that the incident

you have related should make you nervous, and I would 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 securely 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 finished breakfast

before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care

away, 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 lifted 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 the 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?"

"The night is serene, sir; and 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 joy; for I never slept at all.

With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber 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 he I was now to array

myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future

day.

CHAPTER XXVI

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 robed 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, "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 only 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. One 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, was 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."

"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 and I. Mrs. Fairfax

stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her,

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 not 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 resolute: or who, under such

steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes.

I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive,

I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was 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 stopped: he discovered I was quite out

of breath. "Am I cruel in my love?" 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 the steeple, of a

ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green

grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of

strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes

graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because,

as they saw us, they passed round 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

lips cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with

me up the path to the porch.

We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his

white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk 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 they

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 time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth,

his wife.

Our place was taken at the communion 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 towards Mr. Rochester, went on.

"I require and charge you both (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 Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is

their matrimony lawful."

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 thou 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 speaker 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 turning

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 -

"I cannot proceed without some 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 prove my allegation: an insuperable

impediment to this marriage exists."

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: 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 answer. "I have called it insuperable, and I

speak advisedly."

The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued,

uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly -

"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr.

Rochester has a wife now living."

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken 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 whole 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 asked of the intruder.

"My name is Briggs, a solicitor 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, nasal voice:-

"'I affirm and can prove that 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, daughter 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 register 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 fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will

scarcely controvert."

"Produce him -- or go to hell."

"I will produce him first -- he 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; near 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 Mason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at

him. His eye, as I have often said, 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, "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 Thornfield Hall," said Mason, in more articulate

tones: "I saw her there last 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 Hall."

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 your surplice; John

Green (to the clerk), leave the church: there will be no wedding

to-day." The man obeyed.

Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: "Bigamy is an

ugly word! -- I meant, however, to be a bigamist; 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

there 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 whom 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 silent on family secrets before.

Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both 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 of 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 girl," 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!"

Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen

came after. At the front door of the hall we found 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, Adele, Sophie, Leah, advanced to

meet and greet us.

"To the right-about -- every soul!" cried the master; "away with

your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I! -- they are fifteen

years too late!"

He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and

still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which 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 wall, uncovering the second door:

this, too, he opened. In a room without a window, 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

cooking 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 being, 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 head

and face.

"Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!" said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and

how is your charge to-day?"

"We're tolerable, sir, I thank you," replied Grace, lifting the

boiling mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not

'rageous."

A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the

clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.

"Ah! sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not

stay."

"Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments."

"Take care then, sir! -- for God'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 has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not

in mortal discretion to fathom her craft."

"We had better leave her," 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 settled her with a well-planted blow; but

he would not strike: he would only wrestle. 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 with a smile both acrid and desolate.

"That is MY WIFE," said he. "Such is the sole conjugal embrace

I am ever to know -- such are the endearments which are to solace

my leisure hours! And THIS is what I wished to have" (laying his

hand on my shoulder): "this 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 that 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 stayed 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 you 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 gentleman 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 -- decline -- and the

stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He could

not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare

into which you had 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 despatch, 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. Have we anything else to stay for?"

he inquired of Mr. Mason.

"No, no -- let us be gone," 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; this

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 cleared, 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 take off the wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I

had worn yesterday, 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:

but NOW, I THOUGHT.

The morning had been a quiet morning 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 master; then the living proof had been

seen; the intruders were gone, and all was over.

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 life?

-- 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, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay

a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers,

to-day were pathless with untrodden 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-forests in wintry

Norway. My hopes were all dead -- struck with a subtle doom, such

as, 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 which was my master's -- which he

had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a

cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek

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; but the attribute

of stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I

must go: THAT I perceived well. 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 and 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 throbbed life-like within me -- a remembrance

of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering

up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should

be whispered, but no energy was found to express them -

"Be not far from me, for trouble 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 over

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 soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt

no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me."

CHAPTER XXVII

Some time in the afternoon I raised 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 -- "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 wakened 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 averred 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 suffering

I saw laid out for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion

by the throat, 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 depths 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 the priest to transfix it."

I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless

a judge haunted, -- at the silence which so awful a voice filled.

My head swam as I stood erect. I perceived that I was sickening

from excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my

lips that 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 those whom fortune

forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. 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 the 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 hush, 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 prepared 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 sting a passion? You sit

quietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, 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 as 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 moment 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 sick. I want some water." He heaved

a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking me 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 chamber. 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 pang, 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

cannot leave him."

"How are you now, Jane?"

"Much better, sir; I shall be well soon."

"Taste the wine again, Jane."

I obeyed him; then he put the glass 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 face 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 neither 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 already, you would reply.

-- I guess rightly?"

"Yes."

"If you think so, you must have 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 first place, you are faint still, and have enough to do

to draw your breath; in the 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 scene:

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 word, 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

stranger to me: to live under this roof only as Adele's governess;

if ever I say a friendly 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 death 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, nor 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 would

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 unhealthiness 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 charge:

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 poisoned, and always

was. But I'll shut up Thornfield Hall: I'll nail up the front

door 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

aid in the paroxysms, when MY WIFE is prompted by her familiar to

burn people in their beds at night, to stab them, to bite

their flesh from their bones, and so on -- "

"Sir," I interrupted him, "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 broken, 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 you in an embrace, at least as

fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with

disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should have

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 Thornfield. 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, sir," I interrupted; "she will be a

companion for you."

"What do you mean, Jane? I told 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 companion?"

"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 don'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 degree of courage, excited as he

was becoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent. He had been

walking fast about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted

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 aspect.

"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 exert

a fraction of Samson's strength, and break the entanglement like

tow!"

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 license.

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 all 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 when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took

hold of his clenched hand, loosened 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 leave to speak directly. I had

been struggling with tears for some time: I had taken great pains

to repress them, because I knew he would not like to see me weep.

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 entreating 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 his head on my

shoulder, but I would not permit it. Then he would draw me to him:

no.

"Jane! Jane!" he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it

thrilled along every nerve I had; "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 recoil

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 not show or

indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it."

"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 furious 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 few minutes, while you smooth your

hair -- which is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe 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 become 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 mistress. Why did

you shake your head? Jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth I

shall again become frantic."

His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye

blazed: still I dared to speak.

"Sir, your wife is living: that 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-tempered man -- you forget that: I am

not long-enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. 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

beings do instinctively when they are driven to utter extremity --

looked for aid to one higher than man: the words "God help me!"

burst involuntarily from my lips.

"I am a fool!" cried Mr. 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 woman, or of the circumstances

attending my infernal union with her. Oh, I am certain 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, did 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 told 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

should 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 was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the

style of Blanche Ingram: tall, dark, 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, stimulated: my senses were excited;

and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved

her. There is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of

society, the prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth, will

not hurry a man to its commission. Her relatives encouraged me;

competitors piqued me; she allured 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 manners -- 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 never 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 affection 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 be 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

against 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 -- when 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 vexations of her absurd, contradictory,

exacting orders -- even then I restrained myself: I eschewed

upbraiding, I curtailed remonstrance; I tried to devour my repentance

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 tried 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 through all the

hideous and degrading agonies which must attend a man bound to a

wife 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, depraved 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 pity you -- I do earnestly pity you."

"Pity, Jane, from some people 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

woes, 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 heart is heaving --

with which your hand is trembling in mine. Your pity, my darling,

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 arms wait to receive her."

"Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad?"

"Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect

was all that intervened between me and the gulf. In the eyes

of the world, I was doubtless covered with grimy dishonour; 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 yet 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

wife; 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 awakened 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 description that

frequently precede the hurricanes of those climates. Being unable

to sleep 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 dull like an earthquake -- black

clouds were casting up over it; the moon was setting in the waves,

broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball -- she threw her last bloody

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 curses 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 had a fouler vocabulary

than she: though two rooms off, I heard every word -- the thin

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 have a right to deliver

myself from it if I can. The sufferings of this mortal state 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 blew over the ocean and rushed through

the open casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed,

and the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution.

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 possible. 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 what 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 your 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 consequences,

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 make him blush to own her as his

daughter-in-law. Far from desiring to publish the 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 when I at last got her

to Thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in that third-storey 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 perhaps

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 asked, 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, sir."

"I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought. It

was not my original intention to deceive, as I have deceived you.

I meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my proposals 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 found

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, Jane, you always make me smile. You

open your eyes like an eager bird, and make every 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

before 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 you liked: whether you asked her to

marry you; and what she said."

"I can tell you whether I found 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, heard a tone,

beheld a form, which announced the realisation of my dream: but

I was presently undeserved. You are not to suppose that I desired

perfection, either of mind or person. I longed only for what

suited me -- for the antipodes of the Creole: and I longed vainly.

Amongst them all I found not one whom, had I been 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. That was my Indian Messalina's attribute:

rooted disgust at it and her restrained me much, even in pleasure.

Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to approach 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 Varens -- another of

those steps which make a man spurn himself when he recalls them. You

already 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 was 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 forming 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 not 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

familiarly with inferiors is degrading. I now hate the recollection

of the time I passed with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara."

I felt the truth of these words; and 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 feeling 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 might 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 mistresses -- in a

harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely

life -- corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all

men, and especially 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 afternoon, 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 guise. I did not know it, even when, on

the occasion of Mesrour's accident, it came 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 come 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 for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts

were elsewhere: but you were very patient 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 slowly 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 paced 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 willing 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 absolutely 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 perfectly 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

independent: 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 gave; 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 between 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; you 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 liked 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, and 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 freshness 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. Moreover,

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 chance 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 was the

tedium of your life -- that made you mournful. I permitted myself

the delight 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 stretched 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 there 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 soon -- and all these

reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings only made my

work more difficult.

"No, Jane," he returned: "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 stands -- do you not?" he continued.

"After a youth and manhood passed half 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 better

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.

"It was because I felt and knew 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 before 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 life 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

BENT 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?"

I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my

vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning!

Not a human being that ever lived could wish to be loved better

than 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 -- "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 with 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 kissing my forehead and cheek.

"I do," extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.

"Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This -- this is wicked. It would not

be wicked to love me."

"It would to obey you."

A wild look raised his brows -- crossed 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 away 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, Jane? 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?"

"No."

"Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?" His

voice rose.

"I advise you to live sinless, 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 assign 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."

"You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I

declared I could not change: you tell me to 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 injured by what you

do?"

Still indomitable was the reply -- "I care for myself. The more

solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more

I will respect myself. 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 and 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

convenience 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 seized 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 draught 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 -- often 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 what good would it do if I bent,

if I uptore, if I crushed her? Consider that eye: 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 cannot 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 from 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 dared 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?"

"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!" broke 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 knelt 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 master!" I said. "God keep you from harm

and wrong -- direct you, solace you -- reward you well for your

past kindness to me."

"Little Jane's love would have been my best reward," he answered;

"without it, my heart is broken. But Jane will give me her love:

yes -- nobly, generously."

Up the blood rushed to his face; forth 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 cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added,

"Farewell for ever!"

That night I never thought to sleep; 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 fears.

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 clouds, high and dim; the gleam

was such as the moon imparts to vapours she is about to sever. I

watched her come -- watched with the strangest anticipation; as

though 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, inclining a glorious brow earthward.

It gazed and gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit: immeasurably

distant was the tone, yet so near, it whispered in my heart -

"My daughter, flee temptation."

"Mother, I will."

So I answered after I had waked from the trance-like dream. It was

yet night, but July nights are short: soon after 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

nothing but my shoes. I knew where to find in my drawers some linen,

a locket, a ring. 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 mine: it was the visionary

bride's who had melted in air. The other articles I made 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 and 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!" 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 might now

be listening.

I would have got past Mr. Rochester'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 would spring to my lips. I thought

of this.

That kind master, who could not sleep now, was waiting with

impatience for day. He would send for me in the morning; 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 thought of this too. My hand moved towards the

lock: I caught it back, and glided on.

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 oiled the

key and the lock. I got some water, I got some bread: for perhaps

I should have to walk far; and my strength, sorely shaken of late,

must not break down. 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 locked; 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 never 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 back; 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. But 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 thought 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 remembrance 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 midst of my pain of heart and

frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. I had 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 wildly 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 determined 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 going:

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 tears 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.

CHAPTER XXVIII

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 another 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-known 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 -- white, 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 where 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 banks 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 waste, 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 lodging: reluctant sympathy importuned, almost certain repulse

incurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my wants

relieved!

I touched the heath, it was dry, and yet warm with the beat 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

good; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from

man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her

with filial fondness. To-night, 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 noon with a stray

penny -- my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming here and

there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a handful and ate

them with the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied,

appeased by this hermit's meal. I said my evening prayers at its

conclusion, and then chose my couch.

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 double, 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 inward 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 thought, I rose to my knees. Night

was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too

serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere;

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 worlds 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 soft 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 should

perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to

thanksgiving: 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

earth and sky -- I got up, and I looked round me.

What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading

moor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on

it. I saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the

sweet bilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or

lizard, that I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter

here. But I was a human being, and had a human being's wants: I

must not linger where there was nothing 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 require

my soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved

by death from further conflict with fate, had now but to decay

quietly, and mingle in peace 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 road 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 nearly

done enough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue that

almost overpowered me -- might relax this forced action, and, sitting

down on a stone 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 mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea.

Recalled by the rumbling 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 human 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 the 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 refreshment

I could perhaps regain a degree of energy: without it, it would

be difficult to proceed. The wish to have some strength and some

vigour returned to me as soon as I was amongst my fellow-beings.

I felt it would be degrading to faint with 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 handkerchief

tied round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how

men and women 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 there. Seeing a respectably-dressed

person, a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility.

How could she serve me? I was seized with shame: my tongue would

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 her

"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 point 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."

"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."

"And what do the women do?"

"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 two 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 discover 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

more. 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 again 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 dwelling to serve me? Yet I drew near

and knocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired young 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 could get employment of any kind?" I

continued. "I am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place.

I want some work: no matter what."

But it was not her business to think 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 sorry 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 brought low.

I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides,

no prospect of aid was visible. I should have 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 was a chance of food. Solitude would be no solitude

-- rest no rest -- while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak and

talons in my side.

I drew near houses; I left them, and 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 have 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 like a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my

courage, and gathering my feeble 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."

"To a distance?"

"Not so far -- happen three mile. 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 her, 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 handkerchief -- once more I thought of the

cakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! 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?"

"No! what could she do with them?"

Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell 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,

form 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, that 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 exchange 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 supper 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 his

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 night 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 change

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 give 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!" 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 mould 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 more.

"My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy. "I feel

I cannot go much farther. Shall 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 will receive me? But

it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness,

chill, and this sense of desolation -- this total prostration of

hope. 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 then, 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 now, 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 yonder 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 -- should pick my flesh from

my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin

and moulder in a pauper's grave."

To the hill, then, I turned. I reached 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, quite 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. It 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, wetting

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 long.

The light was yet there, shining dim 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 clump

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 the 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; and 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 deal 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-chair, 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 them 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 supported 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 firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was

it, I could hear the cinders fall from the 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, therefore, 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 terror -- listen!" And in a

low voice she read something, of which not one word was intelligible

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 fire, a line of what had been

read. At a later day, I knew the language and the book; 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!" 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 fustian. 'Ich wage die Gedanken

in der Schale meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines

Grimms.' I like it!"

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 knawn'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 think us, Hannah. We don't speak

German, and we cannot read it without a dictionary to help us."

"And what good does it do you?"

"We mean to teach it some time -- or at least the elements, as they

say; and then we shall get more money than we 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 tough 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 inner room; she

presently came back.

"Ah, childer!" said she, "it fair troubles me to go into yond'

room now: it looks so lonesome wi' the chair 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 was 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 and Mr. St. John is like

of different soart to them 'at's gone; for all your mother 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 shade

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 tresses 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 meal. 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 conversation

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 candle she held.

"May I speak to your mistresses?" 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 dreaded, 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 where 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 turned away."

"Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that bring you

about folk's houses at this time o' night. 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

dogs, 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 doorstep: 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 said, "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," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all

are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as

yours would be if you perished here of want."

"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 night 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?" cried Hannah.

"Yes -- yes; open quickly."

"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 is 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 -- trembling, sickening;

conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and

weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the

old servant, 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," 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 could 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 famished?"

"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."

"Yes -- try," repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my

sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me:

feebly at first, eagerly soon.

"Not too much at first -- restrain her," said the brother; "she

has had enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of

bread.

"A little more, St. John -- look 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 answered -- "My name is Jane Elliott."

Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before 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 crossed the threshold of this house,

and once was brought face to face with its owners, 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 once 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 details 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 asked, "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 thought, a remarkable countenance,

instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage.

Answering her compassionate gaze with a smile, I said -- "I will

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 and 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 questions; 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 stealing over me as

I sat by the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some directions

to Hannah. Ere long, with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount

a staircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry

bed received me. I thanked God -- experienced amidst unutterable

exhaustion a glow of grateful joy -- and slept.

CHAPTER XXIX

The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is

very dim in my mind. I can recall some sensations 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 change from morning to noon, from noon

to evening. I observed when any one entered or left the apartment:

I could even tell who they were; I could understand what was said

when the speaker stood near to me; but I could not answer; to

open my lips or move my limbs was equally impossible. Hannah, the

servant, was my most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I

had a feeling that she wished me away: that she did not understand

me or my circumstances; that she was prejudiced against me. Diana

and Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a day. They

would whisper sentences of this sort at my bedside -

"It is very well we took her in."

"Yes; she would certainly have 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 imagine -- poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer?"

"She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of

speaking; her accent was quite pure; 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 and 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 looked at me, and said my state of

lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted

fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature,

he was sure, would manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve

had been overstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep

torpid a while. There 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 voice; and added, after a pause, in

the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive comment, "Rather

an unusual physiognomy; certainly, not indicative of vulgarity or

degradation."

"Far otherwise," responded 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," 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: but I trace lines

of force in her face which make me sceptical of her tractability."

He stood considering me some minutes; then added, "She looks

sensible, but not at all handsome."

"She is so ill, St. John."

"Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of

beauty are quite wanting in those features."

On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move,

rise in bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me some 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 comb 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 hated, 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 presently 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 never

been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm

as weeds among 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!" 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 afore you came here?"

I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out

of the question, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her,

I answered quietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness -

"You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any

more than yourself or your young ladies."

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. "Whatever 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.

"Mak' 'em into pies."

"Give them to me and I'll pick them."

"Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought."

"But I must do something. Let me have them."

She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over

my dress, "lest," as she said, "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 Morton."

"That village a few miles off?

"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 here, and his father, and grandfather,

and gurt (great) grandfather afore him."

"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 family long?"

"I've lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three."

"That proves you must have been 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 surprised 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 continued, 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 some minutes.

"You munnut think too hardly of me," she again remarked.

"But I do think hardly of you," I said; "and I'll tell you why --

not so much because you refused to give 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 people 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 clear 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 moment we were friends.

Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit,

and she made the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry

details about her deceased master and mistress, and "the childer,"

as she called the young people.

Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain 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 allowed, "the owd maister was

like other folk -- naught mich out o' t' common way: stark mad o'

shooting, and farming, and sich like." The mistress was different.

She was a great reader, and studied a deal; and the "bairns" had

taken after her. There was nothing like them in these parts, nor

ever had been; they had liked learning, all three, almost from

the time they could speak; and they 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 father's death; but they did so like

Marsh End and Morton, and all these moors and hills 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 there was such a family for being united.

Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked where the

two ladies and their brother were now.

"Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back in half-an-hour

to tea."

They returned within the time Hannah 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 me.

"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 more reserved, and her manners, though gentle, more distant.

Diana looked and spoke with a certain authority: she had a will,

evidently. It was my nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an

authority supported like hers, and to bend, where 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 solus 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 room, 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 other 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 lady's desk in rosewood, which stood on

a side-table: everything -- including the carpet 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 been

a statue instead of a man, he could not have been easier. He was

young -- perhaps from twenty-eight to thirty -- tall, slender;

his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure in

outline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite 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 large 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

as 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 eager. 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 preparing tea, brought

me a little cake, baked on the top of the oven.

"Eat that now," she said: "you must be hungry. Hannah says you

have had nothing but some gruel since breakfast."

I did not refuse it, for my appetite 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. There

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 low fever has forced you to abstain for

the last three days: there would have been danger in yielding to

the cravings of your appetite at first. Now you may eat, though

still not immoderately."

"I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir," was my very

clumsily-contrived, unpolished answer.

"No," he said coolly: "when you have indicated to us the residence

of your friends, we can write to them, and you may be restored to

home."

"That, I must plainly tell you, 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 more of curiosity. I speak

particularly of the young ladies. St. John's eyes, though clear

enough in a literal sense, in a figurative one were difficult

to fathom. He seemed to use them rather as instruments to search

other people's thoughts, than as agents to reveal his own: the

which combination of keenness and reserve 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 England."

"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 he 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?" 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 concisely.

"Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, a right to keep, both

from St. John and every other questioner," remarked Diana.

"Yet if I know nothing about you or your history, I cannot help

you," he said. "And you need help, 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 work 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 true 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 hospitality, 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 physical, and that of others.

"I am an orphan, the daughter 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 name of the

establishment, where I passed six years as a pupil, and two as a

teacher -- 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 useless,

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 everything 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, forbade me to perish of

want at your door, and took me under the shelter of your roof. I

know all your sisters have done for me since -- for I have not

been insensible 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

forgotten 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 sure," 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 long 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 so. 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 here: 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 natural to her.

"My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you," said Mr.

St. John, "as they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing

a half-frozen bird, some wintry wind might have driven through

their casement. I feel more inclination to put you in the way of

keeping yourself, and shall endeavour to do so; but observe, my

sphere 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 things, seek some more efficient succour

than such as I can offer."

"She has already said that she 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 with such crusty

people as you."

"I will be a dressmaker; I will be a plain-workwoman; I will be a

servant, a nurse-girl, if I can be no better," 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.

CHAPTER XXX

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 health 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 wished, and aid them when and where they would allow me. There

was a reviving pleasure 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. They 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 would bloom -- found a charm

both potent and permanent. They clung to the purple moors 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-fields 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 the

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 them -- so

many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast and the

soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon day; the hours of sunrise

and sunset; the moonlight and the clouded night, developed for me,

in these regions, the same attraction as for them -- wound round

my faculties the same spell that entranced theirs.

Indoors we agreed equally well. They 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 the 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 handsome; 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 first

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 together: 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 which 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 devoted 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 light

he regarded it. Sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable,

his sisters would 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 meditation.

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 labours,

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 writing, 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 frequent

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, and but once in

my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, and

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 sake of their soothing silence --

never seek out or dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they

could yield.

Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had

an opportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its

calibre when I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish

I could describe that sermon: but it is past my power. I cannot

even render faithfully 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 points

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 impulses of insatiate

yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Rivers

-- 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, than had I with my concealed and racking

regrets for my broken idol and lost elysium -- regrets to which I

have latterly avoided referring, but which possessed me and tyrannised

over me ruthlessly.

Meantime a month was gone. Diana and 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 wealthy

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 about 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

necessary."

"And they will go in three days now?" I said.

"Yes; and when they go, I shall return to the parsonage at Morton:

Hannah will accompany me; and this old house 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 difficulty 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 eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I

explain, recall, if you please, my notice, 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

the 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-bushes 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 church-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

-- for I see now your habits have been what the world calls refined:

your tastes lean 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 soil where the Christian labourer's task of tillage is appointed

him -- the scantier the meed his toil brings -- the higher the honour.

His, under such circumstances, 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 proceeded: indeed, he seemed leisurely

to read my face, as if its features and lines were characters

on a page. The conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially

expressed in his succeeding observations.

"I believe you will accept the 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 leave 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 two 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

sufficiently, 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-foundry in the valley. The

same lady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan from

the workhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in such

menial 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 this mistress?"

He put the question rather hurriedly; 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 humble -- 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 proposal, Mr. Rivers, and I accept it with

all my heart."

"But you comprehend me?" he said. "It is a village school: your

scholars will be only poor girls -- cottagers' children -- at the

best, farmers' daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing,

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 -- tastes?"

"Save them till they are wanted. 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 room. 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."

He started at the word "ambitious." 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."

"Well, if you are not ambitious, you are -- " He paused.

"What?"

"I was going to say, impassioned: but perhaps you would have

misunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human

affections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. 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: any 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 hear 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 hour I had learnt more of him than

in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled 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 might 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 dissuade 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 tears 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," said he.

Both the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled; the

tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.

"Dead?" repeated Diana.

"Yes."

She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. "And what

then?" she demanded, in a low voice.

"What then, Die?" he replied, 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," said Diana at last.

"At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before," remarked

Mary.

"Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what

MIGHT 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. Diana 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 never seen him or known

him. He was my mother's brother. My father and he quarrelled

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; that 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

spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would have esteemed

ourselves rich with 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.

CHAPTER XXXI

My home, then, when I at last find a home, -- is a cottage; a

little room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, 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 drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my

scanty wardrobe: though the kindness 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, with 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 knit, 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 language. 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 pleases 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 native 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, content, 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

taken a step which sank instead of raising me in the scale of social

existence. I was 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 strive to overcome

them. To-morrow, I trust, I shall get the better of them partially;

and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a

few months, it 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 southern

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 was 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 better, I ask,

to be a slave in a fool's paradise at Marseilles -- fevered with

delusive bliss one hour -- suffocating with the bitterest tears of

remorse and shame the next -- or to be a village-schoolmistress,

free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy heart of

England?

Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and

law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings 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 school, was

distant half a mile from the village. The birds were singing

their last strains -

"The air was mild, the dew was 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 might 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 building 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 only 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 day'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 accommodations -- 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 weeks

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 loneliness."

"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 firmly

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," 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 done, 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

-- when 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 nourishment for the mind, as strong as the

forbidden food it longed to taste -- and perhaps 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 active 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 well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence,

the best qualifications of soldier, 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 -- which 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 settled, a successor for Morton provided, an

entanglement or two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder

-- a last conflict with human weakness, in which I know 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 me, 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

sound of the hour and scene; we might well then start when

a gay voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed -

"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 split 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

gate, 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 under 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 clime 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 gives 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 lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy,

sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth without flaw; the

small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses -- all

advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty,

were fully 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 his

countenance. He had already withdrawn his eye from the Peri, and

was looking 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) "this afternoon. Papa told me you

had opened your school, and that the new mistress 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?"

"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 heiress; 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 you to teach sometimes," she added. "It

will be a change for me to visit 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 men 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 stern and

square, as the laughing girl gave him this information. He lifted

his gaze, 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 again fell to caressing Carlo.

"Poor Carlo loves me," said she. "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, bending 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 large 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 works 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 exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled head, as

if shocked at herself. "I am so giddy and thoughtless! DO excuse

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 obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not

stay any longer: the dew begins to fall. Good evening!"

She held out her hand. He just touched 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 asked. 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 suffering and sacrifice rapt my thoughts

from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated

her brother "inexorable as death." She had not exaggerated.

CHAPTER XXXII

I continued the labours of the village-school as actively and

faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some time

elapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholars

and their nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid,

they seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dull

alike: but I soon 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, once 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 which 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 salutations, 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, charged 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. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then I

rose up on my curtainless bed, 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

heart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance, even

when he did not see 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 expressive of a repressed fervour,

stronger than working muscle or darting glance could indicate.

Of course, she knew her power: indeed, 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 despair 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 from 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 wild

field of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace of Vale

Hall. I learnt so much from himself in an inroad I once, despite

his reserve, had the daring to make on his confidence.

Miss Oliver already honoured me with 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 help 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 charming, 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

mind 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 affirmed, 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 and 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 sundry 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.

"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 arms and her neck were

bare; her only ornament was her chestnut tresses, which waved 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 and 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 sketch 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 evening at Vale Hall.

I went. I found it a large, handsome 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 Rosamond, "she is clever enough to be a governess

in a high family, papa."

I thought I would far rather be where 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 that

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

clergyman'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, well 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 made 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 tint

and the drapery to shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to

the ripe lips -- 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 book for evening

solace," and he laid on the table a new publication -- a poem: one

of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate

public of those days -- the golden age of modern literature. Alas!

the readers of our era 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 presence,

their liberty and strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe

in heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones

weep over their destruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius banished?

No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to the thought.

No; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and without 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), St. 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 thinks 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. "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?" 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," he said; "very soft, clear colouring;

very graceful and correct drawing."

"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 would 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 picture: 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, light, 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 Madagascar, 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."

Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred him, and that

her father was not likely to oppose the match, 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 as 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 would be wiser and more judicious if you

were to take to yourself the original at once."

By this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on the table

before him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly

over it. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my

audacity. I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject

he had 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 really need the frank discussion

of their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The

sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to "burst" with

boldness and good-will into "the silent sea" of their souls is

often to confer on them the first of obligations.

"She likes you, I am sure," 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." And he actually took out his watch

and laid it upon the table to measure the time.

"But where is the use of going 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 things. Fancy me yielding and melting,

as I am doing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain

in my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the field 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 -- gazing

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 senses are entranced

-- let the time I marked pass in peace."

I humoured him: the watch ticked on: 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 and know all this."

I gazed at him in wonder.

"It is strange," pursued he, "that while I love Rosamond Oliver so

wildly -- with all the intensity, 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 marriage;

and that to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of

regret. This I know."

"Strange indeed!" I could not help ejaculating.

"While something in me," 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 sufferer, 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 vocation? My great work? My foundation

laid on earth for a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered

in the band who have merged all ambitions in the glorious one 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 than the blood in my

veins. It is what I have to look forward to, and to live for."

After a considerable pause, I said -- "And Miss Oliver? Are her

disappointment and sorrow of no interest to you?"

"Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers: in less

than a month, my image will be effaced from 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 successor, 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."

"You tremble and become flushed whenever Miss Oliver enters the

schoolroom."

Again the surprised expression crossed 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 female,

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," said 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 confidence 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 which 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 higher, to do more than others, insatiable. I honour

endurance, perseverance, industry, talent; because these are the

means by which men achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence.

I watch your career with interest, because I consider you a specimen

of a diligent, orderly, energetic woman: not because I deeply

compassionate what you have gone through, or what you still suffer."

"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. You missed your epithet. I

am not a pagan, but a Christian philosopher -- a follower 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 youth 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 reared a due sense of

the Divine justice. Of the ambition to win power and renown for

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 portrait.

"She IS lovely," he murmured. "She is well named the Rose of the

World, indeed!"

"And may I not paint one like 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 prevent 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, quick, keen as

lightning. His lips parted, as if to speak: but he checked the

coming 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, using an expression of the district, "that

caps the globe, however!"

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 the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable,

and being certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, and

soon forgot it.

CHAPTER XXXIII

When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling

storm continued all night. The next day a keen 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 sitting 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 thought, 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

cloak 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 door, towards which he again

coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. 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 you," he observed, as he warmed his

hands over the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; happily

the snow is quite soft yet."

"But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying.

"Rather an inhospitable question 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 singular 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 never

seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled

marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from

his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and

cheek as pale, where it grieved me 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 his opinion, wholly superfluous.

I was silenced.

He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still his

eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say

something, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught from

the door, which was behind him.

"No, no!" he responded shortly and somewhat testily.

"Well," I reflected, "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 produced 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 before

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 and Mary lately?"

"Not since the letter I showed you a week ago."

"There has not been any change made about your own arrangements?

You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?"

"I fear not, indeed: such chance 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."

"Does he?"

"He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas."

"I know."

"Was it your suggestion?"

"No."

"Whose, then?"

"His daughter's, I think."

"It is like her: she is so good-natured."

"Yes."

Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes.

It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me.

"Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire," he

said.

Wondering, and of my wonder finding 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 ears; 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 curate -- 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 side 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 overgrown 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 come 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 are 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 other 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 yourself -- 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 the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester."

"Mr. Rivers!" I interrupted.

"I can guess your feelings," 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 that he professed to

offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at the very

altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic.

What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure

conjecture; but when 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, communicating the details I have just imparted.

Is it not an odd tale?"

"Just tell me this," said 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 concerning 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?"

"Of course."

"And what did he say? Who has his letters?"

"Mr. Briggs intimates that the 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 what 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 almost 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 answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise

occupied than with him: I have 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."

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 texture and its

stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin

of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and

I read, traced 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 knew 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 should doubt his knowing anything at all

about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested.

Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do

not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you -- what he wanted with

you."

"Well, what did he want?"

"Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead;

that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich

-- merely that -- nothing more."

"I! -- rich?"

"Yes, you, rich -- quite an heiress."

Silence succeeded.

"You must prove your identity 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 documents."

Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be

lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth -- a very 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 came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to

my isolated self. It was 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 course to speak of -- twenty thousand

pounds, I think they say -- but what is that?"

"Twenty thousand pounds?"

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, "if you had committed a murder, and I had told

you your crime was discovered, you 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, not figures, -- twenty thousand."

I again felt rather like an individual 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! could not stride the

drifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I must

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 Mr. 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 discovery."

"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 me!" 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!" and as he turned from the door, I

placed myself between it and him. He looked 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 was a hard man," said he, "difficult to

persuade."

"And I am a hard woman, -- impossible 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 street. As

you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime and

misdemeanour 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 settled 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 myself to entertain, much less to

express, the thought that rushed upon me -- that embodied 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 straight, -- every ring was perfect, the connection

complete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before St.

John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader 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 uncle's

death, and to say that he had left his property to his brother the

clergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of a

quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. He wrote again

a few weeks since, to intimate that 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 rest." Again

he was going, but I set my back against the door.

"Do let me speak," I said; "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?"

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 found a brother: one I could be

proud of, -- one I could love; and two sisters, whose 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 window 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!" I exclaimed.

St. John smiled. "Did I not say you neglected essential points

to pursue trifles?" he asked. "You were serious when I told you

you had got a fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you are

excited."

"What can you mean? It may be 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

thick 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 benefit. 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 theirs 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. Rivers 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 with 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 you to marry Miss Oliver, and

settle down like an ordinary mortal?"

"You wander: your head becomes 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 rather 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 your 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, though 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, consider it absolutely your own."

"With me," said I, "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 argue, 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

obligation, 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 twenty 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 interrupted, "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 brother -- my sisters will be your sisters

-- without stipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights."

"Brother? Yes; at the distance 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 don't want to marry, and never shall

marry."

"That is saying too much: such 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 -- unsympathising,

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 words 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 make 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 hands, 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 what 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

were drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed

of a competency.

CHAPTER XXXIV

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

somewhat 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 confirmed: they manifested their

affection plainly and strongly. Deep was my gratification to find

I had really a place in their unsophisticated hearts: I promised

them 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 with 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 were gone. "Does not the

consciousness of having done some real good in your 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 well 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."

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 else 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 everything 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, sorting 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 short, 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 has!" 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 turn 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 relationship; but THEN, I hope

you will begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly

society, and the selfish calm 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. "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 profit 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 fervour 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 hear, 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 hard I worked; and so did Hannah:

she was charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst 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

confounded, it was delightful by degrees to invoke order from the

chaos ourselves had made. I had previously taken a journey to S-

to purchase some new furniture: my cousins having given me CARTE

BLANCHE to effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum having been

set aside for that purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms

I left much as they were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive

more pleasure from seeing again the old homely 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

and curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selected antique

ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings, and mirrors,

and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables, answered the end: they

looked fresh without being glaring. A spare parlour and bedroom

I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and crimson upholstery:

I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs. When all

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 came. They were expected about

dark, and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; 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, going on within

its walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me

in the 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 through a great

deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerable changes

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 tone.

"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 book was?"

I showed him the volume on the shelf: 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 when 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

only to aspire -- after what was good and great, certainly; but

still he would never 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 inspiration,

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, too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.

"This parlour is not his sphere," I reflected: "the Himalayan

ridge or Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed 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

cannot 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 advantage 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 moment old Carlo barked joyfully.

Out I ran. It was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels 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 -- kissed me -- then Hannah: patted

Carlo, who was half wild with delight; asked eagerly 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 their pleasant countenances

expanded to the cheerful firelight. While the driver and Hannah

brought in the boxes, they demanded St. John. At this moment he

advanced 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 while to be talked to, and then,

intimating that he supposed they would soon rejoin 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 driver; this done, both followed

me. They were delighted with the renovation and decorations

of their rooms; with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich

tinted china 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 sympathise.

The event of the day -- that is, the return of Diana and Mary --

pleased him; but 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 come, at that unlikely

time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother, who was drawing 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."

"I'm sure, sir, you had better 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 was on better terms with himself.

I am afraid the whole of the ensuing 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 noon till night. They could always

talk; and their discourse, witty, pithy, original, had such charms

for me, that I preferred listening to, and sharing in it, to doing

anything else. St. John did not rebuke our vivacity; but he escaped

from it: he was seldom in the house; his parish was large, the

population scattered, and he found daily business in visiting the

sick and poor in its different districts.

One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive

for some minutes, asked him, "If his plans were 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 and at me; we all three looked at

him: he was serene as glass.

"The match must have been got up hastily," said Diana: "they cannot

have known each other long."

"But two months: they met in October at the county ball at S-. But

where there are no obstacles to a union, 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 Sir

Frederic gives up to them, can he refitted for their reception."

The first time I found St. John alone 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 reserve 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 development of

cordiality: in short, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman,

and lived under the same roof with him, I felt the distance between

us to be far greater than when he had known me only as the village

schoolmistress. When I remembered how far I had once been admitted

to his confidence, I could hardly comprehend 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 not in the position of those conquerors

whose triumphs have cost them too dear? Would 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) settled

into a quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits and regular

studies, 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 habit of leaving

the outlandish-looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometimes

fixing upon us, his fellow-students, with a curious intensity of

observation: 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 light 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 blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of

snow, as well as any of us. Her constitution is both sound and

elastic; -- better calculated to endure variations of climate than

many more robust."

And when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and not a little

weather-beaten, I never dared complain, because 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 leave 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 scrolls.

As I exchanged a translation for an exercise, I happened to look his

way: there 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?"

"Learning German."

"I want you to give up German and learn Hindostanee."

"You are not in earnest?"

"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 hovered

for some time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on

me because 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 lightly 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 persuaded 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, because 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 or follow any other

became vain: I fell under a freezing spell. When he said "go," 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 me.

One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood round him,

bidding him good-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom;

and, as was equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Diana, 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 thought 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; perhaps I might have turned a little

pale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed 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 half 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 vocation. He

wanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach; it racked

me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing was

as impossible as to mould 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 source -- the

evil of suspense.

Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst

these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. 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 graven 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 wrote to Mrs.

Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had calculated

with certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure it would

elicit an early 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 shone like the

former for some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered: not

a line, 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, which I could not enjoy. Summer

approached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I looked 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

Mr. 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 music in

the drawing-room, Mary was gardening -- it was a very fine May day,

clear, sunny, 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 like a physician watching

with the eye of science an expected and fully understood 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 task, 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 companion 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 life 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 observed careful obedience to St. John's directions;

and in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side

by side with him.

The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with

scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream

descending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured

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," said St. John, as we reached the first stragglers

of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which the

beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still 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," 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 recommenced -

"Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman

which sails on the 20th of June."

"God will protect you; for you 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 going 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-perfect.

It seems strange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist

under the same banner, -- to join in the same enterprise."

"All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to

wish to march with the strong."

"I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only

such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it."

"Those are few in number, and difficult to discover."

"You say truly; but when found, 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 message 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?"

I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over

me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spoken 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," continued the deep, relentless voice.

"Jane, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and fellow-labourer."

The glen and sky spun round: the hills 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 us!" But I

was no apostle, -- I could not behold the herald, -- I could not

receive his call.

"Oh, St. John!" I cried, "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 given 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 Sovereign'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 should be conquest for him.

"Humility, Jane," said he, "is the groundwork of Christian virtues:

you say right that you are not 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 ashes. 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: that 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 like me. It

is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will

bear the weight of your human weakness."

"I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied

missionary labours."

"There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can

set you your task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you

from moment to moment. This I could do in the beginning: soon

(for I know your powers) you would be as strong and apt as myself,

and would not require my help."

"But my powers -- where are they for this undertaking? I do not

feel them. Nothing speaks or stirs in me while 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 is 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 accomplish!"

"I have an answer for you -- hear 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, keeping

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 excitement of sacrifice. In the tractability with

which, at my wish, you forsook a study 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 difficulties

-- I acknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek. Jane,

you are docile, diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant,

and courageous; very gentle, and 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 acknowledge

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 then? 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. Rochester is not there;

and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business

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 might 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 offers me truly the most

glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noble 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 very clear

to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews ache,

I SHALL satisfy him -- to the finest central 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 demand 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 into 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 principle? 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."

I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate

column; his face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful 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 union 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 other 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 -- you, 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 point -- the departure with me from

England, the co-operation with me in my future labours -- 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 interests, 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, you 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 missionary 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 there 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, because 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 fallibilities: I comprehended

them. I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank

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.

His eye, bent on me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen

inquiry. "Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to ME!" it seemed to

say. "What does this signify?"

"Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter," he said ere

long; "one of which we may neither 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 heart from

man, and fix it on your Maker, the advancement of that Maker's

spiritual kingdom on earth will be your chief delight and endeavour;

you will be ready to do at once whatever furthers that end. You

will see what impetus would be given 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 enter into that union at once."

"Shall I?" I said briefly; 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 imposing 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 suns, in Asian deserts with

him in that office; admire and emulate his courage and devotion and

vigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed

at his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the

man: profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I

should suffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity:

my body would be under rather 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 which

would be only mine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing

there fresh 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 exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation.

"Well?" he answered icily.

"I repeat I freely consent to 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 become," 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 she 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 known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as

such: to attempt it would 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."

"It would do," I affirmed with some disdain, "perfectly well. I

have a woman's heart, but not where 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."

"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 marrying 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."

"I scorn your idea of love," 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, compressing 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. John; but it is your own fault that

I have been roused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced

a topic on which our natures are at variance -- a topic we should

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 cousin, 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 Cambridge: 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 means, He opens to you a noble career; as my

wife only can you enter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit

yourself for ever to a track of selfish ease and barren obscurity.

Tremble lest in that case you should be numbered with those who

have denied the faith, and are worse than infidels!"

He had done. Turning from me, he once 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 moor. 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 after 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 impressed 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.

CHAPTER XXXV

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 his favour.

Not that St. John harboured a spirit 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 principle, 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; and 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 -- refined, 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

kill me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or

receiving on his 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 his 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, as I looked at him, that this

man, alienated as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we

were near relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to regain

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 because you are still angry with me. Let

us be friends."

"I hope we are friends," 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; for I am sure you are incapable of wishing

any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, 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 tone, was mortifying and baffling

enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride 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 talent and principle. His friendship was of value to me:

to lose it tried me severely. I would not so soon relinquish the

attempt to reconquer it.

"Must we part in this way, St. 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, will 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 frozen sea

in their displeasure?

"No. St. John, I will not marry 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. While 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 made an eternal enemy of you."

A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they

touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to 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 assistant," I answered.

A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him

between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only

singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed

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 single man of mine. I proved

it to you in such terms as, I should have thought, would 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 calmly -

"A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit me. With

me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if you 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

join."

Now I never had, as the reader knows, 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 yourself," 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 almost equivalent to committing

suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting

England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater

use 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 painful doubt, and I can go nowhere

till by some means that doubt is removed."

"I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest

you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. 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 become of him."

"It remains for me, then," 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 deal taller than I:

she put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face.

"Jane," she said, "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 half 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 cherishes 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 marry him."

"He does -- he has asked me to be his wife."

Diana clapped her hands. "That 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 sole idea in proposing to me is to

procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils."

"What! He wishes you to go to India?"

"Yes."

"Madness!" she exclaimed. "You would not live three months there,

I am certain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have

you, Jane?"

"I have refused to marry him -- "

"And have consequently displeased him?" she suggested.

"Deeply: he will never forgive 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 incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the strong,

and you are weak. St. John -- you 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." And again she earnestly

conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out with her brother.

"I must indeed," I said; "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 the

first hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regarded him

as such."

"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 love: 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 -- out of the question!"

"And then," I continued, "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

certain 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 man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the

feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own large

views. It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to keep out

of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample them down.

Here 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 thought 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 his 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: never did his

fine voice sound at once so sweet and full -- never did his manner

become 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 thrilling meaning -- as he sat in the

midst of his household circle (the May moon shining in through the

uncurtained window, and rendering almost unnecessary the light of

the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending over the great

old Bible, 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, indescribable 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," was slowly, distinctly read,

"the fearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part in the

lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second

death."

Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me.

A calm, subdued triumph, blent with 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 book of

life, and he yearned after the hour which should admit him to the

city to which the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour;

which has no need of sun 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 chapter, 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 were luring from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he

claimed the boon of a brand 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 rose, 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 kissed 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

first 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 -- warned 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 better 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 feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants,

or despots -- provided only they 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, and 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 would 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 wrestlings 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 commanded -- life rolled

together like a scroll -- death's gates opening, showed eternity

beyond: 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 him 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,

some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by

one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated.

"I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but

convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow to

marry you here and now -- come afterwards what 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, ALMOST 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 sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was

right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated

of Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether

what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge.

All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and

myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was 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 feeling 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 been 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!" -- nothing 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 voice of a human being -- a known, loved, well-remembered

voice -- that of Edward Fairfax 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 passage: it was dark. I ran out

into the garden: it was void.

"Where are you?" I exclaimed.

The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back -- "Where

are you?" I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was

moorland loneliness and midnight hush.

"Down superstition!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black

by the black yew at the gate. "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.

Where 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 different 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 rose from the

thanksgiving -- took a resolve -- and lay down, unscared, enlightened

-- eager but for the daylight.

CHAPTER XXXVI

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 during 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 last 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 not

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 -- inquire -- 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 him 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 coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have

some to see and ask after in England, before 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, with 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 asked was it a mere nervous

impression -- a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: 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 had 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 spirit, 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 said, 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 asked.

"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 delicacy, 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 kindly and wisely

acquiesced in the silence with which I pursued them, according to

me the privilege of free action I should under similar circumstances

have accorded 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 hopeless, 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 road

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 wayside

inn, situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges and large

fields and 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 were near my bourne.

"How far is Thornfield Hall from here?" I asked of the ostler.

"Just two miles, ma'am, across 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 coachman, and was

going: the brightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I

read 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:-

"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 him 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 man, and inquire if Mr. Rochester be at home."

The suggestion was sensible, and yet 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 see

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 revengeful 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. How 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 there

were the courtyard walls -- the back offices: the house itself,

the rookery still hid. "My first view of it shall be in front," I

determined, "where its bold battlements will strike the eye nobly at

once, and where I can single out my master's very window: perhaps

he will be standing at it -- he rises early: perhaps he is now

walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in front. Could 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 bless him! What then? Who would be

hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance 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 advanced 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 demanded; "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 her. He steals

softly over the grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses --

fancying she has stirred: he withdraws: not for worlds would he

be seen. All is still: 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 name, 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 stone dead.

I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a

blackened ruin.

No need to cower behind a gate-post, 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 roof, 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 vault

in a church aisle. The grim blackness of the stones told by what

fate the Hall had fallen -- by conflagration: but how kindled?

What story belonged to this disaster? What loss, besides mortar and

marble and wood-work had followed upon it? Had life been wrecked

as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful question: there was

no one here to answer it -- not even dumb sign, mute token.

In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated

interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late

occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that

void 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 requested him to shut the

door and sit down: I had some questions to ask him. But when 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-aged man.

"You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I managed to say at last.

"Yes, ma'am; I lived there once."

"Did you?" Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me.

"I was the late Mr. Rochester'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 gentleman, 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 would 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 burnt 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 Millcote, the building was one mass of

flame. It was a terrible spectacle: I witnessed 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 not 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 it."

"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

said 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."

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 much in love as he was:

he was after her continually. They used to watch him -- servants

will, you know, ma'am -- and he set store on her past everything:

for all, nobody but him thought her so very handsome. She was

a little small thing, they say, 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.

Well, 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 had 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,

and 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 gin 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 house,

doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had

nearly burnt 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 been 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 -- quite 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, for 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 acquaintance with all the

gentry, and shut himself up like a hermit at the Hall."

"What! did he not leave England?"

"Leave England? Bless you, no! 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, keener

gentleman than he was before that midge of a governess crossed him,

you never saw, ma'am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards,

or racing, as some are, 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 home 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 wife 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 streaming against the flames as she

stood. I witnessed, and several more witnessed, Mr. 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 stones 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 urged.

"Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there

are only some bits of walls standing now."

"Were any other lives lost?"

"No -- perhaps it would have been 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?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better he dead."

"Why? How?" My blood was 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 last,

after Mrs. Rochester had flung herself from the battlements, there

was a great crash -- all fell. He was taken out from under the

ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: 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 also. 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 would 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 instantly; 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."

CHAPTER XXXVII

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

could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious

site. Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the

exception of some two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation

of the squire when he went 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 continued 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 within a very short distance of the manor-house, you could

see nothing of it, so thick 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-grown 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 grounds 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

anywhere.

I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little;

presently I beheld a railing, then the house -- scarce, by this

dim light, distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were

its 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. There 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 presented 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?" 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 any sorrow,

could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted.

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 with 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 the 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 where he stood. He

relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet and

mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this

moment John approached him from some quarter.

"Will you take my arm, sir?" 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 observed 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?"

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 then I followed

her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I explained

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 down to the turn-pike-house, where I had dismissed

the chaise, and bring my trunk, 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."

"I don't think he will see you," 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 tray, together with

candles.

"Is that what he rang for?" 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 pointed 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. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped

up with a yelp and a whine, 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. Rochester turned mechanically

to SEE what the commotion was: but as he SAW nothing, he returned

and sighed.

"Give me the water, Mary," 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?"

"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where

I stood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he

demanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those sightless eyes

-- unavailing and distressing attempt! "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 has come over me? What sweet madness

has seized me?"

"No delusion -- no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for

delusion, your health too sound for frenzy."

"And where is the speaker? Is 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."

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 -- this is her size -- "

"And this her voice," I added. "She is all here: her heart, too.

God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again."

"Jane Eyre! -- Jane Eyre," was all he said.

"My dear master," I answered, "I am Jane Eyre: I have found you

out -- I am come back to you."

"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, from this day."

"Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an

empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned -- 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!"'

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 mean, 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 cheers 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 with 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?"

"Certainly -- unless you object. 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 wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so

melancholy, my dear master; 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

conventionalities; 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 wife: 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

escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly

remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing

the fool unwittingly; and 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 left

in myself -- I must have you. The world may laugh -- may call me

absurd, selfish -- 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 your mind to be

about my hand and chair -- to wait on me as a kind little nurse

(for you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which

prompt you to make 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 think 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 difficulty

with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I

resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

"It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you," said I, parting

his thick and long uncut locks; "for I see you are being metamorphosed

into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a 'faux air' of

Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: 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 think 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 see a glow -- a ruddy haze."

"And you see the candles?"

"Very dimly -- each is a luminous cloud."

"Can you see me?"

"No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you."

"When do you take supper?"

"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 room in more cheerful order: I

prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits 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 suited 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 presence 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 many 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 so, 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,

and, 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 suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I

fear I shall find her no more."

A commonplace, practical reply, out 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 eyebrows,

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 again 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: you talk of my being

a fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie."

"Am I hideous, Jane?"

"Very, sir: you always were, you know."

"Humph! The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever

you have sojourned."

"Yet I have been with good people; 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."

"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 cease to entertain doubts of

my substantiality."

"Who have you been with, Jane?"

"You shall not get it out of me to-night, sir; you must wait till

to-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, 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 glass of water then: I must bring an egg at the least, to say

nothing of fried ham."

"You mocking changeling -- fairy-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 days, and I believe I am

tired. Good night."

"Just one word, Jane: were there 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 room did you put her

into? Was it dry? Is she up? Go and ask if she wants anything;

and when she will come down."

I came down as soon as I thought there 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 habitual 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 that

office! I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness

of the strong man touched my heart to the quick: still I accosted

him with what vivacity I could.

"It is a bright, sunny morning, 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 features beamed.

"Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not

gone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind 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 not be

lachrymose: I dashed off the salt drops, and busied myself with

preparing breakfast.

Most of the morning was spent in the 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 him, 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 when 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

trunks 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 faithful 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 intention. 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

far 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 than 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 often: 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-nine, 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. Great and exalted deeds are what he

lives to perform."

"But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but

you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?"

"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?"

"Truly able."

"A thoroughly educated man?"

"St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar."

"His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste? -- priggish

and parsonic?"

"I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste,

they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike."

"His appearance, -- I forget what description you gave of his

appearance; -- a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white

neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?"

"St. John dresses well. He is 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 unexpected observation.

"Why not, Mr. Rochester?"

"The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too

overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated 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 bargain."

"I never thought of it, before; 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. Rochester?"

Then followed this cross-examination.

"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 plans, Jane? I know they would be clever,

for you are a talented creature!"

"He approved of them -- yes."

"He would discover many things in you he could not have expected

to find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary."

"I don't know about that."

"You had a little cottage near 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 both 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 meantime?"

"I learnt German, at first."

"Did he teach you?"

"He did not understand German."

"Did he teach you nothing?"

"A little Hindostanee."

"Rivers taught you Hindostanee?"

"Yes, sir."

"And his sisters also?"

"No."

"Only you?"

"Only me."

"Did you ask to learn?"

"No."

"He wished to teach you?"

"Yes."

A second pause.

"Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?"

"He intended me to go with him to India."

"Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry

him?"

"He asked me to marry him."

"That is a fiction -- an impudent 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?"

"Because I am comfortable there."

"No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not

with me: it is with this cousin -- this St. John. Oh, till this

moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had 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."

"Shake me off, then, sir, -- push 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 carries me back a year. I

forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool -- go -- "

"Where must I go, sir?"

"Your own way -- with the husband you have chosen."

"Who is that?"

"You know -- this St. John Rivers."

"He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I

do not love him. He loves (as he CAN love, and that is not as you

love) 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, to go to him?"

I shuddered involuntarily, and clung 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 need not be jealous! I wanted to tease

you a little to make you less sad: I thought 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 with you it would remain,

were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever."

Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect. "My

scarred vision! My crippled 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. As 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 your roots, whether you ask

them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful 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 comfort.

"You speak of friends, Jane?" he asked.

"Yes, of friends," I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew

I meant more than friends, but could 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?"

"Of course: you said nothing about it before."

"Is it unwelcome news?"

"That depends on circumstances, 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 marry

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 you and reward you!"

"Mr. Rochester, if ever I did 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 rewarded 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 sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation

for content. To be privileged to put my arms round 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."

"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 like 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 attendance

of servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy.

Jane suits me: 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."

"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 must 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 your 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 daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart

swells with gratitude to the beneficent God 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 innocent flower -- breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent

snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed

the dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it.

Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came 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 pray: 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 taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all

I endured, I acknowledged -- that 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!'"

"Did you speak these words aloud?"

"I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought

me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy."

"And it was last Monday night, 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 relate.

"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 whispering

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 express what I want to express.

Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where 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 believe 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 your accents

-- as certain as I live -- they were yours!"

Reader, it was on Monday night -- near midnight -- that I too had

received the mysterious summons: those were the very 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 would 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 not the deeper shade of the

supernatural. I kept these things then, and pondered them in my

heart.

"You cannot now wonder," 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 midnight whisper and mountain

echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise.

Yes, I thank God!"

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 round 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.

CHAPTER XXXVIII -- CONCLUSION

Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding 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 cooking

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 both 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 having

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, did 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

again over the roast, said only -

"Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!"

A short time after she pursued -- "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 gave 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 know. I

wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock.

"Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester 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 fair beautiful, onybody

may see that."

I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge 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; "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 name or

alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very

serious, 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 God 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 frantic

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 impracticable; 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 care 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 progress in her studies.

As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great

measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in

her a pleasing 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 word respecting my experience of

married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes 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 am my husband's life as fully is 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 still

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 where 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 -- because he claimed these services

without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly,

that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt

I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge

my sweetest 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?"

I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes."

"And have you a pale blue dress on?"

I had. He informed me then, that for 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 blank 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 officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college

friend of her brother's, and, 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 amidst rocks

and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and

zeal, and 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 for

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 who are redeemed from the earth -- who stand without

fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories

of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.

St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has

hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close:

his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received

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!'"

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