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JANE EYRE
By Charlotte Brontë
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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 mannersomething lighter, franker, more natural,
as it wereshe really must exclude me from privileges
intended only for contented, happy, little children.
What does Bessie say I have done? I asked.
Jane, I dont 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 bookBewicks 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 childrens 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 thiefs 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.
Reeds 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 rainbad
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
mothers heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and
inclined rather to the more refined idea that Johns
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 Reeds 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
gentlemens children like us, and eat the same meals we do,
and wear clothes at our mamas expense. Now,
Ill 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 murdereryou are like a slave-driveryou
are like the Roman emperors!
I had read Goldsmiths 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?
Wont 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 dont 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 moments 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: shes like a mad
cat.
For shame! for shame! cried the
ladys-maid. What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre,
to strike a young gentleman, your benefactresss 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 dont 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.
Dont take them off, I cried; I
will not stir.
In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my
hands.
Mind you dont, 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.
Ive told Missis often my opinion about the child,
and Missis agreed with me. Shes 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
saidYou 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
wouldnt have her heart for anything. Say your
prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you
dont 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 weeks 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-roomthe 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 undertakers 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,
Bessies 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 Reeds violent tyrannies, all his
sisters proud indifference, all his mothers
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 ones 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
oppressionas 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 questionwhy I thus suffered;
now, at the distance ofI 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
childthough equally dependent and friendlessMrs.
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
oclock, 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 unclemy mothers
brotherthat 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 husbands
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
notnever doubtedthat if Mr. Reed had been alive he
would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the
white bed and overshadowed wallsoccasionally also turning
a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaning mirrorI 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.
Reeds spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sisters
child, might quit its abodewhether in the church vault or
in the unknown world of the departedand 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 itI 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 Bessies 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, maam, pleaded
Bessie.
Let her go, was the only answer.
Loose Bessies 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 itlet 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
oclock; 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;
youll be better soon, no doubt.
Bessie went into the housemaids apartment, which was
near. I heard her say
Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I
darent for my life be alone with that poor child to-night:
she might die; its 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
vanishedA great black dog behind
himThree loud raps on the chamber
doorA 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 Gullivers 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 earths 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
handwhen I turned over its leaves, and sought in its
marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to
findall 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 Georgianas 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 oer 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.
Evn should I fall oer 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, dont cry, said Bessie as
she finished. She might as well have said to the fire,
dont 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! Cant
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. Thats for you, nurse, said he;
you can go down; Ill 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. Reeds 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.
Dont 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 cant 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 maywho knows? Have you any
relations besides Mrs. Reed?
I think not, sir.
None belonging to your father?
I dont 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 Reeds tastes were no rule for mine, and
if Bessies 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
Abbots 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 Iwith a roast onion. Come,
well 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
Dont 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 hours 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 housekeepers 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 Bessies 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 suppera bun or a cheese-cakethen 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 oclock 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
interestfifty 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 dolls 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 porters 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. Reeds
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 ata 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 meYour 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. Reeds.
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. Brocklehursts 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 frocksthey are almost like poor
peoples children! and, said she, they looked
at my dress and mamas, as if they had never seen a silk
gown before.
This is the state of things I quite approve,
returned Mrs. Reed; had I sought all England over, I could
scarcely have found a system more exactly fitting a child like
Jane Eyre. Consistency, my dear Mr. Brocklehurst; I
advocate consistency in all things.
Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties;
and it has been observed in every arrangement connected with the
establishment of Lowood: plain fare, simple attire,
unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and active habits; such is
the order of the day in the house and its inhabitants.
Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this
child being received as a pupil at Lowood, and there being
trained in conformity to her position and prospects?
Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of
chosen plants, and I trust she will show herself grateful for the
inestimable privilege of her election.
I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr.
Brocklehurst; for, I assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of
a responsibility that was becoming too irksome.
No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good
morning. I shall return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course
of a week or two: my good friend, the Archdeacon, will not permit
me to leave him sooner. I shall send Miss Temple notice
that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no
difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.
Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and
Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and Master
Broughton Brocklehurst.
I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book
entitled the Childs 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 bellillness 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. Reeds 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 backroughly and violently thrust me
backinto 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 meknocked 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 Ill let everybody
at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done.
Jane, you dont 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 nurserytheres a dearand
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 alonewinner 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 conquerors 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-hours 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. Reeds 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 booksome
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 dont you come when you are called?
Bessies 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
nursemaids 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! dont
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 wont you be sorry to leave poor
Bessie?
What does Bessie care for me? She is always
scolding me.
Because youre such a queer, frightened, shy
little thing. You should be bolder.
What! to get more knocks?
Nonsense! But you are rather put upon,
thats 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 Ive some good
news for you.
I dont 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. Ill 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
dont be afraid of me. Dont start when I
chance to speak rather sharply; its so
provoking.
I dont 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 theyll dislike you.
As you do, Bessie?
I dont dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder
of you than of all the others.
You dont show it.
You little sharp thing! youve got quite a new
way of talking. What makes you so venturesome and
hardy?
Why, I shall soon be away from you, and
besidesI 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 youre glad to leave me?
Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now Im 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
wouldnt give it me: youd say youd
rather not.
Ill 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 oclock 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. Reeds 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! dont 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 porters lodge: when we reached it, we found
the porters 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
porters 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
Bessies 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
Bessies 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
housesfor the building spread farwith 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, maam.
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-morrows task, and the hum I had heard was the combined
result of their whispered repetitions.
Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then
walking up to the top of the long room she cried out
Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them
away!
Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round,
gathered the books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave
the word of command
Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!
The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a
tray, with portions of something, I knew not what, arranged
thereon, and a pitcher of water and mug in the middle of each
tray. The portions were handed round; those who liked took
a draught of the water, the mug being common to all. When
it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch
the food, excitement and fatigue rendering me incapable of
eating: I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten cake shared
into fragments.
The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the
classes filed off, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by
this time with weariness, I scarcely noticed what sort of a place
the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw it was
very long. To-night I was to be Miss Millers
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 days Collect was repeated, then
certain texts of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a
protracted reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted an
hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day had
fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the
fourth time: the classes were marshalled and marched into another
room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a prospect of getting
something to eat! I was now nearly sick from inanition,
having taken so little the day before.
The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two
long tables smoked basins of something hot, which, however, to my
dismay, sent forth an odour far from inviting. I saw a
universal manifestation of discontent when the fumes of the
repast met the nostrils of those destined to swallow it; from the
van of the procession, the tall girls of the first class, rose
the whispered words
Disgusting! The porridge is burnt
again!
Silence! ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss
Miller, but one of the upper teachers, a little and dark
personage, smartly dressed, but of somewhat morose aspect, who
installed herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom
lady presided at the other. I looked in vain for her I had
first seen the night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller
occupied the foot of the table where I sat, and a strange,
foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I
afterwards found, took the corresponding seat at the other
board. A long grace was said and a hymn sung; then a
servant brought in some tea for the teachers, and the meal
began.
Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of
my portion without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of
hunger blunted, I perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess;
burnt porridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes; famine itself
soon sickens over it. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw
each girl taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases
the effort was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and
none had breakfasted. Thanks being returned for what we had
not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refectory was evacuated
for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in
passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the
porridge and taste it; she looked at the others; all their
countenances expressed displeasure, and one of them, the stout
one, whispered
Abominable stuff! How shameful!
A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during
which the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of
time it seemed to be permitted to talk loud and more freely, and
they used their privilege. The whole conversation ran on
the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly. Poor
things! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller
was now the only teacher in the room: a group of great girls
standing about her spoke with serious and sullen gestures.
I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at
which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made no
great effort to check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in
it.
A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her
circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried
Silence! To your seats!
Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was
resolved into order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel
clamour of tongues. The upper teachers now punctually
resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait. Ranged
on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty girls sat
motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all with
plain locks combed from their faces, not a curl visible; in brown
dresses, made high and surrounded by a narrow tucker about the
throat, with little pockets of holland (shaped something like a
Highlanders 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 teachersnone 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-workedwhen, as my
eye wandered from face to face, the whole school rose
simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring.
What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was
puzzled. Ere I had gathered my wits, the classes were again
seated: but as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine
followed the general direction, and encountered the personage who
had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the
long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end; she
surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss
Miller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having
received her answer, went back to her place, and said
aloud
Monitor of the first class, fetch the
globes!
While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted
moved slowly up the room. I suppose I have a considerable
organ of veneration, for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe
with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad
daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a
benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling of long
lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on each
of her temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in
round curls, according to the fashion of those times, when
neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress,
also in the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a
sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches
were not so common then as now) shone at her girdle. Let
the reader add, to complete the picture, refined features; a
complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and
he will have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a
correct idea of the exterior of Miss TempleMaria 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
housea 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 titleit 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?
Notwo 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 outfor 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 hastyyou must take care not to
offend her; Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of
person.
But Miss Temple is the bestisnt
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 days fare would be
like this.
After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom:
lessons recommenced, and were continued till five
oclock.
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 girlshe 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 quietlyso 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 punishmentbeyond
her situation: of something not round her nor before her. I
have heard of day-dreamsis she in a day-dream now?
Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see
ither 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
iswhether 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 moreI was still hungry.
Half-an-hours 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
oclock 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
Scatcherds 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
Scatcherds 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 oclock had revived vitality, if
it had not satisfied hunger: the long restraint of the day was
slackened; the schoolroom felt warmer than in the
morningits 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 Temples 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 CharlesI respect
himI 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 herthat 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 shouldso
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 dont understand.
It is not violence that best overcomes hatenor
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 manperhaps 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
resta 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.
Helens 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 dont go and put your drawer
in order, and fold up your work this minute, Ill 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 breada whole, instead of a half,
slicewith 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 Temples 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 maam! 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, maam, 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 childrens
mouths, you may indeed feed their vile bodies, but you little
think how you starve their immortal souls!
Mr. Brocklehurst again pausedperhaps 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 sculptors 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, whatwhat is
that girl with curled hair? Red hair, maam,
curledcurled 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, maam! 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
openlyhere in an evangelical, charitable
establishmentas to wear her hair one mass of
curls?
Julias 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 girls hair must be cut off entirely; I
will send a barber to-morrow: and I see others who have far too
much of the excrescencethat 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 afterIt 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
Dont 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 dont know: I was in
no condition to note particulars; I was only aware that they had
hoisted me up to the height of Mr. Brocklehursts 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 pausein 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 Gods 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 Juggernautthis girl
isa 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
Scatcherds can only see those minute defects, and are
blind to the full brightness of the orb.
CHAPTER VIII
Ere the half-hour ended, five oclock 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 upagain 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, Janeshe 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 dont love me I would rather die than
liveI 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
happinessto 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 Helens 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 superintendents 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,
maam, 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 uncles wife. My uncle is
dead, and he left me to her care.
Did she not, then, adopt you of her own
accord?
No, maam; 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
moderatemost 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 Helens 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 childs 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, maam.
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. Brocklehursts 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 Templesa 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 Helens 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
Burnss, 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 Helens large, mild,
intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore it till
evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved
punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after
afternoon school, I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into
the fire: the fury of which she was incapable had been burning in
my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually been
scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave
me an intolerable pain at the heart.
About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated,
Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer:
it appeared that what he said went to corroborate my
account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school,
announced that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged
against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able to
pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The
teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of
pleasure ran through the ranks of my companions.
Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work
afresh, resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I
toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my
memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with practice; exercise
sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher
class; in less than two months I was allowed to commence French
and drawing. I learned the first two tenses of the verb
Etre, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls,
by-the-bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of
Pisa), on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I
forgot to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot
roast potatoes, or white bread and new milk, with which I was
wont to amuse my inward cravings: I feasted instead on the
spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark; all the
work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees,
picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet
paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds
picking at ripe cherries, of wrens nests enclosing
pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I
examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able
to translate currently a certain little French story which Madame
Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was that problem solved to my
satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.
Well has Solomon saidBetter 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 Temples 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
comradeone 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 surgeons, 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 pleasantit 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 stoodthe
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 shell 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 desirea necessity to see her; and I asked
in what room she lay.
She is in Miss Temples 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; youll 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 oclock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go
to bed.
It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when
Inot having been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from
the perfect silence of the dormitory, that my companions were all
wrapt in profound reposerose softly, put on my frock over
my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, and
set off in quest of Miss Temples 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 Temples 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 impulsessoul and senses quivering
with keen throesI put it back and looked in. My eye
sought Helen, and feared to find death.
Close by Miss Temples 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
oclock: 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 homemy 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
dont leave me, Jane; I like to have you near
me.
Ill 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 somebodys 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 Burnss shoulder,
my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen
wasdead.
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
childrens food; the brackish, fetid water used in its
preparation; the pupils wretched clothing and
accommodationsall 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 Templeor rather that she had
taken with her the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her
vicinityand 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 antipathiessuch 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? Yesyesthe 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 shoemakers 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 glanceit 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
règle. 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 widows 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
smokebut, 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 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 ladys
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
Its 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; youve 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 Ive a little girl besides Bobby there, that
Ive christened Jane.
And you dont 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.
Youre not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so
very stout, continued Mrs. Leaven. I dare say
theyve 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;
andwhat 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 gotplucked, 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 shes not quite easy in her mind: Mr. Johns
conduct does not please herhe 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 Id 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
Bessies 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 Bessies 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 Reeds 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 fathers kinsfolk, the
Eyres?
Never in my life.
Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and
quite despicable: and they may be poor; but I believe they are as
much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years
ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you; Missis
said you were at school fifty miles off; he seemed so much
disappointed, for he could not stay: he was going on a voyage to
a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a day
or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was
your fathers brother.
What foreign country was he going to,
Bessie?
An island thousands of miles off, where they make
winethe butler did tell me
Madeira? I suggested.
Yes, that is itthat 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 oclock 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 dont know, maam;
Ill 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 ones
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
Youre 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, maam? 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 widows 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. Youve brought your luggage with
you, havent you, my dear?
Yes, maam.
Ill 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 aloneLeah 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 cant converse with them on
terms of equality: one must keep them at due distance, for fear
of losing ones authority. Im 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 dont 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 Ill 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, Ill
show you your bedroom. Ive 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
plainfor I had no article of attire that was not made with
extreme simplicityI 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 frockwhich, Quakerlike as
it was, at least had the merit of fitting to a nicetyand
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
gentlemans manor-house, not a noblemans 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 mansions 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 notI 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 housekeeperthe manager. To
be sure I am distantly related to the Rochesters by the
mothers side, or at least my husband was; he was a
clergyman, incumbent of Haythat little village yonder on
the hilland that church near the gates was his. The
present Mr. Rochesters mother was a Fairfax, and second
cousin to my husband: but I never presume on the
connectionin 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 girlmy pupil!
She is Mr. Rochesters 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
bettermy 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.
Cest l` 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 dont
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
dailyapplying 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 smokedhow 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 Mademoisellewhat
is your name?
EyreJane Eyre.
Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our
ship stopped in the morning, before it was quite daylight, at a
great citya huge city, with very dark houses and all
smoky; not at all like the pretty clean town I came from; and Mr.
Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank to the land, and
Sophie came after, and we all got into a coach, which took us to
a beautiful large house, larger than this and finer, called an
hotel. We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to
walk every day in a great green place full of trees, called the
Park; and there were many children there besides me, and a pond
with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with crumbs.
Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?
asked Mrs. Fairfax.
I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the
fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot.
I wish, continued the good lady, you
would ask her a question or two about her parents: I wonder if
she remembers them?
Adèle, I inquired, with whom did
you live when you were in that pretty clean town you spoke
of?
I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy
Virgin. Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, and to say
verses. A great many gentlemen and ladies came to see mama,
and I used to dance before them, or to sit on their knees and
sing to them: I liked it. Shall I let you hear me sing
now?
She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give a
specimen of her accomplishments. Descending from her chair,
she came and placed herself on my knee; then, folding her little
hands demurely before her, shaking back her curls and lifting her
eyes to the ceiling, she commenced singing a song from some
opera. It was the strain of a forsaken lady, who, after
bewailing the perfidy of her lover, calls pride to her aid;
desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest jewels and
richest robes, and resolves to meet the false one that night at a
ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her demeanour, how
little his desertion has affected her.
The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but
I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of
love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very
bad taste that point was: at least I thought so.
Adèle sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with
the naoveti 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 handsoto
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 Fridiric 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 Fridiric, and he was
always kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you
see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to England,
and now he is gone back again himself, and I never see
him.
After breakfast, Adèle and I withdrew to the library,
which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used
as the 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 Parian mantelpiece were
of sparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between the windows
large mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.
In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs.
Fairfax! said I. No dust, no canvas
coverings: except that the air feels chilly, one would think they
were inhabited daily.
Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochesters 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 gentlemans
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 dont knowit is not easy to
describenothing 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 dont
thoroughly understand him, in shortat least, I
dont: 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 proprietornothing 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 nights 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.
Yesafter lifes 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 days 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
Bluebeards 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
housemaids work, continued the widow; not
altogether unobjectionable in some points, but she does well
enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on with your new pupil
this morning?
The conversation, thus turned on Adèle, continued till
we reached the light and cheerful region below.
Adèle came running to meet us in the hall,
exclaiming
Mesdames, vous jtes servies! adding,
Jai bien faim, moi!
We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs.
Fairfaxs 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 others society.
This, par parenthèse, 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 Adèles welfare and
progress, and a quiet liking for her little self: just as I
cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness,
and a pleasure in her society proportionate to the tranquil
regard she had for me, and the moderation of her mind and
character.
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now
and then, when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I
went down to the gates and looked through them along the road; or
when, while Adèle played with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax
made jellies in the storeroom, I climbed the three staircases,
raised the trap-door of the attic, and having reached the leads,
looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and along dim
sky-linethat 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
seenthat then I desired more of practical experience than
I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance
with variety of character, than was here within my reach. I
valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in
Adèle; but I believed in the existence of other and more
vivid kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to
behold.
Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called
discontented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in
my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole
relief was to walk along the corridor of the third storey,
backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the
spot, and allow my minds eye to dwell on whatever bright
visions rose before itand, 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
endeda 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 Pooles
laugh: the same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when
first heard, had thrilled me: I heard, too, her eccentric
murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There were days when she
was quite silent; but there were others when I could not account
for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would
come out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her
hand, go down to the kitchen and shortly return, generally (oh,
romantic reader, forgive me for telling the plain truth!) bearing
a pot of porter. Her appearance always acted as a damper to
the curiosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured and
staid, she had no point to which interest could attach. I
made some attempts to draw her into conversation, but she seemed
a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually cut short
every effort of that sort.
The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife,
Leah the housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent
people; but in no respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk
French, and sometimes I asked her questions about her native
country; but she was not of a descriptive or narrative turn, and
generally gave such vapid and confused answers as were calculated
rather to check than encourage inquiry.
October, November, December passed away. One afternoon
in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adèle,
because she had a cold; and, as Adèle seconded the request
with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidays
had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it, deeming that I
did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a fine,
calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting still in the
library through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fairfax had just
written a letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my
bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the
distance, two miles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon
walk. Having seen Adèle comfortably seated in her
little chair by Mrs. Fairfaxs 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
bienttt, ma bonne amie, ma chère Mdlle.
Jeannette, with a kiss I set out.
The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I
walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy
and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour
and situation. It was three oclock; 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
akrial 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 Bessies 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 Bessies Gytrasha 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 belowdo 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. Rochesters.
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
ladys-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 horses 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 horses 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 housefrom the
grey-hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to
meto that sky expanded before me,a blue sea
absolved from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in solemn
march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from
behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and aspired
to the zenith, midnight dark in its fathomless depth and
measureless distance; and for those trembling stars that followed
her course; they made my heart tremble, my veins glow when I
viewed them. Little things recall us to earth; the clock
struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars,
opened a side-door, and went in.
The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the
high-hung bronze lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower
steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued from
the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood open, and
showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and
brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished
furniture, in the most pleasant radiance. It revealed, too,
a group near the mantelpiece: I had scarcely caught it, and
scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, amongst
which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adèle, when the
door closed.
I hastened to Mrs. Fairfaxs 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 saidPilot 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 masterMr. Rochesterhe is just
arrived.
Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?
Yes, and Miss Adèle; they are in the
dining-room, and John is gone for a surgeon; for master has had
an accident; his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.
Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?
Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some
ice.
Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?
Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who
repeated the news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come,
and was now with Mr. Rochester: then she hurried out to give
orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.
CHAPTER XIII
Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeons orders, went
to bed early that night; nor did he rise soon next morning.
When he did come down, it was to attend to business: his agent
and some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting to speak with
him.
Adèle and I had now to vacate the library: it would be
in daily requisition as a reception-room for callers. A
fire was lit in an apartment upstairs, and there I carried our
books, and arranged it for the future schoolroom. I
discerned in the course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a
changed place: no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour
or two to a knock at the door, or a clang of the bell; steps,
too, often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different
keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing through it;
it had a master: for my part, I liked it better.
Adèle was not easy to teach that day; she could not
apply: she kept running to the door and looking over the
banisters to see if she could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester;
then she coined pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as I
shrewdly suspected, to visit the library, where I knew she was
not wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and made her sit
still, she continued to talk incessantly of her ami,
Monsieur Edouard Fairfax de Rochester, as she
dubbed him (I had not before heard his prenomens), and to
conjecture what presents he had brought her: for it appears he
had intimated the night before, that when his luggage came from
Millcote, there would be found amongst it a little box in whose
contents she had an interest.
Et cela doit signifier, said she,
quil y aura l` dedans un cadeau pour moi, et
peut-jtre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a
parli de vous: il ma demandi le nom de ma
gouvernante, et si elle nitait pas une petite
personne, assez mince et un peu pble. Jai dit
quoui: car cest vrai, nest-ce pas,
mademoiselle?
I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfaxs parlour;
the afternoon was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the
schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adèle to put away
books and work, and to run downstairs; for, from the comparative
silence below, and from the cessation of appeals to the
door-bell, I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at
liberty. Left alone, I walked to the window; but nothing
was to be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together thickened
the air, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down
the curtain and went back to the fireside.
In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture
I remembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the
Rhine, when Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by her entrance the
fiery mosaic I had been 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 oclock: 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. Fairfaxs 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. Rochesters 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
PilotAdèle knelt near him. Half reclined on a
couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the cushion;
he was looking at Adèle and the dog: the fire shone full
on his face. I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty
eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal
sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose,
more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils,
denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and
jawyes, 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 termbroad 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
usualand, as usual, rather triteshe 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 Adèle went
to the table; but the master did not leave his couch.
Will you hand Mr. Rochesters cup? said
Mrs. Fairfax to me; Adèle might perhaps spill
it.
I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand,
Adèle, thinking the moment propitious for making a request
in my favour, cried out
Nest-ce pas, monsieur, quil y a un cadeau
pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votre petit coffre?
Who talks of cadeaux? said he gruffly.
Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of
presents? and he searched my face with eyes that I saw
were dark, irate, and piercing.
I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them:
they are generally thought pleasant things.
Generally thought? But what do you
think?
I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could
give you an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has many
faces to it, has it not? and one should consider all, before
pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.
Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as
Adèle: she demands a cadeau, clamorously,
the moment she sees me: you beat about the bush.
Because I have less confidence in my deserts than
Adèle has: she can prefer the claim of old acquaintance,
and the right too of custom; for she says you have always been in
the habit of giving her playthings; but if I had to make out a
case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger, and have done
nothing to entitle me to an acknowledgment.
Oh, dont fall back on over-modesty! I have
examined Adèle, and find you have taken great pains with
her: she is not bright, she has no talents; yet in a short time
she has made much improvement.
Sir, you have now given me my cadeau; I
am obliged to you: it is the meed teachers most
covetpraise of their pupils progress.
Humph! said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea
in silence.
Come to the fire, said the master, when the tray
was taken away, and Mrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner with
her knitting; while Adèle was leading me by the hand round
the room, showing me the beautiful books and ornaments on the
consoles and chiffonnières. We obeyed, as in duty
bound; Adèle wanted to take a seat on my knee, but she was
ordered to amuse herself with Pilot.
You have been resident in my house three
months?
Yes, sir.
And you came from?
From Lowood school, in ---shire.
Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you
there?
Eight years.
Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I
thought half the time in such a place would have done up any
constitution! No wonder you have rather the look of another
world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of
face. When you came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought
unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand
whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who
are your parents?
I have none.
Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember
them?
No.
I thought not. And so you were waiting for your
people when you sat on that stile?
For whom, sir?
For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening
for them. Did I break through one of your rings, that you
spread that damned ice on the causeway?
I shook my head. The men in green all forsook
England a hundred years ago, said I, speaking as seriously
as he had done. And not even in Hay Lane, or the
fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I
dont think either summer or harvest, or winter moon, will
ever shine on their revels more.
Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised
eyebrows, seemed wondering what sort of talk this was.
Well, resumed Mr. Rochester, if you
disown parents, you must have some sort of kinsfolk: uncles and
aunts?
No; none that I ever saw.
And your home?
I have none.
Where do your brothers and sisters live?
I have no brothers or sisters.
Who recommended you to come here?
I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my
advertisement.
Yes, said the good lady, who now knew what
ground we were upon, and I am daily thankful for the
choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an
invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to
Adèle.
Dont 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 economys 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 libraryI 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
continuedAdèle showed me some sketches this
morning, which she said were yours. I dont 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
dont pass your word unless you are certain: I can
recognise patchwork.
Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for
yourself, sir.
I brought the portfolio from the library.
Approach the table, said he; and I wheeled it to
his couch. Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see
the pictures.
No crowding, said Mr. Rochester: take the
drawings from my hand as I finish with them; but dont push
your faces up to mine.
He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting.
Three he laid aside; the others, when he had examined them, he
swept from him.
Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,
said he, and look at them with
Adèle;you (glancing at me) resume
your seat, and answer my questions. I perceive those
pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?
Yes.
And when did you find time to do them? They have
taken much time, and some thought.
I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood,
when I had no other occupation.
Where did you get your copies?
Out of my head.
That head I see now on your shoulders?
Yes, sir.
Has it other furniture of the same kind
within?
I should think it may have: I should
hopebetter.
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 womans
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 artists 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
artists 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 oclock: what are you about, Miss
Eyre, to let Adèle sit up so long? Take her to
bed.
Adèle went to kiss him before quitting the room: he
endured the caress, but scarcely seemed to relish it more than
Pilot would have done, nor so much.
I wish you all good-night, now, said he, making
a movement of the hand towards the door, in token that he was
tired of our company, and wished to dismiss us. Mrs.
Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: we curtseyed
to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew.
You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar,
Mrs. Fairfax, I observed, when I rejoined her in her room,
after putting Adèle to bed.
Well, is he?
I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt.
True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am
so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he
has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.
Why?
Partly because it is his natureand 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 hador, 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, noperhaps 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 dont 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.
Rochesters 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 Adèle was seldom sent for to
his presence, and all my acquaintance with him was confined to an
occasional rencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or in the
gallery, when he would sometimes pass me haughtily and coldly,
just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance,
and sometimes bow and smile with gentlemanlike affability.
His changes of mood did not offend me, because I saw that I had
nothing to do with their alternation; the ebb and flow depended
on causes quite disconnected with me.
One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my
portfolio; in order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the
gentlemen went away early, to attend a public meeting at
Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but the night being wet
and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany them. Soon
after they were gone he rang the bell: a message came that I and
Adèle were to go downstairs. I brushed
Adèles hair and made her neat, and having
ascertained that I was myself in my usual Quaker trim, where
there was nothing to retouchall being too close and plain,
braided locks included, to admit of disarrangementwe
descended, Adèle wondering whether the petit coffre
was at length come; for, owing to some mistake, its arrival had
hitherto been delayed. She was gratified: there it stood, a
little carton, on the table when we entered the
dining-room. She appeared to know it by instinct.
Ma 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, dont bother me with any details of the
anatomical process, or any notice of the condition of the
entrails: let your operation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi
tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?
Adèle seemed scarcely to need the warningshe 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 cest 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 tjte-`-tjte with a brat.
Dont draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down
exactly where I placed itif 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 wont do to
neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and blood is said
to be thicker than water.
He rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who
soon arrived, knitting-basket in hand.
Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable
purpose. I have forbidden Adèle to talk to me about
her presents, and she is bursting with repletion: have the
goodness to serve her as auditress and interlocutrice; it will be
one of the most benevolent acts you ever performed.
Adèle, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she
summoned her to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with
the porcelain, the ivory, the waxen contents of her
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 Adèle (she
dared not speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of
winter rain against the panes.
Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked
different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so
sternmuch 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,
toonot 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
awareNo, 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, maam, 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.
Adèle is a degree better, but still far below the mark;
Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will:
you puzzled me the first evening I invited you down here. I
have almost forgotten you since: other ideas have driven yours
from my head; but to-night I am resolved to be at ease; to
dismiss what importunes, and recall what pleases. It would
please me now to draw you outto learn more of
youtherefore 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 dont 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 centurys advance in
experience. This is legitimate, et jy tiens,
as Adèle would say; and it is by virtue of this
superiority, and this alone, that I desire you to have the
goodness to talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts,
which are galled with dwelling on one pointcankering 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, sirquite
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 dont 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 wont
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
peculiarhe seems to forget that he pays me #30 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
dont 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 ones 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 dont 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 dont 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 youwiseralmost 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 treasurean 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
eighteenquite 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 dont 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
thatnot 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 shouldso
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 firmGod 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 reformI have strength yet for
thatifbut 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 stingit will taste bitter,
sir.
How do you know?you never tried it. How
very serioushow 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 soothingI 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 thronebetween 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 allit bears the most gracious message in
the world: for the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so
dont 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 pilgrima 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 dont 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 betterso much better as pure ore is than
foul dross. You seem to doubt me; I dont 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 youwhat 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 rightthe very words: you
have pronounced them.
May it be right then, I said, as I rose,
deeming it useless to continue a discourse which was all darkness
to me; and, besides, sensible that the character of my
interlocutor was beyond my penetration; at least, beyond its
present reach; and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of
insecurity, which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.
Where are you going?
To put Adèle to bed: it is past her
bedtime.
You are afraid of me, because I talk like a
Sphynx.
Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am
bewildered, I am certainly not afraid.
You are afraidyour self-love dreads a
blunder.
In that sense I do feel apprehensiveI 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? Dont trouble yourself to answerI 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 brotheror father, or master, or what you willto
smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in
time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it
impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and
movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare
offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort
of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless,
resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar
cloud-high. You are still bent on going?
It has struck nine, sir.
Never mind,wait a minute: Adèle is not
ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, with my
back to the fire, and my face to the room, favours
observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally
watched Adèle (I have my own reasons for thinking her a
curious study,reasons that I may, nay, that I shall,
impart to you some day). She pulled out of her box, about
ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit her face
as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her
brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. Il faut
que je lessaie! cried she, et `
linstant mjme! 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 Ciline Varens, as she used to
appear on the boards at the rising ofBut 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, Adèles 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 chassied 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
bonti; then rising, she added, Cest
comme cela que maman faisait, nest-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. Ill 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 Adèle in
the grounds: and while she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock,
he asked me to walk up and down a long beech avenue within sight
of her.
He then said that she was the daughter of a French
opera-dancer, Ciline Varens, towards whom he had once
cherished what he called a grande
passion. This passion Ciline 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
dathlète 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 hadas I
deserved to havethe fate of all other spoonies.
Happening to call one evening when Ciline 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
Ciline. 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 cloakan unnecessary
encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so warm a June eveningI 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
angein a tone, of course, which should be audible
to the ear of love alonewhen a figure jumped from the
carriage after her; cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel
which had rung on the pavement, and that was a hatted head which
now passed under the arched porte cochère of the
hotel.
You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of
course not: I need not ask you; because you never felt
love. You have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul
sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it.
You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in
which your youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with
closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling
not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil
at their base. But I tell youand you may mark my
wordsyou will come some day to a craggy pass in the
channel, where the whole of lifes 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 currentas 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 fagade, 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-trunka 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
goodnessyes, goodness. I wish to be a better man
than I have been, than I am; as Jobs leviathan broke the
spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hindrances which others count
as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten
wood.
Adèle here ran before him with her shuttlecock.
Away! he cried harshly; keep at a distance,
child; or go in to Sophie! Continuing then to pursue
his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the point whence
he had abruptly diverged
Did you leave the balcony, sir, I asked,
when Mdlle. Varens entered?
I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed
question, but, on the contrary, waking out of his scowling
abstraction, he turned his eyes towards me, and the shade seemed
to clear off his brow. Oh, I had forgotten
Ciline! 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 hearts 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. Cilines 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 officers uniform; and I knew him for a
young roui of a vicomtea 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 Ciline 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 Ciline, who
even waxed rather brilliant on my personal
defectsdeformities she termed them. Now it had been
her custom to launch out into fervent admiration of what she
called my beauti mble: wherein
she differed diametrically from you, who told me point-blank, at
the second interview, that you did not think me handsome.
The contrast struck me at the time and
Adèle here came running up again.
Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has
called and wishes to see you.
Ah! in that case I must abridge. Opening the
window, I walked in upon them; liberated Ciline from my
protection; gave her notice to vacate her hotel; offered her a
purse for immediate exigencies; disregarded screams, hysterics,
prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an appointment with the
vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning
I had the pleasure of encountering him; left a bullet in one of
his poor etiolated arms, feeble as the wing of a chicken in the
pip, and then thought I had done with the whole crew. But
unluckily the Varens, six months before, had given me this
filette Adèle, who, she affirmed, was my daughter; and
perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs of such grim paternity
written in her countenance: Pilot is more like me than she.
Some years after I had broken with the mother, she abandoned her
child, and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I
acknowledged no natural claim on Adèles 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 een
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 protigie: you will be coming to me some
day with notice that you have found another placethat you
beg me to look out for a new governess,
&c.Eh?
No: Adèle is not answerable for either her
mothers faults or yours: I have a regard for her; and now
that I know she is, in a sense, parentlessforsaken by her
mother and disowned by you, sirI shall cling closer to her
than before. How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of
a wealthy family, who would hate her governess as a nuisance, to
a lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as a
friend?
Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well,
I must go in now; and you too: it darkens.
But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adèle and
Pilotran 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
Englishmans passion for a French dancer, and her treachery
to him, were every-day matters enough, no doubt, in society; but
there was something decidedly strange in the paroxysm of emotion
which had suddenly seized him when he was in the act of
expressing the present contentment of his mood, and his newly
revived pleasure in the old hall and its environs. I
meditated wonderingly on this incident; but gradually quitting
it, as I found it for the present inexplicable, I turned to the
consideration of my masters 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. Rochesters 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 laughlow, suppressed, and
deeputtered, 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 bedsideor
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.
Rochesters, 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
Gods 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 Heavens
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 beyes, 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. Dont 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.
Rochesters 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 Pooleyou have guessed
it. She is, as you say, singularvery. 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-nights 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 surprisedvery 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 fancya 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 Adèles studies; only
soon after breakfast, I heard some bustle in the neighbourhood of
Mr. Rochesters chamber, Mrs. Fairfaxs voice, and
Leahs, and the cooksthat is, Johns
wifeand even Johns 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
chambera 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 amazedconfounded. 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 fixedlyDid 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. Fairfaxs room and
yours are the nearest to masters; 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
toneBut 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 Ill carry it upstairs.
Youll have some meat?
Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, thats
all.
And the sago?
Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before
teatime: Ill make it myself.
The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was
waiting for me: so I departed.
I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfaxs 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 masters
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 masters: Mrs. Fairfax told me once,
she had lived here many years. I dont 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. Pooles square, flat figure, and uncomely,
dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my minds
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 nightremember his
words; remember his look; remember his voice!
I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at
the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom;
Adèle was drawing; I bent over her and directed her
pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.
Qu avez-vous, mademoiselle? said
she. Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille, et vos
joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme des cerises!
I am hot, Adèle, with stooping! She
went on sketching; I went on thinking.
I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been
conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I
compared myself with her, and found we were different.
Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady; and she spoke
truthI 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. Rochesters
voice or step in the house to-day; but surely I shall see him
before night: I feared the meeting in the morning; now I desire
it, because expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown
impatient.
When dusk actually closed, and when Adèle left me to go
and play in the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire
it. I listened for the bell to ring below; I listened for
Leah coming up with a message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr.
Rochesters 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 oclock, 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 nights 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. Fairfaxs room. Thither I repaired, glad at
least to go downstairs; for that brought me, I imagined, nearer
to Mr. Rochesters 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. Eshtons 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?
Nonor 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
daughtersvery 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 dayhow richly it was
decorated, how brilliantly lit up! I should think there
were fifty ladies and gentlemen presentall 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
themat least most of the younger oneslooked
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. Rochesters: 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 Ingrams estates were
chiefly entailed, and the eldest son came in for everything
almost.
But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken
a fancy to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is
he not?
Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable
difference in age: Mr. Rochester is nearly forty; she is but
twenty-five.
What of that? More unequal matches are made every
day.
True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would
entertain an idea of the sort. But you eat nothing: you
have scarcely tasted since you began tea.
No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have
another cup?
I was about again to revert to the probability of a union
between Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adèle
came in, and the conversation was turned into another
channel.
When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got;
looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and
endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been
straying through imaginations 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
nightof 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 preferenceequivocal 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: to-morrow,
place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture,
faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh line,
smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it,
Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and
plain.
Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivoryyou 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, akrial 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 ladys love, if he chose to strive for it; is it
likely he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and
insignificant plebeian?
Ill 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
blunderhow I cleared up the mistake of supposing Mr.
Rochesters 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
protigie, 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 dont 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 days 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 Adèles 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 isin three days, he says: that will be
next Thursday; and not alone either. I dont 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.
Adèle ran quite wild in the midst of it: the preparations
for company and the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw
her into ecstasies. She would have Sophie to look over all
her toilettes, as she called frocks; to furbish up
any that were passies, 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 anybodyAdèle 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 sewedand 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,theres no stinginess
at Thornfield; but theyre 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 shes got used to the place; and then
shes 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 shoesnot 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.
Doesnt 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. Adèle, too, would be dressed: though I
thought she had little chance of being introduced to the party
that day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie
to apparel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For
myself, I had no need to make any change; I should not be called
upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was
now become to me,a very pleasant refuge in time of
trouble.
It had been a mild, serene spring dayone 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?
Theyre coming, maam, was the
answer. Theyll be here in ten
minutes.
Adèle flew to the window. I followed, taking care
to stand on one side, so that, screened by the curtain, I could
see without being seen.
The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last
wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and
after them came two open carriages. Fluttering veils and
waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cavaliers were
young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on
his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his side
rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party.
Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil
streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds,
and gleaming through them, shone rich raven ringlets.
Miss Ingram! exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away
she hurried to her post below.
The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly
turned the angle of the house, and I lost sight of it.
Adèle now petitioned to go down; but I took her on my
knee, and gave her to understand that she must not on any account
think of venturing in sight of the ladies, either now or at any
other time, unless expressly sent for: that Mr. Rochester would
be very angry, &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: gentlemens
deep tones and ladies silvery accents blent harmoniously
together, and distinguishable above all, though not loud, was the
sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall, welcoming his
fair and gallant guests under its roof. Then light steps
ascended the stairs; and there was a tripping through the
gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and closing doors,
and, for a time, a hush.
Elles changent de toilettes, said Adèle;
who, listening attentively, had followed every movement; and she
sighed.
Chez maman, said she, quand il y avait du
monde, je le suivais partout, au salon et ` leurs
chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et
habiller les dames, et citait si amusant: comme
cela on apprend.
Dont you feel hungry, Adèle?
Mais oui, mademoiselle: voil` cinq ou six heures
que nous navons pas mangi.
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 gentlemens gentlemen stood or sat round the fire;
the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses; the
new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were bustling
about everywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last reached
the larder; there I took possession of a cold chicken, a roll of
bread, some tarts, a plate or two and a knife and fork: with this
booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regained the gallery,
and was just shutting the back-door behind me, when an
accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were about to issue
from their chambers. I could not proceed to the schoolroom
without passing some of their doors, and running the risk of
being surprised with my cargo of victualage; so I stood still at
this end, which, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for
the sun was set and twilight gathering.
Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after
another: each came out gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed
lustrous through the dusk. For a moment they stood grouped
together at the other extremity of the gallery, conversing in a
key of sweet subdued vivacity: they then descended the staircase
almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill.
Their collective appearance had left on me an impression of
high-born elegance, such as I had never before received.
I found Adèle peeping through the schoolroom door,
which she held ajar. What beautiful ladies!
cried she in English. Oh, I wish I might go to
them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send for us
by-and-bye, after dinner?
No, indeed, I dont; Mr. Rochester has something
else to think about. Never mind the ladies to-night;
perhaps you will see them to-morrow: here is your
dinner.
She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to
divert her attention for a time. It was well I secured this
forage, or both she, I, and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share of
our repast, would have run a chance of getting no dinner at all:
every one downstairs was too much engaged to think of us.
The dessert was not carried out till after nine and at ten
footmen were still running to and fro with trays and
coffee-cups. I allowed Adèle to sit up much later
than usual; for she declared she could not possibly go to sleep
while the doors kept opening and shutting below, and people
bustling about. Besides, she added, a message might
possibly come from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed;
et alors quel dommage!
I told her stories as long as she would listen to them; and
then for a change I took her out into the gallery. The hall
lamp was now lit, and it amused her to look over the balustrade
and watch the servants passing backwards and forwards. When
the evening was far advanced, a sound of music issued from the
drawing-room, whither the piano had been removed; Adèle
and I sat down on the top step of the stairs to listen.
Presently a voice blent with the rich tones of the instrument; it
was a lady who sang, and very sweet her notes were. The
solo over, a duet followed, and then a glee: a joyous
conversational murmur filled up the intervals. I listened
long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was wholly intent on
analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to discriminate amidst
the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester; and when it
caught them, which it soon did, it found a further task in
framing the tones, rendered by distance inarticulate, into
words.
The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adèle, whose
head leant against my shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I
took her up in my arms and carried her off to bed. It was
near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their
chambers.
The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by
the party to an excursion to some site in the
neighbourhood. They set out early in the forenoon, some on
horseback, the rest in carriages; I witnessed both the departure
and the return. Miss Ingram, as before, was the only lady
equestrian; and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at her side;
the two rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out
this circumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was standing at the window
with me
You said it was not likely they should think of being
married, said I, but you see Mr. Rochester
evidently prefers her to any of the other ladies.
Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her.
And she him, I added; look how she leans
her head towards him as if she were conversing confidentially; I
wish I could see her face; I have never had a glimpse of it
yet.
You will see her this evening, answered Mrs.
Fairfax. I happened to remark to Mr. Rochester how
much Adèle wished to be introduced to the ladies, and he
said: Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after dinner;
and request Miss Eyre to accompany her.
Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go,
I am sure, I answered.
Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to
company, I did not think you would like appearing before so gay a
partyall strangers; and he replied, in his quick
wayNonsense! 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
dont like it. Shall you be there, Mrs.
Fairfax?
No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea.
Ill 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
awaynobody will notice you.
Will these people remain long, do you think?
Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more.
After the Easter recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected
member for Millcote, will have to go up to town and take his
seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him: it surprises me
that he has already made so protracted a stay at
Thornfield.
It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour
approach when I was to repair with my charge to the
drawing-room. Adèle had been in a state of ecstasy
all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in
the evening; and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation
of dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance
of the process quickly steadied her, and by the time she had her
curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her pink
satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens
adjusted, she looked as grave as any judge. No need to warn
her not to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed, she sat
demurely down in her little chair, taking care previously to lift
up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, and assured me
she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly
was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss
Temples wedding, and never worn since) was soon put on; my
hair was soon smoothed; my sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon
assumed. We descended.
Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room
than that through the saloon where they were all seated at
dinner. We found the apartment vacant; a large fire burning
silently on the marble hearth, and wax candles shining in bright
solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were
adorned. The crimson curtain hung before the arch: slight
as was the separation this drapery formed from the party in the
adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low a key that nothing of
their conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing
murmur.
Adèle, who appeared to be still under the influence of
a most solemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on the
footstool I pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat,
and taking a book from a table near, endeavoured to read.
Adèle brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched
my knee.
What is it, Adèle?
Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces
fleurs magnifiques, mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer
ma toilette.
You think too much of your toilette,
Adèle: but you may have a flower. And I took
a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash. She sighed
a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness were
now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I could
not suppress: there was something ludicrous as well as painful in
the little Parisiennes 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
chiffoni: 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 distinguishedpartly, perhaps,
because the tallest figures of the bandwere 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. Reeds; 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. Fairfaxs description;
secondly, whether it at all resembled the fancy miniature I had
painted of her; and thirdlyit will out!whether it
were such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochesters
taste.
As far as person went, she answered point for point, both to
my picture and Mrs. Fairfaxs 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 mothers; 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-consciousremarkably 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 ignoranceher 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 tellI did not
know his taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic,
she was the very type of majesty: then she was accomplished,
sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and
that he did admire her, I already seemed to have obtained
proof: to remove the last shade of doubt, it remained but to see
them together.
You are not to suppose, reader, that Adèle has all this
time been sitting motionless on the stool at my feet: no; when
the ladies entered, she rose, advanced to meet them, made a
stately reverence, and said with gravity
Bon jour, mesdames.
And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking air, and
exclaimed, Oh, what a little puppet!
Lady Lynn had remarked, It is Mr. Rochesters
ward, I supposethe 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
simultaneouslyWhat 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 hearts content.
At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are
summoned. I sit in the shadeif any shade there be in
this brilliantly-lit apartment; the window-curtain half hides
me. Again the arch yawns; they come. The collective
appearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very
imposing: they are all costumed in black; most of them are tall,
some young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing
sparks indeed; and Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man.
Mr. Eshton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like:
his hair is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark,
which gives him something of the appearance of a
père noble de thibtre.
Lord Ingram, like his sisters, is very tall; like them, also, he
is handsome; but he shares Marys 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 formingI
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 masters 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, laughit 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 isI feel akin to himI
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 Georgewhom,
by-the-bye, I have forgotten to describe,a very big, and
very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa,
coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr.
Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is
showing her the engravings of a splendid volume: she looks,
smiles now and then, but apparently says little. The tall
and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the
chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton; she glances up at
him, and chatters like a wren: she likes him better than she does
Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken possession of an
ottoman at the feet of Louisa: Adèle shares it with him:
he is trying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his
blunders. With whom will Blanche Ingram pair? She is
standing alone at the table, bending gracefully over an
album. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not
wait too long: she herself selects a mate.
Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the
hearth as solitary as she stands by the table: she confronts him,
taking her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.
Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of
children?
Nor am I.
Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little
doll as that? (pointing to Adèle).
Where did you pick her up?
I did not pick her up; she was left on my
hands.
You should have sent her to school.
I could not afford it: schools are so dear.
Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saw a
person with her just nowis 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 fearedor 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
incubiwere they not, mama?
Did you speak, my own?
The young lady thus claimed as the dowagers special
property, reiterated her question with an explanation.
My dearest, dont 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, dont 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 extremitiesspilt 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.
Viningthe parson in the pip, as we used to call him.
He and Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling in love with each
otherat 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
attachedmutual alliance and reliance; confidence thence
resultinginsolence accompanyingmutiny 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
papas park gates: nor to go even so far without
mamas 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 womanher 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 Ingrams lips would put spirit
into a mug of milk and water.
Take care, then: if you dont 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 dida
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 expiredtill the tide of talk, checked
an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my sheltered
corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was fortunately
near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall: in
crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to tie
it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the
staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a
gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with
him: it was Mr. Rochester.
How do you do? he asked.
I am very well, sir.
Why did you not come and speak to me in the
room?
I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put
it: but I would not take that freedom. I
answered
I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged,
sir.
What have you been doing during my absence?
Nothing particular; teaching Adèle as
usual.
And getting a good deal paler than you wereas 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.
Nothingnothing, sir. I am not
depressed.
But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few
more words would bring tears to your eyesindeed, 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;
dont neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for
Adèle. 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 ladys-maid or a dandy valet.
The kitchen, the butlers 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. Dents 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. Rochesters cloak, and holding a book
in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then
Adèle (who had insisted on being one of her
guardians 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 basinwhich I recognised as an ornament of the
conservatorywhere it usually stood, surrounded by exotics,
and tenanted by gold fishand 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 mores the pity! Nothing
could be more becoming to your complexion than that
ruffians 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 leaders 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 mebecause I might pass hours
in his presence, and he would never once turn his eyes in my
directionbecause 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 ladybecause I read
daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting
herbecause 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
Ingrams. But I was not jealous: or very
rarely;the nature of the pain I suffered could not be
explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath
jealousy: she was too inferior to excite the feeling.
Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say. She was very
showy, but she was not genuine: she had a fine person, many
brilliant attainments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by
nature: nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced
natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good;
she was not original: she used to repeat sounding phrases from
books: she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own.
She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she did not know the
sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in
her. Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent she
gave to a spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little
Adèle: pushing her away with some contumelious epithet if
she happened to approach her; sometimes ordering her from the
room, and always treating her with coldness and acrimony.
Other eyes besides mine watched these manifestations of
characterwatched them closely, keenly, shrewdly.
Yes; the future bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over
his intended a ceaseless surveillance; and it was from this
sagacitythis guardedness of histhis perfect, clear
consciousness of his fair ones defectsthis 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
pointthis was where the nerve was touched and
teasedthis 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 tigersjealousy and despair:
then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should have admired
heracknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for the
rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, the
deeper would have been my admirationthe more truly
tranquil my quiescence. But as matters really stood, to
watch Miss Ingrams efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester,
to witness their repeated failureherself 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 allureto 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.
Rochesters breast and fell harmless at his feet, might, I
knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proud
hearthave 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 itto answer what he
asked without pretension, to address him when needful without
grimaceand 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.
Rochesters 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 husbands
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 somethingwas 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 dareto 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
bridesaw only them, heard only their discourse, and
considered only their movements of importancethe 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 andbecause closely
connected with himMiss 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
Adèle, who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat,
suddenly exclaimed
Voil`, Monsieur Rochester, qui
revient!
I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the
others, too, looked up from their several occupations; for at the
same time a crunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of
horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel. A post-chaise
was approaching.
What can possess him to come home in that style?
said Miss Ingram. He rode Mesrour (the black horse),
did he not, when he went out? and Pilot was with him:what
has he done with the animals?
As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample
garments so near the window, that I was obliged to bend back
almost to the breaking of my spine: in her eagerness she did not
observe me at first, but when she did, she curled her lip and
moved to another casement. The post-chaise stopped; the
driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman alighted attired in
travelling garb; but it was not Mr. Rochester; it was a tall,
fashionable-looking man, a stranger.
How provoking! exclaimed Miss Ingram: you
tiresome monkey! (apostrophising Adèle), who
perched you up in the window to give false intelligence?
and she cast on me an angry glance, as if I were in fault.
Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the 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.
Rochesters,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 lifeat 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 himfor
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 smoothnone 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 friends 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. Eshtons
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.
Nostop! interrupted Colonel Dent.
Dont send her away, Eshton; we might turn the thing
to account; better consult the ladies. And speaking
aloud, he continuedLadies, you talked of going to
Hay Common to visit the gipsy camp; Sam here says that one of the
old Mother Bunches is in the servants hall at this moment,
and insists upon being brought in before the
quality, to tell them their fortunes. Would you like
to see her?
Surely, colonel, cried Lady Ingram, you
would not encourage such a low impostor? Dismiss her, by
all means, at once!
But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,
said the footman; nor can any of the servants: Mrs.
Fairfax is with her just now, entreating her to be gone; but she
has taken a chair in the chimney-corner, and says nothing shall
stir her from it till she gets leave to come in here.
What does she want? asked Mrs. Eshton.
To tell the gentry their fortunes, she
says, maam; 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, shes 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 canand 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 doI recollect all you can suggest; and I must
have my willquick, Sam!
Yesyesyes! cried all the
juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen. Let her
comeit 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 wont come now, said he.
She says its not her mission to appear before the
vulgar herd (thems 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
girland
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, maambut 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.
Shes 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 shell 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!
pausereflect! was her mamas 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,
dont press upon me. Really your organs of
wonder and credulity are easily excited: you seem, by the
importance of you allmy good mama includedascribe
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
Sams 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 Ingrams 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
eyefor the company were gathered in one mass about the
trembling trio just returnedand I closed the door quietly
behind me.
If you like, miss, said Sam, Ill
wait in the hall for you; and if she frightens you, just call and
Ill 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
Sibylif Sibyl she werewas 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 gipsys appearance to trouble ones
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 dont care about it, mother; you may please
yourself: but I ought to warn you, I have no faith.
Its like your impudence to say so: I expected it
of you; I heard it in your step as you crossed the
threshold.
Did you? Youve a quick ear.
I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain.
You need them all in your trade.
I do; especially when Ive customers like you to
deal with. Why dont you tremble?
Im not cold.
Why dont you turn pale?
I am not sick.
Why dont you consult my art?
Im 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
deliberatelyYou 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 dont understand enigmas. I never could
guess a riddle in my life.
If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your
palm.
And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?
To be sure.
I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot
which she took out of her pocket, and having tied it round and
returned it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did.
She approached her face to the palm, and pored over it without
touching it.
It is too fine, said she. I can
make nothing of such a hand as that; almost without lines:
besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is not written
there.
I believe you, said I.
No, she continued, it is in the face: on
the forehead, about the eyes, in the 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 havehave you? thought I; there
is diablerie in the business after all, then!
Dont be alarmed, continued the strange
being; shes 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 restor 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 themecourtship; and promise to end in the same
catastrophemarriage.
And do you like that monotonous theme?
Positively, I dont 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 knowand perhaps think well of.
I dont 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 dont 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 acquaintanceblot 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.
Rochesters 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 witchs
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,hes dished
But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr.
Rochesters 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.
Dont 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 plansright plans I deem
themand 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, dissolutionsuch is not my
taste. I wish to foster, not to blightto earn
gratitude, not to wring tears of bloodno, nor of brine: my
harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweetThat
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 womans
voice had changed: her accent, her gesture, and all were familiar
to me as my own face in a glassas 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 meon 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 knothelp me.
Break it, sir.
There, thenOff, ye
lendings! And Mr. Rochester stepped out of
his disguise.
Now, sir, what a strange idea!
But well carried out, eh? Dont 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 outor 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 correctvery 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
Poolethat 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
oclock. 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, Ive got a blow; Ive 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?Id give my life to
serve you.
Jane, if aid is wanted, Ill seek it at your
hands; I promise you that.
Thank you, sir. Tell me what to
do,Ill 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. Rochesters 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 dont 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.
Rochesters 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 disksilver-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 nightits silenceits 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 overheadyes, in the room just above my
chamber-ceilingI 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 Gods 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: Im 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 dont 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.
Alls right!alls right! he
cried. Its 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.
Shes 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 servants 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 masters.
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 saltsvolatile 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 dont 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 Pooles 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 facethe
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! Noa mere scratch. Dont
be so overcome, man: bear up! Ill fetch a surgeon
for you now, myself: youll 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
pretextandRichard, it will be at the peril of your
life if you speak to her: open your lipsagitate
yourselfand Ill 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: yesthat was appallingthe 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 countenancethese blue, still lips forbidden to
unclosethese 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
oppositewhose 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. Johns 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-traitorof Satan himselfin his
subordinates 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. Rochesters 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
womans 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 overthis commonplace, quiet
strangerhow 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 belowwhat 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. Rochesters dismay when he heard of Mr.
Masons arrival? Why had the mere name of this
unresisting individualwhom his word now sufficed to
control like a childfallen 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 blowI 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 lingeredas my
bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened: and neither day nor
aid arrived. I had, again and again, held the water to
Masons 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.
Shes done for me, I fear, was the faint
reply.
Not a whit!courage! This day fortnight
youll hardly be a pin the worse of it: youve lost a
little blood; thats all. Carter, assure him
theres 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 muchbut 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 friends answer;
I saidbe 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 Ill
say no more. Carterhurry!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 shed 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:
dont 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
buriedor 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; Ill 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 dont 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 cant travel a mile without that, I know,
in this damned cold climate. In your room?Jane, run
down to Mr. Masons 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, Ive 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.
Thats 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
charlatana 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
saidtry.
The patient rose.
Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of
good cheer, Richard; step outthats 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 yardor
just outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels
over the pavementto 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
windgood-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:
dont 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 warmthis placid and balmly atmosphere?
I do, very much.
You have passed a strange night, Jane.
Yes, sir.
And it has made you look palewere 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 doorI had the key in my
pocket: I should have been a careless shepherd if I had left a
lambmy pet lambso near a wolfs den,
unguarded: you were safe.
Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?
Oh yes! dont trouble your head about
herput the thing out of your thoughts.
Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she
stays.
Never fearI 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 mebut, 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 meworking 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 dont 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
dewwhile 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
workIll 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 dont 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 pleasureI mean in heartless, sensual
pleasuresuch as dulls intellect and blights feeling.
Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of
voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintancehow 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 backhigher 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 customa 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 worlds 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 wanderers
repose or a sinners 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 instrumentthe instrument! God, who
does the work, ordains the instrument. I have
myselfI tell it you without parablebeen 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 minutesso 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
tonewhile his face changed too, losing all its softness
and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcasticyou
have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: dont 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: dont 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.
Shes a rare one, is she not, Jane?
Yes, sir.
A strappera real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and
buxom; with hair just such as the ladies of Carthage must have
had. Bless me! theres 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 ones self or ones
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 ideathis 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. Fairfaxs room. On
repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the
appearance of a gentlemans 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
Georgianas 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 sincewe
have three nowand both mother and child are
thriving.
And are the family well at the house,
Robert?
I am sorry I cant give you better news of them,
Miss: they are very badly at presentin 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. Johns 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
Janefetch 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 Johns 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 Ingrams 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 momentit 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
grimaceone of his strange and equivocal
demonstrationsthrew 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, sirMrs. 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 unclemy mothers
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 dont 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 cant 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 dont 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, Adèle ought to go to school:
I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it.
To get her out of my brides way, who might
otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically?
Theres sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it.
Adèle, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course,
must march straight tothe 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 thembut 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; Ive 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.
Ill 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. Ill find you one in
time.
I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn,
will promise that I and Adèle shall be both safe out of
the house before your bride enters it.
Very well! very well! Ill 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; Im 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
nothat would not content me either. So youll
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
coolFarewell.
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 oclock 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
aboutsetting 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 hearta
sense of outlawry and almost of reprobationto 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
Bewicks British Birds occupying their old place on the
third shelf, and Gullivers 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 Ingramvery 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
rememberedthe 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 sistersso
much more flowing and becomingit looked as stylish as the
others looked puritanical.
In each of the sisters there was one trait of the
motherand only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had
her parents Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant
younger girl had her contour of jaw and chinperhaps 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.
Elizas 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 dye 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 footnow 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
otherEliza 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 raisepains and pleasures so much more
acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in their
power to inflict or bestowthat 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
Bessiewho was, I dared say, in the kitchenand 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 betteror 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. Reeds 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 injuriesto be reconciled and clasp
hands in amity.
The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as
everthere 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 childhoods 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 meher feeling towards mewas unchanged and
unchangeable. I knew by her stony eyeopaque to
tenderness, indissoluble to tearsthat 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 herto 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 saylet 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; dont 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
handsand 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
ones movements! I declare she talked to me once like
something mad, or like a fiendno 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 didI 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
husbands only sister, and a great favourite with him: he
opposed the familys 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
ita sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in
its cradle all night longnot 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
brothershe 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 thatyet how are we to
get on? Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest
of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always
losespoor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk
and degradedhis look is frightfulI 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 nightin the morning she is calmer.
I rose. Stop! exclaimed Mrs. Reed,
there is another thing I wished to say. He threatens
mehe 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 naiads head, crowned with
lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a
hedge-sparrows 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
brilliantlya happy touch or two secured success.
There, I had a friends 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 agoof the admiration she had there
excitedthe 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 themeherself, her loves, and woes. It was
strange she never once adverted either to her mothers
illness, or her brothers 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 mothers 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 Johns 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 diedand it was wholly
improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either
recover or linger longshe 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 sisters 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
persons 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 flatteredyou
must have music, dancing, and societyor 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 minutesinclude 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 ones 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 itgo on as
heretofore, craving, whining, and idlingand 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 mothers 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 thisif 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 saints-day service at the new churchfor 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 spiritnow struggling to quit its
material tenementflit when at length released?
In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns,
recalled her dying wordsher faithher doctrine of
the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in
thought to her well-remembered tonesstill 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 Fathers bosomwhen 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.
WhoI? 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
mewhere 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
youthat face, and the eyes and forehead, are quiet
familiar to me: you are likewhy, 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 sensationthe
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, Janethe 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 mans 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 assertionexpose
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 downfor I raised
her and supported her on my arm while she drankI covered
her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank
from my touchthe 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 Gods, 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 medying, 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 oclock 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 Reeds 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 woesnot
my lossand 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 weeks 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 sisters 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 Elizas 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 Lislea 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 dont 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 tediousvery 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
servantsfew was the number of relativesthe 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
ofscattered these thoughts; night gave them quite another
turn: laid down on my travellers 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
dont 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
foldedsmiling 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
ostlers care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about
six oclock 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 bluewhere blue was visiblewas mild and
settled, and its cloud strata high and thin. The west, too,
was warm: no watery gleam chilled itit 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
Adèle 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 addedHasten! 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 agonya deformed thing which I could
not persuade myself to own and rearand 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 seeMr. 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
facewhich I feel rebel insolently against my will, and
struggle to express what I had resolved to conceal. But I
have a veilit 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? Yesjust 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 worldfrom the abode
of people who are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone
here in the gloaming! If I dared, Id touch you, to
see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!but Id
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, Ill 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
homewould 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
dont think it will suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; and
whether she wont 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 arecant 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 feelinghe 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 friends 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
fasta force turned me round. I saidor
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 homemy only home.
I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken
me had he tried. Little Adèle 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 Adèle, 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 amicablewhen 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
Adèle was prjte ` croquer sa petite
maman AnglaiseI 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 masters 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 mornings 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 masters 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 thereand, 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, Adèle, 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 statepure of the
pomp of cloudsspread 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
scentthat of a cigarstole 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
stayednot 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 isI know it
wellit is Mr. Rochesters 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 noeventide 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.
Rochesters 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 behindcould 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 evilif evil existent or prospective there
wasseemed 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 dont comprehend how it is, I
perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish
little child Adèle, 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 nowI must give it
to-night.
Then you are going to be married,
sir?
Ex-act-lypre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness,
you have hit the nail straight on the head.
Soon, sir?
Very soon, mythat is, Miss Eyre: and
youll remember, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly
intimated to you that it was my intention to put my old
bachelors neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the
holy estate of matrimonyto take Miss Ingram to my bosom,
in short (shes an extensive armful: but thats not
to the pointone cant have too much of such a very
excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was
sayinglisten to me, Jane! Youre 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 youwith that foresight, prudence,
and humility which befit your responsible and dependent
positionthat in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and
little Adèle 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, Ill try
to forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that
I have made it my law of action. Adèle 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
OGall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland.
Youll like Ireland, I think: theyre such
warm-hearted people there, they say.
It is a long way off, sir.
No mattera 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.
OGall 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
oceanwealth, 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:
thats 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! well 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 cant
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 youespecially 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 Ive a nervous notion I should take
to bleeding inwardly. As for you,youd 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 itand 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 Gods feet, equal,as we are!
As we are! repeated Mr.
Rochesterso, 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 manor as good as a married man, and
wed to one inferior to youto one with whom you have no
sympathywhom 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 youlet me go!
Where, Jane? To Ireland?
Yesto Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and
can go anywhere now.
Jane, be still; dont 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 sideto 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
awayawayto an indefinite distanceit
died. The nightingales 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, Janecome 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 notI could notmarry
Miss Ingram. Youyou strange, you almost unearthly
thing!I love as my own flesh. Youpoor and
obscure, and small and plain as you areI entreat to accept
me as a husband.
What, me! I ejaculated, beginning in his
earnestnessand especially in his incivilityto
credit his sincerity: me who have not a friend in the
world but youif you are my friend: not a shilling but what
you have given me?
You, Jane, I must have you for my ownentirely 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
countenanceturn!
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
devotionthey cannot torture.
Gratitude! he ejaculated; and added
wildlyJane accept me quickly. Say,
Edwardgive me my nameEdwardI 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.
Edwardmy little wife!
Dear Edward!
Come to mecome 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 happinessI 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.
Nothat 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 partingcalled to the paradise of
unionI 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
atoneit 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 Gods
tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For
the worlds judgmentI wash my hands thereof.
For mans opinionI 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
masters 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.
Rochesters 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-nightgood-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 Adèle 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 boypale,
ragged objects bothwere coming up the walk, and I ran down
and gave them all the money I happened to have in my
pursesome 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 gravelyMiss 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
Adèle 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 joysomething
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 nameJane Rochester;
and it seems so strange.
Yes, Mrs. Rochester, said he; young Mrs.
RochesterFairfax Rochesters 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 talea
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 peers daughter, if about to
marry her.
Oh, sir!never rain jewels! I dont
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. Dont 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
akrial.
Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are
dreaming, sir,or you are sneering. For Gods
sake dont 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 wont know me, sir; and I shall not
be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequins
jacketa jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soon see
you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself
clad in a court-ladys robe; and I dont call you
handsome, sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to
flatter you. Dont 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
sylphs 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 mefor 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
husbands 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 youwith 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
heartswhen 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 breakat
once supple and stable, tractable and consistentI 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 meyou 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 influencedconquered; 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 dont 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: dont send for
the jewels, and dont 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 thenfor 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 Gods sake, dont desire a
useless burden! Dont long for
poisondont 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. Dont you think I had better take
advantage of the confession, and begin and coax and
entreateven cry and be sulky if necessaryfor 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, Janeand 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,
sirMiss 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 smallnot 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 Ingrams feelings, sir?
Her feelings are concentrated in onepride; 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? Wont 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
yourselffor 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 muchmore than I could trust myself to
saymore 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 ladys 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.
Fairfaxs parlour, I hurried down to it. The old
lady, had been reading her morning portion of Scripturethe
Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open before her, and her
spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended by Mr.
Rochesters 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? Dont 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 dont 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 oclock, 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, Adèle ran
in.
Let me go,let me go to Millcote too! she
cried. Mr. Rochester wont: though there is so
much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go
mademoiselle.
That I will, Adèle; and I hastened away
with her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress. The carriage
was ready: they were bringing it round to the front, and my
master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following him backwards and
forwards.
Adèle may accompany us, may she not,
sir?
I told her no. Ill have no
brats!Ill 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. Fairfaxs 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 Adèle.
She obeyed him with what speed she might.
After all, a single mornings interruption will
not matter much, said he, when I mean shortly to
claim youyour thoughts, conversation, and
companyfor life.
Adèle, 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.
Ill send her to school yet, he said, but now
he was smiling.
Adèle 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 Adèle.
I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the
plains and hillsides in the moon are bleached with manna,
Adèle.
She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a
fire?
Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is
cold, Ill carry her up to a peak, and lay her down on the
edge of a crater.
Oh, qu elle y sera malpeu
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,
Adèle? 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
Adèle, 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 cant get her there; there is no road to
the moon: it is all air; and neither you nor she can
fly.
Adèle, 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, Adèle, I was walking late one
evening about a fortnight sincethe 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 placesuch as the moon, for
instanceand 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, Adèle, 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
dont 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 fie, and that
du reste, il ny avait pas de fies, et quand
mjme 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:
noit 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 forgottenthe 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 masters and lovers
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, Ill wear nothing but my old Lowood frocks to the
end of the chapter. Ill 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 Turks whole
seraglio, gazelle-eyes, houri forms, and all!
The Eastern allusion bit me again. Ill not
stand you an inch in the stead of a seraglio, I said;
so dont 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?
Ill be preparing myself to go out as a
missionary to preach liberty to them that are enslavedyour
harem inmates amongst the rest. Ill get admitted
there, and Ill 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 termswhat will they be?
I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded
obligations. Do you remember what you said of Ciline
Varens?of the diamonds, the cashmeres you gave her?
I will not be your English Ciline Varens. I shall
continue to act as Adèles governess; by that I
shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year
besides. Ill 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 havent 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 cant 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 Ill
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 Adèle would say; and unfortunately I have neither my
cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But
listenwhisper. 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, Ill justfiguratively
speakingattach you to a chain like this (touching
his watch-guard). Yes, bonny wee thing, Ill
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 Adèle, 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 tjte-`-tjte
conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked
to singgood 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 een 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 sidewhich was precisely what I
wishedhe 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 oer
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 wedlocks sacred band
Our nature shall entwine.
My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,
With me to liveto die;
I have at last my nameless bliss.
As I loveloved 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 momentarilythen I
rallied. Soft scene, daring demonstration, I would not
have; and I stood in peril of both: a weapon of defence must be
preparedI 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 himhe 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 hardvery 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 Ill not
sink into a bathos of sentiment: and with this needle of repartee
Ill 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 peoples 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 dont 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
advancedthe 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 oclock 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
hournine oclockgave 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 changethe
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 offbusiness
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 northwardthe
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 destroyedthe sap could
flow no more: their great boughs on each side were dead, and next
winters tempests would be sure to fell one or both to
earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one
treea 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 morenever 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 lookeda 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 cant 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 Ill tell you all about it
by-and-bye, sir; and I daresay you will only laugh at me for my
pains.
Ill 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 dont 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 enoughtouch
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
masters 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
wordvery 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 happyto the hearts
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 twelveI 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, dont caress me nowlet 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 recollectthe 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
meyour life, siran 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
presentthe 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 thought
how I would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blond I
had myself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask
if that was not good enough for a woman who 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 Rochesters 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 nowwild and
highbut 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
sleepa 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 stopbut 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: yesI 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 musicI 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, sirI 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 metease me, vex me; do
anything but move me: I would rather be incensed than
saddened.
I will tease you and vex you to your hearts
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 armshowever 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 thoughtOh, 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 notno, I was sure of it, and am
stillit 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 meoh, sir, I never saw a
face like it! It was a discoloured faceit 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 spectrethe
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 meshe 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 lifeonly the
second timeI 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
tearwithout a kisswithout 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, thereon the carpetI 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, Ill explain to you all about
it. It was half dream, half reality. A woman did, I
doubt not, enter your room: and that woman wasmust have
beenGrace Poole. You call her a strange being
yourself: from all you know, you have reason so to call
herwhat 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 sorelieved, 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 Adèle in the
nursery? he asked, as I lit my candle.
Yes, sir.
And there is room enough in Adèles 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. Dont
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 Adèle in my arms, I watched the
slumber of childhoodso tranquil, so passionless, so
innocentand 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 Adèle clung to me as I left her: I
remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my
neck; and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her
because I feared my sobs would break her still sound
repose. She seemed the emblem of my past life; and here I
was 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. Rochesters 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 didso 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. Rochesters
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
strangersa gentleman, evidentlywas 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 Gods 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 overexplained 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 thundermy 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 ladys existence, sir,
which the law recognises, if you do not.
Favour me with an account of herwith 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 churcha copy of it is now in my
possession. Signed, Richard Mason.
Thatif a genuine documentmay 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 himor go to hell.
I will produce him firsthe 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 solicitors shoulderyes, 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
flushedolive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as
from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his
strong armhe could have struck Mason, dashed him on the
church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his
bodybut Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, Good
God! Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rochesterhis
passion died as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he only
askedWhat have you to say?
An inaudible reply escaped Masons white lips.
The devil is in it if you cannot answer
distinctly. I again demand, what have you to
say?
Sirsir, 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 gentlemans 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. Rochesters lips, and he
muttered
No, by God! I took care that none should hear of
itor of her under that name. He
musedfor 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!Id 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
partnerpure, 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. Pooles 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 youfollow!
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, Adèle, Sophie, Leah,
advanced to meet and greet us.
To the right-aboutevery 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.
Rochesters 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?
Were 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:
youd better not stay.
Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few
moments.
Take care then, sir!for Gods 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
Im 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-laws
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 contestmore 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
knowsuch 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
yonderthis face with that maskthis 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 itif, indeed, he
should be still livingwhen 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 diseasedeclineand 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, nolet 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
proceedednot to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for
that, butmechanically 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,
movedfollowed up and down where I was led or
draggedwatched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond
disclosure: but now, I thought.
The morning had been a quiet morning enoughall 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 usualjust 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
womanalmost 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 deadstruck 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
masterswhich 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. Rochesters
armsit could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh,
never more could it turn to him; for faith was
blightedconfidence 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. Whenhowwhither, 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 mea 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 itas I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my
knees, nor moved my lipsit 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 gaveLeave Thornfield at
oncewas so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my
ears. I said I could not bear such words now.
That I am not Edward Rochesters 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 Adèle 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 upI
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
bitternothing 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 mienI forgave
him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my
hearts core.
You know I am a scoundrel, Jane? ere long he
inquired wistfullywondering, I suppose, at my continued
silence and tameness, the result rather of weakness than of
will.
Yes, sir.
Then tell me so roundly and sharplydont
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
librarysitting in his chairhe 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. Rochesters. I must leave
him, it appears. I do not want to leave himI 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 wont 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 youBecause 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 profligatea 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
acttalking you consider is of no use. I
know youI 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 manas 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 Adèles 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 toothere is no doubt
of that; and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, and continual
combats with recollections and associations, there is only one
wayAdèle must have a new governess, sir.
Oh, Adèle will go to schoolI have settled
that already; nor do I mean to torment you with the hideous
associations and recollections of Thornfield Hallthis
accursed placethis tent of Achanthis insolent
vault, offering the ghastliness of living death to the light of
the open skythis 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 Adèle 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 elsewherethough 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-womans neighbourhood from
you, however, was something like covering a child with a cloak
and laying it down near a upas-tree: that demons vicinage
is poisoned, and always was. But Ill shut up
Thornfield Hall: Ill nail up the front door and board the
lower windows: Ill 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
hatewith vindictive antipathy. It is cruelshe
cannot help being mad.
Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you
are), you dont 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
waistcoatyour 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
intrusioneven from falsehood and slander.
And take Adèle with you, sir, I
interrupted; she will be a companion for you.
What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send
Adèle to school; and what do I want with a child for a
companion, and not my own child,a French dancers
bastard? Why do you importune me about her! I say,
why do you assign Adèle 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 dont 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 Janes 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 Samsons 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
wont, Ill 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
presentthe passing second of timewas all I had in
which to control and restrain hima 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; Ill 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
dont 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 hairwhich is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe
your facewhich looks feverish?
I must leave Adèle 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.
Rochesterboth 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 errorto 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
sophisticalis false.
Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered manyou 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,
andbeware!
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 extremitylooked 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, Janetthat I may have the evidence of touch as
well as sight, to prove you are near meand 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 mannersand, I married
her:gross, grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I
was! With less sin I might haveBut let me remember
to whom I am speaking.
My brides 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, tooa 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 largerwhen 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
imbecilewhen 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
orderseven 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
nowyet 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 madher excesses had
prematurely developed the germs of insanity. Jane, you
dont like my narrative; you look almost sickshall I
defer the rest to another day?
No, sir, finish it now; I pity youI 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
momentwith which your eyes are now almost
overflowingwith which your heart is heavingwith
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 adventmy 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
sightand 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 husbandthat 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-steamsI 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 earthquakeblack clouds
were casting up over it; the moon was setting in the waves, broad
and red, like a hot cannon-ballshe 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 wordthe 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 airthose 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
fanatics burning eternity I have no fear: there is not a
future state worse than this present onelet 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 meI reasoned thus, Janeand 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 bloodmy being longed
for renewalmy soul thirsted for a pure draught. I
saw hope reviveand felt regeneration possible. From
a flowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the
seabluer 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
unionhaving already begun to experience extreme disgust of
its consequences, and, from the family character and
constitution, seeing a hideous future opening to meI 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 beasts dena goblins
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 dayssometimes
weekswhich she filled up with abuse of me. At last I
hired Grace Poole from the Grimbsy Retreat. She and the
surgeon, Carter (who dressed Masons 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 guardians 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 ones 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 dont 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 grdfinnen. 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 mefor the
antipodes of the Creole: and I longed vainly. Amongst them
all I found not one whom, had I been ever so free, Iwarned
as I was of the risks, the horrors, the loathings of incongruous
unionswould have asked to marry me. Disappointment
made me reckless. I tried dissipationnever
debauchery: that I hated, and hate. That was my Indian
Messalinas 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
Ciline Varensanother 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: dont you?
I dont 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 Ciline, 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, asunder
any pretextwith any justificationthrough any
temptationto 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 dont 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
mistressesin a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of
a useless, roving, lonely lifecorroded 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
peaceno 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 lifemy genius for good or
evilwaited there in humble guise. I did not know it,
even when, on the occasion of Mesrours 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
newa fresh sap and sensestole into my frame.
It was well I had learnt that this elf must return to
methat it belonged to my house down belowor 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 youmyself unseenfor half-an-hour, while
you played with Adèle 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. Adèle 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 sayMy 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 unusualto mea
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 dressedmuch 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 interlocutors 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 fadethe 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 youbut 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
schoolroomit was the tedium of your lifethat 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
troublea hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice
might bewhether 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.
Dont 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 doand
do soonand 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
surerthe Future so much brighter?
I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.
You see now how the case standsdo 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 loveI have
found you. You are my sympathymy better
selfmy 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 nowopened
to you plainly my life of agonydescribed to you my hunger
and thirst after a higher and worthier existenceshown 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. Janegive 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
dutyDepart!
Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just
this promiseI 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
terrorfor this still voice was the pant of a lion
risingJane, 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! Thisthis is
wicked. It would not be wicked to love me.
It would to obey you.
A wild look raised his browscrossed his features: he
rose; but he forebore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a
chair for support: I shook, I fearedbut 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 passionvice 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
endureyou 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
dangerlook at his state when left alone; remember his
headlong nature; consider the recklessness following on
despairsoothe 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 replyI 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
madas 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 worthso I have always believed;
and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am
insanequite 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
interpreteroften an unconscious, but still a truthful
interpreterin 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 couragewith a stern
triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at
itthe 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, spiritwith
will and energy, and virtue and puritythat 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
essenceyou 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
sufferingsthink of me.
He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the
sofa. Oh, Jane! my hopemy lovemy
life! broke in anguish from his lips. Then came a
deep, strong sob.
I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked
backwalked 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 wrongdirect you, solace
youreward you well for your past kindness to
me.
Little Janes love would have been my best
reward, he answered; without it, my heart is
broken. But Jane will give me her love: yesnobly,
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
comewatched 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 brides 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
Adèle! 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. Rochesters 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
heavena temporary heavenin 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 sweetso deadly sadthat 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 wanderingand
oh! with agony I thought of what I left. I could not help
it. I thought of him nowin his roomwatching
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
comforterhis pride; his redeemer from misery, perhaps from
ruin. Oh, that fear of his self-abandonmentfar worse
than my abandonmenthow 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
injuredwoundedleft 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 fearor hopethat here I
should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and
knees, and then again raised to my feetas 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 southwhite,
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 momentnot a charm or hope calls me
where my fellow-creatures arenone 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 habitationwhen 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 heat of
the summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly
star twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but
with propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Nature
seemed to me benign and 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 pennymy
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 hermits 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 leastat
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
waswhat countless systems there swept space like a soft
trace of lightI 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 Gods, 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 driedwhen the long morning shadows were curtailed,
and the sun filled earth and skyI 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 beings 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 thisthat 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 memight relax this
forced action, and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, submit
resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart and limbI
heard a bell chimea 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 oclock 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 couldnt 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.
Olivers needle-factory, and at the foundry.
Did Mr. Oliver employ women?
Nay; it was mens work.
And what do the women do?
I knawnt, 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 somethinga
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
framea voice wretchedly low and falteringI 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 natures cravings,
instinct kept me roaming round abodes where there was a chance of
food. Solitude would be no solituderest no
restwhile 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 askno 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 clergymans function to helpat
least with advicethose 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 farhappen 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 handkerchiefonce 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 requestWould 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 shes a beggar. T pig doesnt
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 desolationthis
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 ravensif any ravens there be in
these regionsshould pick my flesh from my bones, than that
they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a
paupers 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 frostthe friendly numbness of
deathit 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 treesfirs, 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 wallabove it, something like palisades, and within, a
high and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish
object gleamed before me: it was a gatea 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 onlyin 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 womenladies in
every pointsat, 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
girlin 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
handsomethey 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 womans
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 terrorlisten! And in a low voice
she read something, of which not one word was intelligible to me;
for it was in an unknown tongueneither 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 meconveying 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 wdge 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, Hannaha far larger country than England,
where they talk in no other way.
Well, for sure case, I knawnt how they can
understand t one tother: 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 allfor we are not as clever as you think us,
Hannah. We dont 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 timeor at least the
elements, as they say; and then we shall get more money than we
do now.
Varry like: but give ower studying; yeve done
enough for to-night.
I think we have: at least Im tired. Mary,
are you?
Mortally: after all, its 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 shouldnt 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 hadnt 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 daythat is, a fortnight sinand he
went to sleep and niver wakened: he wor amost stark when
your brother went into t chamber and fand him. Ah,
childer! thats t last o t old
stockfor ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to
them ats gone; for all your mother wor mich
i your way, and amost 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; Marys
pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Dianas
duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The
clock struck ten.
Yell 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 woesto 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 nights shelter in an out-house or
anywhere, and a morsel of bread to eat.
Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in
Hannahs face. Ill give you a piece of
bread, she said, after a pause; but we cant
take in a vagrant to lodge. It isnt
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, Ill warrant you know where to go and what to
do. Mind you dont do wrong, thats all.
Here is a penny; now go
A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go
farther. Dont shut the door:oh, dont,
for Gods 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 wouldnt make such a noise. Move
off.
But I must die if I am turned away.
Not you. Im feard you have some ill
plans agate, that bring you about folks houses at this
time o night. If youve any
followershousebreakers or such likeanywhere 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
sufferinga throe of true despairrent and heaved my
heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another step could I
stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groanedI wrung
my handsI wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of
death! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such
horror! Alas, this isolationthis banishment from my
kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of
fortitude was goneat 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 theredumb 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 nearwhat 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.
Yesyes; open quickly.
Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night
as it is! Come inyour sisters are quite uneasy about
you, and I believe there are bad folks about. There has
been a beggar-womanI 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 caseI 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 kitchenon the very
hearthtrembling, 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.
Yestry, repeated Mary gently; and
Marys hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my
head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first,
eagerly soon.
Not too much at firstrestrain her, said
the brother; she has had enough. And he
withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.
A little more, St. Johnlook at the avidity in
her eyes.
No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak
nowask her her name.
I felt I could speak, and I answeredMy 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 mendicantto resume my natural
manner and character. I began once more to know myself; and
when Mr. St. John demanded an accountwhich at present I
was far too weak to renderI 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 saidI 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
discoursemy breath is shortI 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
returnedI 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 servants aid, I contrived to mount a staircase;
my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received
me. I thanked Godexperienced amidst unutterable
exhaustion a glow of grateful joyand 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
timeof 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 imaginepoor, 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 goodvoid 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
lookingno speck of the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so
hated, and which seemed so to degrade me, leftI 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:
youve 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 youve 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 Ill 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.
Yeve not been used to sarvants wark, I
see by your hands, she remarked. Happen
yeve been a dressmaker?
No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I
have been: dont 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 doesnt 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 fathers 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?
Ive 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 mistaen 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! Theyve like nobody to tak care on
em but me. Im 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
Ill tell you whynot 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 wrangbut Ive clear
a different notion on you now to what I had. You look a
raight down dacent little crater.
That will doI 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
oldfor all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to
compare wi Mr. Olivers grand hall down i
Morton Vale. But she could remember Bill Olivers
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 folknaught 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 fathers 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
othernever 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 paleand 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.
Marys countenance was equally intelligenther
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 licensebut 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
hometo 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
roomnot one modern piece of furniture, save a brace of
workboxes and a ladys desk in rosewood, which stood on a
side-table: everythingincluding the carpet and
curtainslooked at once well worn and well saved.
Mr. St. Johnsitting as still as one of the dusty
pictures on the walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he
perused, and his lips mutely sealedwas easy enough to
examine. Had he been a statue instead of a man, he could
not have been easier. He was youngperhaps from
twenty-eight to thirtytall, 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 wayit always
was my way, by instinctever 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. Johns 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 peoples
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 cant be above
seventeen or eighteen years old, St. John, said she.
I am near nineteen: but I am not married.
No.
I felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and
agitating recollections were awakened by the allusion to
marriage. They all saw the embarrassment and the
emotion. Diana and Mary relieved me by turning their eyes
elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but the colder and sterner
brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he had excited forced
out tears as well as colour.
Where did you last reside? 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
servicethe 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
mindmy 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 teacherLowood 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
departurespeed, 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 sincefor I have not been
insensible during my seeming torporand I owe to their
spontaneous, genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to
your evangelical charity.
Dont 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
hospitalityyou 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 itit 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
timethe 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 firsall grown aslant
under the stress of mountain winds; its garden, dark with yew and
hollyand where no flowers but of the hardiest species
would bloomfound a charm both potent and permanent.
They clung to the purple moors behind and around their
dwellingto 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
sweepon 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 themso 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 themwound 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 Dianas
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 affectionof the strongest
kindwas 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 fathers old
pointer, Carlo, go out on his mission of love or dutyI
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 Marys 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 silencenever 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 calmand 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
forcecompressed, 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 doctrineselection, predestination,
reprobationwere 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 meI know not whether equally so to
othersthat the eloquence to which I had been listening had
sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs of
disappointmentwhere moved troubling impulses of insatiate
yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John
Riverspure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he
washad 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
elysiumregrets 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-recesswhich his table, chair, and desk consecrated
as a kind of studyand I was going to speak, though not
very well knowing in what words to frame my inquiryfor it
is at all times difficult to break the ice of reserve glassing
over such natures as hiswhen he saved me the trouble by
being the first to commence a dialogue.
Looking up as I drew nearYou 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 hereas my sisters
had evidently become attached to you, and your society gave them
unusual pleasureI 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 fathers 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 dependants crust among strangers, and the
third considers himself an alien from his native
countrynot 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 degradingfor 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 labourers task of tillage is appointed
himthe scantier the meed his toil bringsthe higher
the honour. His, under such circumstances, is the destiny
of the pioneer; and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the
Apostlestheir captain was Jesus, the Redeemer,
Himself.
Well? I said, as he again
pausedproceed.
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
narrowingthe 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 trivialhow 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 mistresss 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 parishMr.
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 humblebut then it was sheltered, and I
wanted a safe asylum: it was ploddingbut 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 ignoblenot unworthynot 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
girlscottagers childrenat 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
mindsentimentstastes?
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 mountainsmy nature, that
God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed,
paralysedmade 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 Gods serviceI, 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 brothers
face. And what then? she demanded, in a low
voice.
What then, Die? he replied, maintaining a marble
immobility of feature. What then?
Whynothing. 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 smileda 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 mothers
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 others 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 replyNo: I
felt desolate to a degree. I feltyes, idiot that I
amI 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 wrongthat 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 questionWhich is
better?To have surrendered to temptation; listened to
passion; made no painful effortno 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.
Rochesters mistress; delirious with his love half my
timefor he wouldoh, yes, he would have loved me
well for a while. He did love meno one will
ever love me so again. I shall never more know the sweet
homage given to beauty, youth, and gracefor never to any
one else shall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond
and proud of meit 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 fools paradise at Marseillesfevered with
delusive bliss one hoursuffocating with the bitterest
tears of remorse and shame the nextor 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 weepingand 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
furyconsequences of my departurewhich 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 MortonI 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 dogold Carlo, Mr. Rivers pointer, as I
saw in a momentwas 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 days 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 accommodationsyour
cottageyour furniturehave 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 nothingI 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 Lots 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 getwhen our will strains after a
path we may not followwe 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 tasteand 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 worldfor the more exciting toils of a
literary careerfor 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 curates
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 boundsmy 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
sorenesswhich 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 asundera last conflict with
human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome, because I have
vowed that I will overcomeand 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 himhis
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
whitea 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 tressesall 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-dames
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 oclock. 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. Johns 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 dogs head, bending with native grace
before his young and austere master, I saw a glow rise to that
masters 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 anothers 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
themcharacters desirous of information and disposed for
improvementwith 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
considerationa scrupulous regard to their
feelingsto 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 existenceafter a day
passed in honourable exertion amongst my scholars, an evening
spent in drawing or reading contentedly aloneI used to
rush into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured,
agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the
stormydreams 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
himthe 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
oclock 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
Amazons 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
pastors 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 naturethe rover, the aspirant, the
poet, the priestin the limits of a single passion.
He could nothe would notrenounce 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 Adèle; 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
naturf, 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 lovewhat 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 eveninga 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
Rosamonds 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. Riversof
the Rivers familywith 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 Rosamonds
union with St. John. Mr. Oliver evidently regarded the
young clergymans 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 brightscoured 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 Olivers
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 lipsa soft curl here and
there to the tressesa 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
publicationa poem: one of those genuine productions so
often vouchsafed to the fortunate public of those daysthe
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 hellthe 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
withinexpresses, 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.
Ill 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 dont mean to
be baffled by a little stiffness on your part; Im 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 dont 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,
Iless exalted in my views than St. Johnhad been
strongly disposed in my own heart to advocate their union.
It seemed to me that, should he become the possessor of Mr.
Olivers 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 unapproachableto hear
it thus freely handledwas beginning to be felt by him as a
new pleasurean 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 girlrather 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
saidvery: 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?
Dont 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
preparedso assiduously sown with the seeds of good
intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged
with a nectarous floodthe young germs
swampeddelicious poison cankering them: now I see myself
stretched on an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall at my
bride Rosamond Olivers feet: she is talking to me with her
sweet voicegazing down on me with those eyes your skilful
hand has copied so wellsmiling at me with these coral
lips. She is mineI am hersthis present life
and passing world suffice to me. Hush! say nothingmy
heart is full of delightmy senses are entrancedlet
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 hollowher 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 wildlywith all the intensity,
indeed, of a first passion, the object of which is exquisitely
beautiful, graceful, fascinatingI 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 toco-operate in nothing I
undertook. Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female
apostle? Rosamond a missionarys 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
raceof carrying knowledge into the realms of
ignoranceof substituting peace for warfreedom for
bondagereligion for superstitionthe 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 saidAnd 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 unsettledmy 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 hearts 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
ama 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 statestripped of that
blood-bleached robe with which Christianity covers human
deformitya 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
philosophera 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
Masters 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 Norhams castled steep,
And Tweeds fair river broad and deep,
And Cheviots 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 hurricanethe howling darknessand
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 wont
talk, you may be still; Ill 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 Garretts mother is better, and Mary came
back to the school this morning, and I shall have four new girls
next week from the Foundry Closethey 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 daughters, 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
narrators 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 curatenever mind his
name at this momentfell in love with a rich mans
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 lapcold 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 startdid 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 knowbeing 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 yourselfreally it strikes me there are parallel
points in her history and yoursshe 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. Rochesters 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 goneno 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 mewhat 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 governessthe 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 sufferingswhat object for
his strong passionshad he sought there? I dared not
answer the question. Oh, my poor masteronce almost
my husbandwhom I had often called my dear
Edward!
He must have been a bad man, observed Mr.
Rivers.
You dont know himdont 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 wont ask the
governesss name, I must tell it of my own accord.
Stay! I have it hereit 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
Eyrethe 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?
Yesyes; 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
youwhat 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 richmerely thatnothing more.
I!rich?
Yes, you, richquite 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 wealtha
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
deadmy 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
gloriousyes, I felt thatthat 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
oftwenty thousand pounds, I think they saybut what
is that?
Twenty thousand pounds?
Here was a new stunnerI 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 sumdont you think there is
a mistake?
No mistake at all.
Perhaps you have read the figures wrongit 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 een 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 methat 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 mothers 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. Eyres solicitor, wrote to us last
August to inform us of our uncles death, and to say that
he had left his property to his brother the clergymans
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 pausedhe
stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I
resumed
Your mother was my fathers sister?
Yes.
My aunt, consequently?
He bowed.
My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana,
and Mary are his sisters children, as I am his
brothers 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
joymy 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 dont care for a cousin; but I had
nobody; and now three relations,or two, if you dont
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,
justiceenough 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 glimpsethat 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 brothermy sisters will be
your sisterswithout stipulating for this sacrifice of your
just rights.
Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand
leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving amongst
strangers! I, wealthygorged 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 dont 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
strangerunsympathising, 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 Dianas and Marys; 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 resolvedas my cousins saw at length that my
mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just division of
the propertyas 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 dothey 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 hours 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
Bduerinnen; 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; dont
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 dont 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 anxiouslyI warn you of that. And try to
restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you throw
yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Dont 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-turvyhow 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
housemaids 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 himits peaceful enjoyments no
charm. Literally, he lived only to aspireafter 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 stoneat his fine
lineaments fixed in studyI 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 heroesChristian and Paganher 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 stagnatethey cannot develop or appear to
advantage. It is in scenes of strife and dangerwhere
courage is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude
taskedthat 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 missionarys
careerI 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 Marys soft cheek, then with
Dianas flowing curls. They laughedkissed
methen 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. Johns 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
daythat is, the return of Diana and Marypleased
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 nights
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.
Im sure, sir, you had better not.
Its the worst road to travel after dark that can be:
theres no track at all over the bog. And then it is
such a bitter nightthe 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 oclock: 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 Marys 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 handit was his
unsocial custom to read at mealshe 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 moments 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., Dianas,
Marys, 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
encyclopfdic 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 superstitiousas 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 dont 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
piercinglyhe kissed me. There are no such things as
marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my ecclesiastical
cousins 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 sourcethe 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.
Rochesters 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 himI 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 gardeningit 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 patients
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.
Johns 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 gemwhere it
exaggerated the wild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh for
the frowningwhere 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 hourwhen another slumber overcomes meon the
shore of a darker stream!
Strange words of a strange love! An austere
patriots 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
upto urge and exhort them to the effortto show them
what their gifts are, and why they were givento speak
Heavens 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 Heavenas 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 missionarys
wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have
given you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A
missionarys wife you mustshall be. You shall
be mine: I claim younot for my pleasure, but for my
Sovereigns 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 closeresolved, 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,
Janetrust 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 powerswhere 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
kindlingno life quickeningno 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 depthsthe fear of being persuaded by you
to attempt what I cannot accomplish!
I have an answer for youhear 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 itin the unflagging energy and unshaken
temper with which you have met its difficultiesI
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
yourselfI 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 landMr.
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,
Yesand 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 himto the finest central point and farthest
outward circle of his expectations. If I do go with
himif I do make the sacrifice he urges, I will make
it absolutely: I will throw all on the altarheart, 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
itemone dreadful item. It isthat he asks me
to be his wife, and has no more of a husbands 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
calculationscoolly put into practice his plansgo
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 himnot 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 brotherI, 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
momentyour 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 brotheryou, me as a sister: so
let us continue.
We cannotwe cannot, he answered, with
short, sharp determination: it would not do. You
have said you will go with me to India: rememberyou have
said that.
Conditionally.
Wellwell. To the main pointthe
departure with me from England, the co-operation with me in my
future laboursyou 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 viewhow
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
effectwith powerthe mission of your great
Master. To do so, you must have a coadjutor: not a
brotherthat is a loose tiebut 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
marrowhis hold on my limbs.
Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one
fitted to you.
One fitted to my purpose, you meanfitted to my
vocation. Again I tell you it is not the insignificant
private individualthe mere man, with the mans
selfish sensesI wish to mate: it is the
missionary.
And I will give the missionary my energiesit is
all he wantsbut not myself: that would be only adding the
husk and shell to the kernel. For them he has no use: I
retain them.
You cannotyou 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 equalone with whom I might argueone 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 Makers 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
capricesall trivial difficulties and delicacies of
feelingall scruple about the degree, kind, strength or
tenderness of mere personal inclinationyou 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
wifeat his side always, and always restrained, and always
checkedforced 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 vitalthis
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 togethersometimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst
savage tribesand 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
mans vigorous brain, you have a womans heart
andit would not do.
It would do, I affirmed with some disdain,
perfectly well. I have a womans heart, but
not where you are concerned; for you I have only a
comrades constancy; a fellow-soldiers frankness,
fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophytes respect and
submission to his hierophant: nothing moredont
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 mebe 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
variancea 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 marriageforget
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
fortnighttake 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 submissionthe
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. Iwho, though I had no love, had much
friendship for himwas 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 youhe will make it up.
I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always
rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after himhe
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 himno 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
vindictivenessnot 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 instrumentnothing more.
All this was torture to merefined, lingering
torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a
trembling trouble of grief, which harassed and crushed me
altogether. I felt howif 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 estrangementno 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 cousins 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 whitequite white.
I should kill youI 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 youindeed, I have not.
Most bitterly he smiledmost 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 regretfor 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 Societys 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 pausedI 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 elseto
what end? I wish he loved youdoes 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 doeshe 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,
wont 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 undertookone of incessant fatigue, where fatigue
kills even the strong, and you are weak. St. Johnyou
know himwould 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
labournot 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?
Insupportableunnaturalout 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
mannerone 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
fullnever 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 tonethat manner a more
thrilling meaningas 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
earthtold 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 Lambs 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
gatheredall 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 roomin 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 aimto 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:
repentresolve, while there is yet time. Remember, we
are bid to work while it is daywarned 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 sheepor 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
despotsprovided only they be sincerehave their
sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt
veneration for St. Johnveneration so strong that its
impetus thrust me at once to the point I had so long
shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling with
himto 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 hierophants touch. My
refusals were forgottenmy fears overcomemy
wrestlings paralysed. The Impossiblei.e., my
marriage with St. Johnwas fast becoming the
Possible. All was changing utterly with a sudden
sweep. Religion calledAngels beckonedGod
commandedlife rolled together like a
scrolldeaths 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. Johns 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 Gods will
I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and
nowcome 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 almostI knew the differencefor 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 roomnor in the housenor in the garden;
it did not come out of the airnor from under the
earthnor from overhead. I had heard itwhere,
or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the
voice of a human beinga known, loved, well-remembered
voicethat 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
backWhere 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 didno miraclebut
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 waya
different way to St. Johns, 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 thanksgivingtook a resolveand lay down,
unscared, enlightenedeager 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 knockno, 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
Christians cross and the angels 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 searchinquireto 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 Whitcrossthere 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 menot in the
external world. I asked was it a mere nervous
impressiona 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 Silass prison; it had opened the
doors of the souls cell and loosed its bandsit 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
availpersonal 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 inquiriesno 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 oclock 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 spothow desolate, and
hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I
enterednot 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, maam, across the
fields.
My journey is closed, I thought to myself.
I got out of the coach, gave a box I had into the ostlers
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
masters 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
labouryou 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 methe 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 crosseda
lane threadedand there were the courtyard wallsthe
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 masters very
window: perhaps he will be standing at ithe 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 tellI am not certain. And if I
didwhat 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 orchardturned
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 frontall 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
pausesfancying 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
beautywarm, 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
utterby 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 openingto 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 chimneysall 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 fallenby 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 itnot 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, maam; I lived there once.
Did you? Not in my time, I thought: you
are a stranger to me.
I was the late Mr. Rochesters 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. Edwards
father, he explained. I breathed again: my blood
resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words that Mr.
Edwardmy 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 comewhatever the disclosures might
bewith 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, maamoh, 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, maam: 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
ladyaa lunatic, kept in the house?
I have heard something of it.
She was kept in very close confinement, maam:
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 sincea
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, maam, he answered,
turned out to be Mr. Rochesters 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.
Im coming to that, maamthat 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 himservants will,
you know, maamand 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 Ive 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?
Youve hit it, maam: its 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.
Poolean able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but
for one faulta fault common to a deal of them nurses and
matronsshe 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
dont 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 governesss(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 savagequite 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 itshe was a very good woman.
Miss Adèle, 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 senseswhich 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,
maam. 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,
maam, 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, maam: it was
frightful!
He shuddered.
And afterwards? I urged.
Well, maam, afterwards the house was burnt to
the ground: there are only some bits of walls standing
now.
Were any other lives lost?
Noperhaps 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 be
dead.
Why? How? My blood was again running
cold. Where is he? I demanded.
Is he in England?
Ayayhes in England; he cant
get out of England, I fancyhes 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, maam: he wouldnt 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 crashall
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, indeedblind 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, maam, a very handsome
chaise.
Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can
drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, Ill 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
foliageno opening anywhere.
I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a
little; presently I beheld a railing, then the
housescarce, 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
movementthat 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 himit was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester,
and no other.
I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch
himto 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 years 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 broodingthat 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: Johns 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 dont 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 eyesunavailing and distressing
attempt! Answer mespeak 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 delusionno 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.
Whateverwhoever you arebe 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
shoulderneckwaistI was entwined and gathered
to him.
Is it Jane? What is it? This is her
shapethis 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 outI 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 thusand 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
abandonedmy life dark, lonely, hopelessmy soul
athirst and forbidden to drinkmy 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 goembrace me, Jane.
There, sirand there!
I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless
eyesI 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 youis 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 practicalthis 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 wont 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?
Certainlyunless you object. I will be your
neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely:
I will be your companionto 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 seriousabstracted; 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
armsbut he eagerly snatched me closer.
NonoJane; you must not go.
NoI have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your
presencethe sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give
up these joys. I have little left in myselfI must
have you. The world may laughmay call me absurd,
selfishbut 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.
Yesbut 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 chairto 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? Cometell 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
youngyou must marry one day.
I dont care about being married.
You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I
would try to make you carebuta 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 stumpa ghastly
sight! Dont you think so, Jane?
It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your
eyesand 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? Dont tell me solest 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 glowa ruddy
haze.
And you see the candles?
Very dimlyeach 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 chordto 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
moments 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 Johns wife to answer
me, and your voice spoke at my ear.
Because I had come in, in Marys 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 mepassing 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 changelingfairy-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
Ill 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 chairstill, 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-litand
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 Janes 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, maam: 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 themyes.
He would discover many things in you he could not have
expected to find? Some of your accomplishments are not
ordinary.
I dont 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 fictionan 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 cousinthis 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
Ill 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 foolgo
Where must I go, sir?
Your own waywith the husband you have
chosen.
Who is that?
You knowthis 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 missionarys 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 meno fondness. He sees nothing
attractive in me; not even youthonly 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 seared 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, sirno 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, siron your
choice.
Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide
by your decision.
Choose then, sirher who loves you
best.
I will at least chooseher 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
lifeif ever I thought a good thoughtif ever I
prayed a sincere and blameless prayerif 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 valueto press my lips to what I
loveto 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 helpedto be led:
henceforth, I feel I shall hate it no more. I did not like
to put my hand into a hirelings, but it is pleasant to
feel it circled by Janes little fingers. I preferred
utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but
Janes 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 getthen 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 oclock in the afternoon,
sir. Dont 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 flowerbreathed 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, Janeonlyonly of
lateI 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 themfour; it
was last Monday night, a singular mood came over me: one in which
grief replaced frenzysorrow, sullenness. I had long
had the impression that since I could nowhere find you, you must
be dead. Late that nightperhaps it might be between
eleven and twelve oclockere 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
acknowledgedthat I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded;
and the alpha and omega of my hearts wishes broke
involuntarily from my lips in the wordsJane!
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 truetrue at least it is
that I heard what I now relate.
As I exclaimed Jane! Jane!
Jane! a voiceI cannot tell whence the voice came,
but I know whose voice it wasreplied, I am coming:
wait for me; and a moment after, went whispering on the
wind the wordsWhere are you?
Ill 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 accentsas certain as I livethey
were yours!
Reader, it was on Monday nightnear midnightthat
I too had received the mysterious summons: those were the very
words by which I replied to it. I listened to Mr.
Rochesters 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 XXXVIIICONCLUSION
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 ones 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 Johns 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 pursuedI seed you go out
with the master, but I didnt 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 hes 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
Shell happen do better for him nor ony
ot grand ladies. And again, If
she bent one o th handsomest, shes
noan fabl and varry good-natured; and i his een
shes 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 dont know: he never
answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months
after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr.
Rochesters 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 Adèle, 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 anothermy 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 blestblest beyond what language can
express; because I am my husbands life as fully as he is
mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever
more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I
know no weariness of my Edwards 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
characterperfect 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
nearthat 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
naturehe 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, sunbeamof the landscape
before us; of the weather round usand 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 sadbecause 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
saidJane, 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 himthe 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 werelarge, 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. Dianas husband is
a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man.
Marys is a clergyman, a college friend of her
brothers, 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 saysWhosoever 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 earthwho 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 strangers
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.
Johns last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart
will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith
steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this
My Master, he says, has forewarned
me. Daily He announces more distinctly,Surely
I come quickly! and hourly I more eagerly
respond,Amen; even so come, Lord
Jesus!
THE END
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