The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë (2024)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë

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Title: Jane Eyre
an Autobiography

Author: Charlotte Brontë

Release Date: March, 1998 [eBook #1260]
[Most recently updated: May 2, 2023]

Language: English

Produced by: David Price

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE EYRE ***

by Charlotte Brontë

ILLUSTRATED BY F. H. TOWNSEND

London
SERVICE & PATON
5 HENRIETTA STREET
1897

The Illustrations
in this Volume are the copyright of
SERVICE & PATON, London

TO
W. M. THACKERAY, ESQ.,

This Work
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED

BY
THE AUTHOR

PREFACE

A preface to the first edition of “Jane Eyre” being unnecessary, I gave none:this second edition demands a few words both of acknowledgment andmiscellaneous remark.

My thanks are due in three quarters.

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

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

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

The Press and the Public are but vague personifications for me, and I mustthank them in vague terms; but my Publishers are definite: so are certaingenerous critics who have encouraged me as only large-hearted and high-mindedmen know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to them, i.e., to myPublishers and the select Reviewers, I say cordially, Gentlemen, I thank youfrom my heart.

Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided and approved me, Iturn to another class; a small one, so far as I know, but not, therefore, to beoverlooked. I mean the timorous or carping few who doubt the tendency of suchbooks as “Jane Eyre:” in whose eyes whatever is unusual is wrong; whose earsdetect in each protest against bigotry—that parent of crime—an insult to piety,that regent of God on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obviousdistinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths.

Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attackthe first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of thePharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.

These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as isvice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be confounded:appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that onlytend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for theworld-redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is agood, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separationbetween them.

The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has beenaccustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show pass forsterling worth—to let white-washed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hatehim who dares to scrutinise and expose—to rase the gilding, and show base metalunder it—to penetrate the sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: but hate as itwill, it is indebted to him.

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

There is a man in our own days whose words are not framed to tickle delicateears: who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of society, much as theson of Imlah came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel; and who speakstruth as deep, with a power as prophet-like and as vital—a mien as dauntlessand as daring. Is the satirist of “Vanity Fair” admired in high places? Icannot tell; but I think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fireof his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation,were to take his warnings in time—they or their seed might yet escape a fatalRimoth-Gilead.

Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him, Reader, because I thinkI see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his contemporarieshave yet recognised; because I regard him as the first social regenerator ofthe day—as the very master of that working corps who would restore to rectitudethe warped system of things; because I think no commentator on his writings hasyet found the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly characterisehis talent. They say he is like Fielding: they talk of his wit, humour, comicpowers. He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoopon carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour attractive,but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambentsheet-lightning playing under the edge of the summer-cloud does to the electricdeath-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, becauseto him—if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger—I have dedicated thissecond edition of “JANE EYRE.”

CURRER BELL.

December 21st, 1847.

NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION

I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition of “Jane Eyre” affordsme, of again addressing a word to the Public, to explain that my claim to thetitle of novelist rests on this one work alone. If, therefore, the authorshipof other works of fiction has been attributed to me, an honour is awarded whereit is not merited; and consequently, denied where it is justly due.

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

CURRER BELL.

April 13th, 1848.

CHAPTER I

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering,indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner(Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind hadbrought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that furtheroutdoor 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 andtoes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled bythe consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and GeorgianaReed.

The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in thedrawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlingsabout her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy.Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, “She regretted to beunder the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard fromBessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring ingood earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a moreattractive and sprightly manner—something lighter, franker, more natural, as itwere—she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented,happy, little children.”

“What does Bessie say I have done?” I asked.

“Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something trulyforbidding 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 abookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should beone 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 curtainnearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left werethe clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drearNovember day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studiedthe aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist andcloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rainsweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

I returned to my book—Bewick’s History of British Birds: the letterpressthereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certainintroductory 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 rocksand promontories” by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded withisles 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 ofthe Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,—that reservoir offrost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries ofwinters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, andconcentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold.” Of these death-white realmsI formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notionsthat float dim through children’s brains, but strangely impressive. The wordsin these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes,and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow andspray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastlymoon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.

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

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

The fiend pinning down the thief’s pack behind him, I passed over quickly: itwas an object of terror.

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

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding andimperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as thetales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be ingood humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth,she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed’s lace frills,and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of loveand adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a laterperiod 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 fearednothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room dooropened.

“Boh! Madam Mope!” cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found theroom apparently empty.

“Where the dickens is she!” he continued. “Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to hissisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain—bad animal!”

“It is well I drew the curtain,” thought I; and I wished fervently he might notdiscover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he wasnot quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at thedoor, 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 forthby 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 comehere;” and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that Iwas to approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for Iwas 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. Hegorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dimand bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but hismama had taken him home for a month or two, “on account of his delicatehealth.” Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he hadfewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother’s heart turnedfrom an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea thatJohn’s sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining afterhome.

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 ortwice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and everymorsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when Iwas bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whateveragainst either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like tooffend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed wasblind 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 threeminutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damagingthe roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused onthe disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonderif he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, hestruck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibriumretired back a step or two from his chair.

“That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since,” said he, “and foryour sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in youreyes two minutes since, you rat!”

Accustomed to John Reed’s abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my carewas 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; youhave no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to livehere with gentlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wearclothes at our mama’s expense. Now, I’ll teach you to rummage my bookshelves:for they are mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a fewyears. 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 liftand poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started asidewith 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, thepain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded.

“Wicked and cruel boy!” I said. “You are like a murderer—you are like aslave-driver—you are like the Roman emperors!”

I had read Goldsmith’s History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero,Caligula, &c. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thoughtthus to have declared aloud.

“What! what!” he cried. “Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza andGeorgiana? Won’t I tell mama? but first—”

He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closedwith a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a dropor two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhatpungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and Ireceived him in frantic sort. I don’t very well know what I did with my hands,but he called me “Rat! Rat!” and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Elizaand Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came uponthe scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard thewords—

“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 wereimmediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

CHAPTER II

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circ*mstance which greatlystrengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertainof me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather out ofmyself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a moment’s mutiny hadalready rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebelslave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths.

“Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she’s like a mad cat.”

“For shame! for shame!” cried the lady’s-maid. “What shocking conduct, MissEyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress’s son! Your young master.”

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

“No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sitdown, and think over your wickedness.”

They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and hadthrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their twopair of hands arrested me instantly.

“If you don’t sit still, you must be tied down,” said Bessie. “Miss Abbot, lendme your garters; she would break mine directly.”

Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. Thispreparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a littleof the excitement out of me.

“Don’t take them off,” I cried; “I will not stir.”

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

“Mind you don’t,” said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was reallysubsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood withfolded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of mysanity.

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

“But it was always in her,” was the reply. “I’ve told Missis often my opinionabout the child, and Missis agreed with me. She’s an underhand little thing: Inever saw a girl of her age with so much cover.”

Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said—

“You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: shekeeps 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 firstrecollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This reproach of mydependence 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 andMaster Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them. Theywill have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to behumble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them.”

“What we tell you is for your good,” added Bessie, in no harsh voice, “youshould try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a homehere; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I amsure.”

“Besides,” said Miss Abbot, “God will punish her: He might strike her dead inthe midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we willleave her: I wouldn’t have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre,when you are by yourself; for if you don’t repent, something bad might bepermitted 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 itnecessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was oneof the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported onmassive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood outlike a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blindsalways 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 crimsoncloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; thewardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany.Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled-upmattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane.Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of thebed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like apale throne.

This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, becauseremote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be soseldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from themirrors and the furniture a week’s quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at farintervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in thewardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and aminiature of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret ofthe red-room—the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur.

Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last;here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker’s men; and,since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequentintrusion.

My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was alow ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my righthand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflectionsvarying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a greatlooking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. Iwas not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, Igot up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, Ihad to cross before the looking-glass; my fascinated glance involuntarilyexplored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionaryhollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, witha white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear movingwhere all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it likeone of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie’s evening storiesrepresented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing beforethe eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my stool.

Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour forcomplete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave wasstill bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush ofretrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present.

All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud indifference, all hismother’s aversion, all the servants’ partiality, turned up in my disturbed mindlike a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, alwaysbrowbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Whywas it useless to try to win any one’s favour? Eliza, who was headstrong andselfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acridspite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty,her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked ather, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much lesspunished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the littlepea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of theirfruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: hecalled his mother “old girl,” too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin,similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore andspoiled her silk attire; and he was still “her own darling.” I dared commit nofault: 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 hadreproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had turned against him toavert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium.

“Unjust!—unjust!” said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus intoprecocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigatedsome strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression—asrunning 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 brainwas in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, whatdense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaselessinward question—why I thus suffered; now, at the distance of—I will notsay how many years, I see it clearly.

I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing inharmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If they didnot love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regardwith affection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them; aheterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, inpropensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or addingto their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation attheir treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been asanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child—though equallydependent and friendless—Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence morecomplacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the cordialityof fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to make me thescapegoat of the nursery.

Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o’clock, and thebeclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain stillbeating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grovebehind 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 onthe embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might beso; 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 thechancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been tolddid Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt onit with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was myown uncle—my mother’s brother—that he had taken me when a parentless infant tohis house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reedthat she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reedprobably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, aswell as her nature would permit her; but how could she really like aninterloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband’sdeath, by any tie? It must have been most irksome to find herself bound by ahard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child shecould not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her ownfamily group.

A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not—never doubted—that if Mr. Reedhad been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking atthe white bed and overshadowed walls—occasionally also turning a fascinated eyetowards the dimly gleaming mirror—I began to recall what I had heard of deadmen, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisitingthe earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr.Reed’s spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister’s child, might quit itsabode—whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed—andrise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearfullest 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: withall my might I endeavoured to stifle it—I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking myhair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the darkroom; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a rayfrom 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 overmy head. I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in alllikelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: butthen, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were byagitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming visionfrom another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled myears, which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I wasoppressed, suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook thelock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the keyturned, 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 ofBessie’s hand, and she did not snatch it from me.

“She has screamed out on purpose,” declared Abbot, in some disgust. “And what ascream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she onlywanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks.”

“What is all this?” demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed camealong the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. “Abbot andBessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-roomtill I came to her myself.”

“Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma’am,” pleaded Bessie.

“Let her go,” was the only answer. “Loose Bessie’s hand, child: you cannotsucceed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor artifice,particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will notanswer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition ofperfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then.”

“O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it—let me be punished someother 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 acompound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity.

Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now franticanguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, withoutfarther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, Isuppose 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 afrightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed withthick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as ifmuffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and anall-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere long, I becameaware that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in asitting posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheldbefore. 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 wellthat I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. It wasnight: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed-foot with a basinin 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 andsecurity, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual notbelonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie(though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, forinstance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knewhim; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when theservants 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 disturbedduring the night. Having given some further directions, and intimated that heshould call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so shelteredand befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed thedoor after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressiblesadness 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. “Iwill try.”

“Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?”

“No, thank you, Bessie.”

“Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o’clock; but you maycall me if you want anything in the night.”

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

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

“You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you’ll be better soon,no doubt.”

Bessie went into the housemaid’s apartment, which was near. I heard her say—

“Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren’t for my life be alonewith that poor child to-night: she might die; it’s such a strange thing sheshould have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather toohard.”

Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering togetherfor half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of theirconversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the mainsubject discussed.

“Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished”—“A great black dogbehind him”—“Three loud raps on the chamber door”—“A light in the churchyardjust over his grave,” &c., &c.

At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches ofthat long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; ear, eye, and mind were alikestrained 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 Iought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending myheart-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 thenursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailmentwas an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept drawing fromme silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than anotherfollowed. Yet, I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reedswere 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 aword of unwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me aparadise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand andthankless fa*gging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state thatno 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 acertain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling in awreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a mostenthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often petitioned to beallowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had alwaysh*therto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was nowplaced on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicatepastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred andoften wished for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of thebird, the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate andtart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word book acted as atransient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver’s Travels from thelibrary. This book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered ita narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than whatI found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain amongfoxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantlingold wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that theywere all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilderand thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignagbeing, in my creed, solid parts of the earth’s surface, I doubted not that Imight 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 ofthe one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, themonster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, when thischerished volume was now placed in my hand—when I turned over its leaves, andsought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed tofind—all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmiesmalevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dreadand dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, andput it on the table, beside the untasted tart.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed herhands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk andsatin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana’s doll. Meantime she sang:her song was—

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

I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for Bessiehad a sweet voice,—at least, I thought so. But now, though her voice was stillsweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupiedwith her work, she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; “A long timeago” came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed intoanother ballad, this time a really doleful one.

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

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child.

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

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

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

“Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,” said Bessie as she finished. She might as wellhave said to the fire, “don’t burn!” but how could she divine the morbidsuffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd cameagain.

“What, already up!” said he, as he entered the nursery. “Well, nurse, how isshe?”

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? Haveyou any pain?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in thecarriage,” 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, Ianswered promptly, “I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate going outin 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; hefixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not verybright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-featuredyet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at leisure, he said—

“What made you ill yesterday?”

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

“Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can’t she manage to walk at her age? Shemust be eight or nine years old.”

“I was knocked down,” was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by anotherpang 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 theservants’ dinner; he knew what it was. “That’s for you, nurse,” said he; “youcan go down; I’ll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back.”

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

“The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?” pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessiewas gone.

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

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

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

“Of Mr. Reed’s ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there.Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can help it;and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle,—so cruel that I think Ishall never forget it.”

“Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now indaylight?”

“No: but night will come again before long: and besides,—I am unhappy,—veryunhappy, 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 toframe any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings;and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how toexpress the result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing thisfirst and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after adisturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, trueresponse.

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

“You have a kind aunt and cousins.”

Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced—

“But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room.”

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

“Don’t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?” asked he. “Are you notvery 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 aservant.”

“Pooh! you can’t be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?”

“If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can neverget away from Gateshead till I am a woman.”

“Perhaps you may—who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?”

“I think not, sir.”

“None belonging to your father?”

“I don’t know: I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might have somepoor, 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; theythink of the word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, firelessgrates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous withdegradation.

“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 orwashing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, Iwas 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: Ishould 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 ofit as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and wereexpected to be exceedingly genteel and precise: John Reed hated his school, andabused his master; but John Reed’s tastes were no rule for mine, and ifBessie’s accounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of afamily where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling,her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladieswere, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintings oflandscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and piecesthey could play, of purses they could net, of French books they couldtranslate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, schoolwould be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separationfrom Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.

“I should indeed like to go to school,” was the audible conclusion of mymusings.

“Well, well! who knows what may happen?” said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. “Thechild 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 thegravel-walk.

“Is that your mistress, nurse?” asked Mr. Lloyd. “I should like to speak to herbefore I go.”

Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out. In theinterview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, fromafter-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent toschool; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted; for asAbbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in thenursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, “Missiswas, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditionedchild, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plotsunderhand.” Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantine GuyFawkes.

On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot’scommunications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that mymother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered thematch beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at herdisobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother andfather had been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fever whilevisiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy wassituated, and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother took theinfection from him, and both died within a month of each other.

Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, “Poor Miss Jane is tobe pitied, too, Abbot.”

“Yes,” responded Abbot; “if she were a nice, pretty child, one mightcompassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a littletoad as that.”

“Not a great deal, to be sure,” agreed Bessie: “at any rate, a beauty like MissGeorgiana would be more moving in the same condition.”

“Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!” cried the fervent Abbot. “Little darling!—withher long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour as she has; just asif she were painted!—Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper.”

“So could I—with a roast onion. Come, we’ll go down.” They went.

CHAPTER IV

From my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported conferencebetween Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a motive forwishing 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 ofhealth, 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 myillness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between meand 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, didshe drop about sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certainty thatshe would not long endure me under the same roof with her; for her glance, nowmore than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable and rootedaversion.

Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me aslittle as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me, andonce attempted chastisem*nt; but as I instantly turned against him, roused bythe same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which had stirred mycorruption before, he thought it better to desist, and ran from me utteringexecrations, and vowing I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at thatprominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict; and when I sawthat either that or my look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination tofollow up my advantage to purpose; but he was already with his mama. I heardhim in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how “that nasty Jane Eyre” hadflown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly—

“Don’t talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she is notworthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or your sisters shouldassociate with her.”

Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and without at alldeliberating on my words—

“They are not fit to associate with me.”

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

“What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?” was my scarcely voluntarydemand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my tongue pronouncedwords without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of meover which I had no control.

“What?” said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eyebecame troubled with a look like fear; she took her hand from my arm, and gazedat me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now infor it.

“My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papaand 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 bothmy ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by ahomily of an hour’s length, in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was themost 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 Yearhad been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; presents hadbeen interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From every enjoyment Iwas, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing thedaily apparelling of Eliza and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to thedrawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hairelaborately ringletted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound of the pianoor 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 brokenhum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed. When tired ofthis occupation, I would retire from the stairhead to the solitary and silentnursery: there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I hadnot the least wish to go into company, for in company I was very rarelynoticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable, I should havedeemed it a treat to spend the evenings quietly with her, instead of passingthem under the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed, in a room full of ladies andgentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she had dressed her young ladies, used totake herself off to the lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper’s room,generally bearing the candle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my kneetill the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothingworse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dullred, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, andsought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I always took mydoll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objectsof affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a fadedgraven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to rememberwith what absurd sincerity I doated on this little toy, half fancying it aliveand capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in mynight-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, andlistened for the sound of Bessie’s step on the stairs: sometimes she would comeup in the interval to seek her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring mesomething by way of supper—a bun or a cheese-cake—then she would sit on the bedwhile 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 Iwished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, andnever push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too oftenwont to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good naturalcapacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a remarkable knack ofnarrative; so, at least, I judge from the impression made on me by her nurserytales. She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and person arecorrect. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, verynice features, and good, clear complexion; but she had a capricious and hastytemper, and indifferent ideas of principle or justice: still, such as she was,I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead Hall.

It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o’clock in the morning: Bessie wasgone 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 herpoultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not less so of selling theeggs to the housekeeper and hoarding up the money she thus obtained. She had aturn for traffic, and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in thevending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bargains with thegardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; that functionaryhaving orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young lady all the products of herparterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would have sold the hair off her head ifshe could have made a handsome profit thereby. As to her money, she firstsecreted it in odd corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some ofthese hoards having been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one daylosing her valued treasure, consented to intrust it to her mother, at ausurious rate of interest—fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exactedevery quarter, keeping her accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.

Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass, and interweavingher curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of which she had found astore in a drawer in the attic. I was making my bed, having received strictorders from Bessie to get it arranged before she returned (for Bessie nowfrequently employed me as a sort of under-nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dustthe chairs, &c.). Having spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I wentto the window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll’s housefurniture scattered there; an abrupt command from Georgiana to let herplaythings alone (for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups,were her property) stopped my proceedings; and then, for lack of otheroccupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with which the window wasfretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass through which I might look outon the grounds, where all was still and petrified under the influence of a hardfrost.

From this window were visible the porter’s lodge and the carriage-road, andjust as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling the panesas left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage rollthrough. I watched it ascending the drive with indifference; carriages oftencame to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested; itstopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer wasadmitted. All this being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelierattraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirrupedon the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near thecasem*nt. The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, andhaving crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out thecrumbs 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 washedyour hands and face this morning?” I gave another tug before I answered, for Iwanted the bird to be secure of its bread: the sash yielded; I scattered thecrumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the cherry-tree bough, then, closingthe 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 hurryto listen to explanations; she hauled me to the washstand, inflicted amerciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and acoarse towel; disciplined my head with a bristly brush, denuded me of mypinafore, and then hurrying me to the top of the stairs, bid me go downdirectly, 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 slowlydescended. For nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs. Reed’spresence; restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, anddrawing-rooms were become for me awful regions, on which it dismayed me tointrude.

I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door, and Istopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear,engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to returnto the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood inagitated hesitation; the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decidedme; I must enter.

“Who could want me?” I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the stiffdoor-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts. “What should Isee besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?—a man or a woman?” The handle turned,the door unclosed, and passing through and curtseying low, I looked up at—ablack 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 topwas 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 toapproach; 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, andhaving examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkledunder a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, “Her size issmall: what is her age?”

“Ten years.”

“So much?” was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for someminutes. Presently he addressed me—“Your name, little girl?”

“Jane Eyre, sir.”

In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman; but thenI was very little; his features were large, and they and all the lines of hisframe 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 contraryopinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an expressive shake of thehead, 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 theperpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Reed’s.“Come here,” he said.

I stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight before him. What aface 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 naughtylittle 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 mustkeep in good health, and not die.”

“How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily. I burieda 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 ofyou were you to be called hence.”

Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down on thetwo 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 beenthe occasion of discomfort to your excellent benefactress.”

“Benefactress! benefactress!” said I inwardly: “they all call Mrs. Reed mybenefactress; 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 alittle bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job andJonah.”

“And the Psalms? I hope you like them?”

“No, sir.”

“No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalmsby heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut toeat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: ‘Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angelssing Psalms;’ says he, ‘I wish to be a little angel here below;’ he then getstwo 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: togive you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you aheart of flesh.”

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

“Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to youthree weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the character anddisposition I could wish: should you admit her into Lowood school, I should beglad if the superintendent and teachers were requested to keep a strict eye onher, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to deceit. Imention 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 towound me cruelly; never was I happy in her presence; however carefully Iobeyed, however strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were stillrepulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered before astranger, the accusation cut me to the heart; I dimly perceived that she wasalready obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she destined meto enter; I felt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that she wassowing aversion and unkindness along my future path; I saw myself transformedunder Mr. Brocklehurst’s eye into an artful, noxious child, and what could I doto remedy the injury?

“Nothing, indeed,” thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, and hastilywiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.

“Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,” said Mr. Brocklehurst; “it is akinto falsehood, and all liars will have their portion in the lake burning withfire and brimstone; she shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak toMiss 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 thevacations, 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 ofLowood; I, therefore, direct that especial care shall be bestowed on itscultivation amongst them. I have studied how best to mortify in them theworldly sentiment of pride; and, only the other day, I had a pleasing proof ofmy success. My second daughter, Augusta, went with her mama to visit theschool, and on her return she exclaimed: ‘Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plainall the girls at Lowood look, with their hair combed behind their ears, andtheir long pinafores, and those little holland pockets outside theirfrocks—they are almost like poor people’s children! and,’ said she, ‘theylooked at my dress and mama’s, as if they had never seen a silk gown before.’”

“This is the state of things I quite approve,” returned Mrs. Reed; “had Isought all England over, I could scarcely have found a system more exactlyfitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency, my dear Mr. Brocklehurst; Iadvocate consistency in all things.”

“Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it has been observedin every arrangement connected with the establishment of Lowood: plain fare,simple attire, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and active habits; such isthe order of the day in the house and its inhabitants.”

“Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupilat Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to her position andprospects?”

“Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants, and Itrust she will show herself grateful for the inestimable privilege of herelection.”

“I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I assureyou, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was becoming tooirksome.”

“No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. I shall return toBrocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two: my good friend, theArchdeacon, will not permit me to leave him sooner. I shall send Miss Templenotice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficultyabout receiving her. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst, and toAugusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst.”

“I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the ‘Child’s Guide’; readit with prayer, especially that part containing ‘An account of the awfullysudden 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 acover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she wassewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed might be at that time some six or sevenand thirty; she was a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered andstrong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese: she had a somewhat largeface, the under jaw being much developed and very solid; her brow was low, herchin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her lighteyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque, herhair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell—illness never camenear her; she was an exact, clever manager; her household and tenantry werethoroughly under her control; her children only at times defied her authorityand laughed it to scorn; she dressed well, and had a presence and portcalculated 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 deathof the Liar, to which narrative my attention had been pointed as to anappropriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerningme 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 itplainly, and a passion of resentment fomented now within me.

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

“Go out of the room; return to the nursery,” was her mandate. My look orsomething else must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with extremethough 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: buthow? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered myenergies and launched them in this blunt sentence—

“I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declareI do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except JohnReed; and this book about the liar, you may give to your girl, Georgiana, forit is she who tells lies, and not I.”

Mrs. Reed’s hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued todwell freezingly on mine.

“What more have you to say?” she asked, rather in the tone in which a personmight address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to achild.

That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking from headto foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I continued—

“I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again aslong as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up; and if any oneasks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought ofyou 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 Ihave no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but Icannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust meback—roughly and violently thrust me back—into the red-room, and locked me upthere, to my dying day; though I was in agony; though I cried out, whilesuffocating with distress, ‘Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!’ And thatpunishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me—knocked me downfor nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, this exact tale. Peoplethink you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. You aredeceitful!”

Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult, with thestrangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as if aninvisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped-forliberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked frightened; herwork had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, rocking herselfto 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 trembleso 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 yourfriend.”

“Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitfuldisposition; and I’ll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what youhave done.”

“Jane, you don’t understand these things: children must be corrected for theirfaults.”

“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 thenursery—there’s a dear—and lie down a little.”

“I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, forI hate to live here.”

“I will indeed send her to school soon,” murmured Mrs. Reed sotto voce;and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment.

I was left there alone—winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I hadfought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood awhile on the rug, whereMr. Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror’s solitude. First, Ismiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided in me asfast as did the accelerated throb of my pulses. A child cannot quarrel with itselders, as I had done; cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as Ihad given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pang of remorse and thechill of reaction. A ridge of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring, wouldhave been a meet emblem of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed: thesame ridge, black and blasted after the flames are dead, would have representedas meetly my subsequent condition, when half-an-hour’s silence and reflectionhad shown me the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness of my hated andhating position.

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine itseemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic andcorroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned. Willingly would I nowhave gone and asked Mrs. Reed’s pardon; but I knew, partly from experience andpartly from instinct, that was the way to make her repulse me with doublescorn, thereby re-exciting every turbulent impulse of my nature.

I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fierce speaking; fainfind nourishment for some less fiendish feeling than that of sombreindignation. I took a book—some Arabian tales; I sat down and endeavoured toread. I could make no sense of the subject; my own thoughts swam always betweenme and the page I had usually found fascinating. I opened the glass-door in thebreakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned,unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms withthe skirt of my frock, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation whichwas quite sequestrated; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, thefalling fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by pastwinds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate, and lookedinto an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass wasnipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a most opaque sky, “onding onsnaw,” canopied all; thence flakes fell at intervals, which settled on the hardpath 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 tolunch!”

It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light step cametripping down the path.

“You naughty little thing!” she said. “Why don’t you come when you are called?”

Bessie’s presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been brooding,seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is,after my conflict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to caremuch for the nursemaid’s transitory anger; and I was disposed to bask inher youthful lightness of heart. I just put my two arms round her and said,“Come, Bessie! don’t scold.”

The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in:somehow it pleased her.

“You are a strange child, Miss Jane,” she said, as she looked down at me; “alittle roving, solitary thing: and you are going to school, I suppose?”

I nodded.

“And won’t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?”

“What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me.”

“Because you’re such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should bebolder.”

“What! to get more knocks?”

“Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that’s certain. My mother said, whenshe came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one of her ownto be in your place.—Now, come in, and I’ve some good news for you.”

“I don’t think you have, Bessie.”

“Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well, but Missisand the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this afternoon, andyou shall have tea with me. I’ll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and thenyou 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 choosewhat toys you like to take with you.”

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

“Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don’t be afraid of me.Don’t start when I chance to speak rather sharply; it’s so provoking.”

“I don’t think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie, because I have gotused to you, and I shall soon have another set of people to dread.”

“If you dread them they’ll dislike you.”

“As you do, Bessie?”

“I don’t dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all theothers.”

“You don’t show it.”

“You little sharp thing! you’ve got quite a new way of talking. What makes youso venturesome and hardy?”

“Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides”—I was going to say somethingabout what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed, but on second thoughts Iconsidered it better to remain silent on that head.

“And so you’re glad to leave me?”

“Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I’m rather sorry.”

“Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I dare say now if Iwere to ask you for a kiss you wouldn’t give it me: you’d say you’drather not.”

“I’ll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down.” Bessie stooped; we mutuallyembraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoonlapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her mostenchanting stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me lifehad its gleams of sunshine.

CHAPTER V

Five o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January, whenBessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearlydressed. 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 raysstreamed through the narrow window near my crib. I was to leave Gateshead thatday by a coach which passed the lodge gates at six A.M. Bessiewas the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she nowproceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can eat when excited with thethoughts of a journey; nor could I. Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take afew spoonfuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared for me, wrapped upsome biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on withmy pelisse and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left thenursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go in and bidMissis 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 shetold me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak ofher and be grateful to her accordingly.”

“What did you say, Miss?”

“Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to thewall.”

“That was wrong, Miss Jane.”

“It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she has beenmy foe.”

“O Miss Jane! don’t say so!”

“Good-bye to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out atthe front door.

The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose lightglanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill wasthe winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There wasa light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it, we found the porter’s wifejust kindling her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the eveningbefore, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, andshortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels announced thecoming coach; I went to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly throughthe gloom.

“Is she going by herself?” asked the porter’s wife.

“Yes.”

“And how far is it?”

“Fifty miles.”

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

The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and its topladen with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk washoisted up; I was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I clung with kisses.

“Be sure and take good care of her,” cried she to the guard, as he lifted meinto the inside.

“Ay, ay!” was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed “Allright,” and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead; thuswhirled 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 ofa preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over hundreds of milesof road. We passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one, thecoach 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 eachend, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red gallery high upagainst the wall filled with musical instruments. Here I walked about for along time, feeling very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one comingin and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits havingfrequently figured in Bessie’s fireside chronicles. At last the guard returned;once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector mounted his own seat,sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the “stony street” of L——.

The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I began tofeel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to passthrough towns; the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round thehorizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and longafter night had overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongsttrees.

Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered whenthe sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open, and a personlike a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of thelamps.

“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 instantlydrove away.

I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of thecoach: gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darknessfilled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a dooropen in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and lockedit behind her. There was now visible a house or houses—for the building spreadfar—with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad pebblypath, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led methrough 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; therewas 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 comfortableenough. I was puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, whenthe door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followedclose behind.

The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and largeforehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance wasgrave, her bearing erect.

“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her candle downon the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two, then furtheradded—

“She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?” she asked,placing her hand on my shoulder.

“A little, ma’am.”

“And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to bed,Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come toschool, my little girl?”

I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had beendead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, andsew 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 meappeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, andair. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworncountenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had always a multiplicityof 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, frompassage to passage, of a large and irregular building; till, emerging from thetotal and somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we hadtraversed, 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 apair of candles, and seated all round on benches, a congregation of girls ofevery age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, theirnumber to me appeared countless, though not in reality exceeding eighty; theywere uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and longholland pinafores. It was the hour of study; they were engaged in conning overtheir to-morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the combined result oftheir whispered repetitions.

Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking up tothe 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 thebooks 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, withportions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a pitcher ofwater and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were handed round; thosewho liked took a draught of the water, the mug being common to all. When itcame 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, twoand two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I scarcely noticedwhat sort of a place the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I sawit was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow; she helped meto undress: when laid down I glanced at the long rows of beds, each of whichwas quickly filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the single light wasextinguished, and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.

The night passed rapidly: I was too tired even to dream; I only once awoke tohear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in torrents, and to besensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my side. When I again unclosedmy eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dressing; day had notyet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I too rosereluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could forshivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occursoon, as there was but one basin to six girls, on the stands down the middle ofthe room. Again the bell rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in thatorder descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: hereprayers were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out—

“Form classes!”

A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller repeatedlyexclaimed, “Silence!” and “Order!” When it subsided, I saw them all drawn up infour semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables; all held booksin their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay on each table, before thevacant seat. A pause of some seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague humof numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this indefinitesound.

A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each walkedto 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 childrenwere assembled: to this inferior class I was called, and placed at the bottomof it.

Business now began: the day’s Collect was repeated, then certain texts ofScripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of chapters inthe Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, dayhad fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: theclasses were marshalled and marched into another room to breakfast: how glad Iwas to behold a prospect of getting something to eat! I was now nearly sickfrom inanition, having taken so little the day before.

The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables smokedbasins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour farfrom inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of discontent when the fumes ofthe repast met the nostrils of those destined to swallow it; from the van ofthe procession, the tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered words—

“Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!”

“Silence!” ejacul*ted a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the upperteachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of somewhat moroseaspect, who installed herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom ladypresided at the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the nightbefore; she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied the foot of the table where Isat, and a strange, foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as Iafterwards found, took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long gracewas 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 portionwithout thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger blunted, Iperceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad asrotten potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were movedslowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most casesthe 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, therefectory 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 andtaste it; she looked at the others; all their countenances expresseddispleasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—

“Abominable stuff! How shameful!”

A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which theschoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it seemed to bepermitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used their privilege. Thewhole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly. Poorthings! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller was now the onlyteacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke withserious and sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced bysome lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made nogreat effort to check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.

A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, andstanding in the middle of the room, cried—

“Silence! To your seats!”

Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved intoorder, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of tongues. The upperteachers now punctually resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait.Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty girls sat motionlessand erect; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all with plain locks combed fromtheir faces, not a curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded bya narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets of holland (shapedsomething like a Highlander’s purse) tied in front of their frocks, anddestined to serve the purpose of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollenstockings and country-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty ofthose clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather young women; itsuited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest.

I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the teachers—noneof whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a little coarse, the darkone not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller,poor thing! looked purple, weather-beaten, and over-worked—when, as my eyewandered from face to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if movedby a common spring.

What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I hadgathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes were nowturned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and encountered thepersonage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the longroom, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the tworows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask hera question, and having received her answer, went back to her place, and saidaloud—

“Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!”

While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly up theroom. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet thesense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broaddaylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a benignant lightin their irids, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round, relieved thewhiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very darkbrown, 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 inthe mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanishtrimming 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, refinedfeatures; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and hewill have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of theexterior of Miss Temple—Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name written in aprayer-book intrusted to me to carry to church.

The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her seatbefore a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the first classround her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes werecalled by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar, &c., went on foran hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded, and music lessons were given by MissTemple to some of the elder girls. The duration of each lesson was measured bythe 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 ather voice. She went on—

“You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must behungry:—I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served toall.”

The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.

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

The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the highdelight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now given “To thegarden!” Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of coloured calico,and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and, following thestream, I made my way into the open air.

The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to excludeevery glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one side, and broadwalks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little beds: these bedswere assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had anowner. When full of flowers they would doubtless look pretty; but now, at thelatter end of January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as Istood and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; notpositively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot wasstill soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girlsran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones herdedtogether for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as thedense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the soundof a hollow cough.

As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of me; Istood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was accustomed; it didnot oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my greymantle 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 theemployment of watching and thinking. My reflections were too undefined andfragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and mypast life seemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the present wasvague and strange, and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked roundthe convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a large building, half ofwhich seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part, containingthe schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows, whichgave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the door bore thisinscription:—

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, andglorify your Father which is in heaven.”—St. Matt. v. 16.

I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged tothem, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was still pondering thesignification of “Institution,” and endeavouring to make out a connectionbetween the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a coughclose behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone benchnear; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: fromwhere I stood I could see the title—it was “Rasselas;” a name that struck me asstrange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to lookup, and I said to her directly—

“Is your book interesting?” I had already formed the intention of asking her tolend it to me some day.

“I like it,” she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which sheexamined me.

“What is it about?” I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thusto open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature andhabits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for Itoo liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digestor 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 takingthan the title: “Rasselas” looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothingabout fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over theclosely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it quietly, andwithout 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 isLowood Institution?”

“This house where you are come to live.”

“And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from otherschools?”

“It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, arecharity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father oryour mother dead?”

“Both died before I can remember.”

“Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this iscalled 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 thedeficiency is supplied by subscription.”

“Who subscribes?”

“Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and inLondon.”

“Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?”

“The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, andwhose 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 whosaid we were to have some bread and cheese?”

“To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurstfor all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our clothes.”

“Does he live here?”

“No—two miles off, at a large hall.”

“Is he a good man?”

“He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good.”

“Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?”

“Yes.”

“And what are the other teachers called?”

“The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, andcuts out—for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything;the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history andgrammar, 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 MadamePierrot: 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 hername as you do.”

“Miss Scatcherd is hasty—you must take care not to offend her; Madame Pierrotis not a bad sort of person.”

“But Miss Temple is the best—isn’t she?”

“Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because sheknows 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 thepresent: 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 thatwhich had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in two hugetin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I foundthe mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat,mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant platefulwas apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myselfwhether every day’s fare would be like this.

After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced,and were continued till five o’clock.

The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I hadconversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from ahistory class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom. Thepunishment seemed to me in a high degree ignominious, especially for so great agirl—she looked thirteen or upwards. I expected she would show signs of greatdistress 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 soquietly—so firmly?” I asked of myself. “Were I in her place, it seems to me Ishould wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she werethinking of something beyond her punishment—beyond her situation: of somethingnot round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams—is she in a day-dreamnow? Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it—hersight seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at what she canremember, I believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of agirl she is—whether good or naughty.”

Soon after five P.M. we had another meal, consisting of a smallmug of coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drankmy coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more—I was stillhungry. Half-an-hour’s recreation succeeded, then study; then the glass ofwater and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first day atLowood.

CHAPTER VI

The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by rushlight; butthis morning we were obliged to dispense with the ceremony of washing; thewater in the pitchers was frozen. A change had taken place in the weather thepreceding evening, and a keen north-east wind, whistling through the crevicesof our bedroom windows all night long, had made us shiver in our beds, andturned the contents of the ewers to ice.

Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-reading was over, I feltready to perish with cold. Breakfast-time came at last, and this morning theporridge was not burnt; the quality was eatable, the quantity small. How smallmy portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled.

In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class, andregular tasks and occupations were assigned me: hitherto, I had only been aspectator 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 meboth long and difficult; the frequent change from task to task, too, bewilderedme; and I was glad when, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith putinto 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, withdirections to hem the same. At that hour most of the others were sewinglikewise; but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd’s chair reading, andas all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, together withthe manner in which each girl acquitted herself, and the animadversions orcommendations of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English history:among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah: at thecommencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, but forsome error of pronunciation, or some inattention to stops, she was suddenlysent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss Scatcherdcontinued to make her an object of constant notice: she was continuallyaddressing to her such phrases as the following:—

“Burns” (such it seems was her name: the girls here were all called by theirsurnames, as boys are elsewhere), “Burns, you are standing on the side of yourshoe; turn your toes out immediately.” “Burns, you poke your chin mostunpleasantly; draw it in.” “Burns, I insist on your holding your head up; Iwill not have you before me in that attitude,” &c. &c.

A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the girlsexamined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I., and therewere sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and ship-money, which most ofthem appeared unable to answer; still, every little difficulty was solvedinstantly when it reached Burns: her memory seemed to have retained thesubstance of the whole lesson, and she was ready with answers on every point. Ikept expecting that Miss Scatcherd would praise her attention; but, instead ofthat, 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 nailsnor wash her face, as the water was frozen?”

My attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring me to hold a skein ofthread: while she was winding it, she talked to me from time to time, askingwhether 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 MissScatcherd’s movements. When I returned to my seat, that lady was justdelivering an order of which I did not catch the import; but Burns immediatelyleft 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 togetherat one end. This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectfulcurtesy; then she quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore, andthe teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes withthe bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns’ eye; and, while I paused from mysewing, because my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment ofunavailing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive face altered itsordinary expression.

“Hardened girl!” exclaimed Miss Scatcherd; “nothing can correct you of yourslatternly habits: carry the rod away.”

Burns obeyed: I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the book-closet; shewas just putting back her handkerchief into her pocket, and the trace of a tearglistened on her thin cheek.

The play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the day atLowood: the bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at five o’clock hadrevived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger: the long restraint of the daywas slackened; the schoolroom felt warmer than in the morning—its fires beingallowed to burn a little more brightly, to supply, in some measure, the placeof candles, not yet introduced: the ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, theconfusion 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 groupswithout a companion, yet not feeling lonely: when I passed the windows, I nowand then lifted a blind, and looked out; it snowed fast, a drift was alreadyforming against the lower panes; putting my ear close to the window, I coulddistinguish from the gleeful tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the windoutside.

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

Jumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made my way to one of thefire-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 sheread 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 thefloor.

“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 ofno 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 shestruck me with that rod, I should get it from her hand; I should break it underher nose.”

“Probably you would do nothing of the sort: but if you did, Mr. Brocklehurstwould 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 allconnected 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 themiddle of a room full of people; and you are such a great girl: I am faryounger 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 weakand silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required tobear.”

I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of endurance; andstill less could I understand or sympathise with the forbearance she expressedfor her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things by a lightinvisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right and I wrong; but I wouldnot ponder the matter deeply; like Felix, I put it off to a more convenientseason.

“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; Iforget rules; I read when I should learn my lessons; I have no method; andsometimes I say, like you, I cannot bear to be subjected to systematicarrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturallyneat, punctual, and particular.”

“And cross and cruel,” I added; but Helen Burns would not admit my addition:she kept silence.

“Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?”

At the utterance of Miss Temple’s name, a soft smile flitted over her graveface.

“Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe to any one, eventhe 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 strongproof of my wretchedly defective nature is, that even her expostulations, somild, so rational, have not influence to cure me of my faults; and even herpraise, though I value it most highly, cannot stimulate me to continued careand 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 thismorning, and saw you were closely attentive: your thoughts never seemed towander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned you. Now, minecontinually rove away; when I should be listening to Miss Scatcherd, andcollecting all she says with assiduity, often I lose the very sound of hervoice; 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 whichruns 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 listeningto 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 interestedme. This afternoon, instead of dreaming of Deepden, I was wondering how a manwho wished to do right could act so unjustly and unwisely as Charles the Firstsometimes did; and I thought what a pity it was that, with his integrity andconscientiousness, 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 thespirit of the age was tending! Still, I like Charles—I respect him—I pity him,poor murdered king! Yes, his enemies were the worst: they shed blood they hadno right to shed. How dared they kill him!”

Helen was talking to herself now: she had forgotten I could not very wellunderstand her—that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of the subject she discussed.I recalled her to my level.

“And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts wander then?”

“No, certainly, not often; because Miss Temple has generally something to saywhich is newer than my own reflections; her language is singularly agreeable tome, 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 everdesire to be. If people were always kind and obedient to those who are crueland unjust, the wicked people would have it all their own way: they would neverfeel afraid, and so they would never alter, but would grow worse and worse.When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard;I am sure we should—so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do itagain.”

“You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow older: as yet you are but alittle untaught girl.”

“But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, whatever I do to pleasethem, persist in disliking me; I must resist those who punish me unjustly. Itis as natural as that I should love those who show me affection, or submit topunishment when I feel it is deserved.”

“Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but Christians and civilisednations disown it.”

“How? I don’t understand.”

“It is not violence that best overcomes hate—nor vengeance that most certainlyheals injury.”

“What then?”

“Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says, and how He acts; makeHis 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 youand 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 pourout, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and resentments. Bitter andtruculent 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 castof character, as Miss Scatcherd does mine; but how minutely you remember allshe has done and said to you! What a singularly deep impression her injusticeseems to have made on your heart! No ill-usage so brands its record on myfeelings. Would you not be happier if you tried to forget her severity,together with the passionate emotions it excited? Life appears to me too shortto 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 comewhen, I trust, we shall put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies;when debasem*nt 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 lightand thought, pure as when it left the Creator to inspire the creature: whenceit came it will return; perhaps again to be communicated to some being higherthan man—perhaps to pass through gradations of glory, from the pale human soulto brighten to the seraph! Surely it will never, on the contrary, be sufferedto degenerate from man to fiend? No; I cannot believe that: I hold anothercreed: which no one ever taught me, and which I seldom mention; but in which Idelight, and to which I cling: for it extends hope to all: it makes Eternity arest—a mighty home, not a terror and an abyss. Besides, with this creed, I canso clearly distinguish between the criminal and his crime; I can so sincerelyforgive the first while I abhor the last: with this creed revenge never worriesmy heart, degradation never too deeply disgusts me, injustice never crushes metoo low: I live in calm, looking to the end.”

Helen’s head, always drooping, sank a little lower as she finished thissentence. I saw by her look she wished no longer to talk to me, but rather toconverse with her own thoughts. She was not allowed much time for meditation: amonitor, a great rough girl, presently came up, exclaiming in a strongCumberland accent—

“Helen Burns, if you don’t go and put your drawer in order, and fold up yourwork this minute, I’ll tell Miss Scatcherd to come and look at it!”

Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up, obeyed the monitor withoutreply as without delay.

CHAPTER VII

My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden age either; itcomprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating myself to newrules and unwonted tasks. The fear of failure in these points harassed me worsethan the physical hardships of my lot; though these were no trifles.

During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after theirmelting, the almost impassable roads, prevented our stirring beyond the gardenwalls, except to go to church; but within these limits we had to pass an hourevery day in the open air. Our clothing was insufficient to protect us from thesevere cold: we had no boots, the snow got into our shoes and melted there: ourungloved hands became numbed and covered with chilblains, as were our feet: Iremember well the distracting irritation I endured from this cause everyevening, 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 wasdistressing: with the keen appetites of growing children, we had scarcelysufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this deficiency ofnourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on the younger pupils:whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menacethe little ones out of their portion. Many a time I have shared between twoclaimants the precious morsel of brown bread distributed at tea-time; and afterrelinquishing to a third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I haveswallowed the remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from meby the exigency of hunger.

Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles toBrocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated. We set out cold, we arrivedat church colder: during the morning service we became almost paralysed. It wastoo far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in thesame penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was served roundbetween 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 thenorth, 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, andencouraging us, by precept and example, to keep up our spirits, and marchforward, as she said, “like stalwart soldiers.” The other teachers, poorthings, were generally themselves too much dejected to attempt the task ofcheering 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 wasimmediately surrounded by a double row of great girls, and behind them theyounger children crouched in groups, wrapping their starved arms in theirpinafores.

A little solace came at tea-time, in the shape of a double ration of bread—awhole, instead of a half, slice—with the delicious addition of a thin scrape ofbutter: it was the hebdomadal treat to which we all looked forward from Sabbathto Sabbath. I generally contrived to reserve a moiety of this bounteous repastfor myself; but the remainder I was invariably obliged to part with.

The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church Catechism, andthe fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew; and in listening to along sermon, read by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested herweariness. A frequent interlude of these performances was the enactment of thepart of Eutychus by some half-dozen of little girls, who, overpowered withsleep, 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 thecentre of the schoolroom, and oblige them to stand there till the sermon wasfinished. 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 thatgentleman was from home during the greater part of the first month after myarrival; perhaps prolonging his stay with his friend the archdeacon: hisabsence was a relief to me. I need not say that I had my own reasons fordreading his coming: but come he did at last.

One afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood), as I was sitting with aslate in my hand, puzzling over a sum in long division, my eyes, raised inabstraction to the window, caught sight of a figure just passing: I recognisedalmost instinctively that gaunt outline; and when, two minutes after, all theschool, teachers included, rose en masse, it was not necessary for me tolook up in order to ascertain whose entrance they thus greeted. A long stridemeasured the schoolroom, and presently beside Miss Temple, who herself hadrisen, stood the same black column which had frowned on me so ominously fromthe hearthrug of Gateshead. I now glanced sideways at this piece ofarchitecture. Yes, I was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in asurtout, and looking longer, narrower, and more rigid than ever.

I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition; too well Iremembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my disposition,&c.; the promise pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst to apprise Miss Temple and theteachers of my vicious nature. All along I had been dreading the fulfilment ofthis promise,—I had been looking out daily for the “Coming Man,” whoseinformation respecting my past life and conversation was to brand me as a badchild for ever: now there he was.

He stood at Miss Temple’s side; he was speaking low in her ear: I did not doubthe was making disclosures of my villainy; and I watched her eye with painfulanxiety, expecting every moment to see its dark orb turn on me a glance ofrepugnance and contempt. I listened too; and as I happened to be seated quiteat the top of the room, I caught most of what he said: its import relieved mefrom immediate apprehension.

“I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will do; it struck methat it would be just of the quality for the calico chemises, and I sorted theneedles to match. You may tell Miss Smith that I forgot to make a memorandum ofthe darning needles, but she shall have some papers sent in next week; and sheis not, on any account, to give out more than one at a time to each pupil: ifthey have more, they are apt to be careless and lose them. And, O ma’am! I wishthe woollen stockings were better looked to!—when I was here last, I went intothe kitchen-garden and examined the clothes drying on the line; there was aquantity of black hose in a very bad state of repair: from the size of theholes in them I was sure they had not been well mended from time to time.”

He paused.

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

“And, ma’am,” he continued, “the laundress tells me some of the girls have twoclean tuckers in the week: it is too much; the rules limit them to one.”

“I think I can explain that circ*mstance, sir. Agnes and Catherine Johnstonewere invited to take tea with some friends at Lowton last Thursday, and I gavethem leave to put on clean tuckers for the occasion.”

Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.

“Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the circ*mstance occur toooften. And there is another thing which surprised me; I find, in settlingaccounts 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. Whointroduced this innovation? and by what authority?”

“I must be responsible for the circ*mstance, sir,” replied Miss Temple: “thebreakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it; and Idared not allow them to remain fasting till dinner-time.”

“Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan in bringing up thesegirls is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury and indulgence, but torender them hardy, patient, self-denying. Should any little accidentaldisappointment of the appetite occur, such as the spoiling of a meal, the underor the over dressing of a dish, the incident ought not to be neutralised byreplacing with something more delicate the comfort lost, thus pampering thebody and obviating the aim of this institution; it ought to be improved to thespiritual edification of the pupils, by encouraging them to evince fortitudeunder the temporary privation. A brief address on those occasions would not bemistimed, wherein a judicious instructor would take the opportunity ofreferring to the sufferings of the primitive Christians; to the torments ofmartyrs; to the exhortations of our blessed Lord Himself, calling upon Hisdisciples to take up their cross and follow Him; to His warnings that man shallnot live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth ofGod; 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 burntporridge, into these children’s mouths, you may indeed feed their vile bodies,but you little think how you starve their immortal souls!”

Mr. Brocklehurst again paused—perhaps overcome by his feelings. Miss Temple hadlooked down when he first began to speak to her; but she now gazed straightbefore her, and her face, naturally pale as marble, appeared to be assumingalso the coldness and fixity of that material; especially her mouth, closed asif it would have required a sculptor’s chisel to open it, and her brow settledgradually into petrified severity.

Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands behind hisback, majestically surveyed the whole school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink, asif it had met something that either dazzled or shocked its pupil; turning, hesaid in more rapid accents than he had hitherto used—

“Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what—what is that girl with curled hair? Redhair, ma’am, curled—curled all over?” And extending his cane he pointed to theawful object, his hand shaking as he did so.

“It is Julia Severn,” replied Miss Temple, very quietly.

“Julia Severn, ma’am! And why has she, or any other, curled hair? Why, indefiance of every precept and principle of this house, does she conform to theworld so openly—here in an evangelical, charitable establishment—as to wear herhair one mass of curls?”

“Julia’s hair curls naturally,” returned Miss Temple, still more quietly.

“Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I wish these girls to bethe children of Grace: and why that abundance? I have again and again intimatedthat I desire the hair to be arranged closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Temple,that girl’s hair must be cut off entirely; I will send a barber to-morrow: andI see others who have far too much of the excrescence—that tall girl, tell herto turn round. Tell all the first form to rise up and direct their faces to thewall.”

Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to smooth away theinvoluntary smile that curled them; she gave the order, however, and when thefirst class could take in what was required of them, they obeyed. Leaning alittle back on my bench, I could see the looks and grimaces with which theycommented on this manoeuvre: it was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could not see themtoo; he would perhaps have felt that, whatever he might do with the outside ofthe cup and platter, the inside was further beyond his interference than heimagined.

He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes, thenpronounced 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 thisworld: my mission is to mortify in these girls the lusts of the flesh; to teachthem to clothe themselves with shame-facedness and sobriety, not with braidedhair and costly apparel; and each of the young persons before us has a stringof hair twisted in plaits which vanity itself might have woven; these, Irepeat, must be cut off; think of the time wasted, of—”

Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies, nowentered the room. They ought to have come a little sooner to have heard hislecture 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 greybeaver hats, then in fashion, shaded with ostrich plumes, and from under thebrim of this graceful head-dress fell a profusion of light tresses, elaboratelycurled; the elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed withermine, and she wore a false front of French curls.

These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as Mrs. and the MissesBrocklehurst, and conducted to seats of honour at the top of the room. It seemsthey had come in the carriage with their reverend relative, and had beenconducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room upstairs, while he transactedbusiness with the housekeeper, questioned the laundress, and lectured thesuperintendent. They now proceeded to address divers remarks and reproofs toMiss Smith, who was charged with the care of the linen and the inspection ofthe dormitories: but I had no time to listen to what they said; other matterscalled 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 personalsafety; 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 withmy sum, had held my slate in such a manner as to conceal my face: I might haveescaped notice, had not my treacherous slate somehow happened to slip from myhand, and falling with an obtrusive crash, directly drawn every eye upon me; Iknew it was all over now, and, as I stooped to pick up the two fragments ofslate, I rallied my forces for the worst. It came.

“A careless girl!” said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after—“It is the newpupil, I perceive.” And before I could draw breath, “I must not forget I have aword to say respecting her.” Then aloud: how loud it seemed to me! “Let thechild who broke her slate come forward!”

Of my own accord I could not have stirred; I was paralysed: but the two greatgirls who sat on each side of me, set me on my legs and pushed me towards thedread judge, and then Miss Temple gently assisted me to his very feet, and Icaught her whispered counsel—

“Don’t be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall not be punished.”

The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger.

“Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite,” thought I; and animpulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehurst, and Co. bounded in my pulses at theconviction. I was no Helen Burns.

“Fetch that stool,” said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one fromwhich a monitor had just risen: it was brought.

“Place the child upon it.”

And I was placed there, by whom I don’t know: I was in no condition to noteparticulars; I was only aware that they had hoisted me up to the height of Mr.Brocklehurst’s nose, that he was within a yard of me, and that a spread of shotorange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of silvery plumage extended andwaved 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 againstmy scorched skin.

“You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary form ofchildhood; God has graciously given her the shape that He has given to all ofus; no signal deformity points her out as a marked character. Who would thinkthat the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in her? Yet such, Igrieve to say, is the case.”

A pause—in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and to feel that theRubicon was passed; and that the trial, no longer to be shirked, must be firmlysustained.

“My dear children,” pursued the black marble clergyman, with pathos, “this is asad, a melancholy occasion; for it becomes my duty to warn you, that this girl,who might be one of God’s own lambs, is a little castaway: not a member of thetrue flock, but evidently an interloper and an alien. You must be on your guardagainst 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, suchsalvation be possible, for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, thischild, the native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen whosays its prayers to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut—this girl is—a liar!”

Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in perfectpossession of my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts produce theirpocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics, while the elderly ladyswayed 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 whoadopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own daughter, and whosekindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad, sodreadful, that at last her excellent patroness was obliged to separate her fromher own young ones, fearful lest her vicious example should contaminate theirpurity: she has sent her here to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent theirdiseased to the troubled pool of Bethesda; and, teachers, superintendent, I begof you not to allow the waters to stagnate round her.”

With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button of hissurtout, muttered something to his family, who rose, bowed to Miss Temple, andthen 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 herduring the remainder of the day.”

There was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could not bear the shame ofstanding on my natural feet in the middle of the room, was now exposed togeneral view on a pedestal of infamy. What my sensations were, no language candescribe; but just as they all rose, stifling my breath and constricting mythroat, a girl came up and passed me: in passing, she lifted her eyes. What astrange light inspired them! What an extraordinary sensation that ray sentthrough me! How the new feeling bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, hadpassed a slave or victim, and imparted strength in the transit. I mastered therising hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. HelenBurns asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith, was chidden forthe triviality of the inquiry, returned to her place, and smiled at me as sheagain went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and I know that it was theeffluence 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 anangel. 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 ofbread and water on the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying itout. Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc ofthe clearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd’s can only see those minutedefects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb.

CHAPTER VIII

Ere the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck; school was dismissed, and allwere gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it was deepdusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which Ihad been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, sooverwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to theground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left tomyself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I had meant to beso good, and to do so much at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respectand win affection. Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I hadreached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Templehad smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let melearn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer: andthen I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an equal by those ofmy own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay again crushed and troddenon; and could I ever rise more?

“Never,” I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wishin broken accents, some one approached: I started up—again Helen Burns was nearme; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant room; shebrought my coffee and bread.

“Come, eat something,” she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as if adrop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regardedme, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation, though I triedhard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embracedher knees with her arms, and rested her head upon them; in that attitude sheremained 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 calledso, 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 ordislikes 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 islittle liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treatedyou 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 theydared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, butfriendly feelings are concealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in doingwell, these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evidently for theirtemporary suppression. Besides, Jane”—she paused.

“Well, Helen?” said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers gentlyto warm them, and went on—

“If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscienceapproved 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 othersdon’t love me I would rather die than live—I cannot bear to be solitary andhated, 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 myarm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, andlet it dash its hoof at my chest—”

“Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are tooimpulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and putlife into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, orthan 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 toguard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on allsides, 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 hasweakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read asincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits onlythe 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, anddeath is so certain an entrance to happiness—to glory?”

I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted therewas an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe as shespoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having done speaking, shebreathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my ownsorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.

Resting my head on Helen’s shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she drew meto her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus, when anotherperson came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, hadleft the moon bare; and her light, streaming in through a window near, shonefull both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once recognised asMiss Temple.

“I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,” said she; “I want you in my room;and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too.”

We went; following the superintendent’s guidance, we had to thread someintricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment; itcontained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to beseated in a low arm-chair on one side of the hearth, and herself takinganother, she called me to her side.

“Is it all over?” she asked, looking down at my face. “Have you cried yourgrief away?”

“I am afraid I never shall do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma’am, and everybody else, willnow think me wicked.”

“We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act asa 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 thelady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?”

“Mrs. Reed, my uncle’s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care.”

“Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?”

“No, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often heardthe servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would always keepme.”

“Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal isaccused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have beencharged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whateveryour memory suggests is true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.”

I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate—mostcorrect; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherentlywhat I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted byemotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developedthat sad theme; and mindful of Helen’s warnings against the indulgence ofresentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood thanordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as Iwent on that Miss Temple fully believed me.

In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see meafter the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of thered-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to breakbounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of agony whichclutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, andlocked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.

I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she thensaid—

“I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees withyour 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 tostand, for I derived a child’s pleasure from the contemplation of her face, herdress, her one or two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shiningcurls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns.

“How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?”

“Not quite so much, I think, ma’am.”

“And the pain in your chest?”

“It is a little better.”

Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she returned toher own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a fewminutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully—

“But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such.” She rang herbell.

“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 andbright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! Howfragrant 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 avery small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.

“Barbara,” said she, “can you not bring a little more bread and butter? Thereis not enough for three.”

Barbara went out: she returned soon—

“Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity.”

Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.Brocklehurst’s own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.

“Oh, very well!” returned Miss Temple; “we must make it do, Barbara, Isuppose.” And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, “Fortunately, I have itin my power to supply deficiencies for this once.”

Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each of usa cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlockeda drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently toour eyes a good-sized seed-cake.

“I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,” said she, “but asthere is so little toast, you must have it now,” and she proceeded to cutslices with a generous hand.

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least delight ofthe entertainment was the smile of gratification with which our hostessregarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare sheliberally supplied.

Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we sat one oneach side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and Helen, whichit 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 theardent, the excited, the eager: something which chastened the pleasure of thosewho looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling sense of awe; and suchwas my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder.

The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of herbeloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her ownunique 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 neverseen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes,which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple’s—abeauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but ofmeaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and languageflowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart largeenough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervideloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen’s discourse on that, to me,memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief spanas much as many live during a protracted existence.

They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times past; ofcountries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they spokeof books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed! Thenthey seemed so familiar with French names and French authors: but my amazementreached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched amoment to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and taking a book from ashelf, bade her read and construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organof veneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished erethe bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced usboth, 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 wasHelen her eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second time breathed asad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.

On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she wasexamining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns’s, and when we enteredHelen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she shouldhave half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned to her shoulder.

“My things were indeed in shameful disorder,” murmured Helen to me, in a lowvoice: “I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot.”

Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece ofpasteboard the word “Slattern,” and bound it like a phylactery round Helen’slarge, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore it tillevening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved punishment. Themoment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school, I ran to Helen, tore itoff, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of which she was incapable had beenburning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually beenscalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave me anintolerable pain at the heart.

About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple, who hadwritten to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that what he said wentto corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school,announced that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged against JaneEyre, and that she was most happy to be able to pronounce her completelycleared from every imputation. The teachers then shook hands with me and kissedme, 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, resolvedto pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and my success wasproportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally tenacious, improved withpractice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higherclass; in less than two months I was allowed to commence French and drawing. Ilearned the first two tenses of the verb Etre, and sketched my firstcottage (whose walls, by-the-bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaningtower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot toprepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or whitebread and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: Ifeasted 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, picturesquerocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflieshovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wren’s nestsenclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I examined,too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to translate currently acertain little French story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor wasthat problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.

Well has Solomon said—“Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than astalled ox and hatred therewith.”

I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for Gateshead andits daily luxuries.

CHAPTER IX

But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring drewon: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased; its snowswere melted, its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet, flayed andswollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to heal and subsideunder the gentler breathings of April; the nights and mornings no longer bytheir Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could nowendure the play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day it beganeven to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over those brown beds,which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them atnight, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped outamongst the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyedpansies. On Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and foundstill sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.

I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the horizon onlybounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden: thispleasure 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 sparklingeddies. How different had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneaththe iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow!—when mists aschill 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 thebeck! That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunderthe wood, and sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wildrain or whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, that showedonly ranks of skeletons.

April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky, placidsunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its duration. And nowvegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shook loose its tresses; it became allgreen, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored tomajestic life; woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses; unnumberedvarieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine outof the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I have seen their pale gold gleam inovershadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyedoften and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted libertyand 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 asbosomed 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-bredpestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the OrphanAsylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, ereMay arrived, transformed the seminary into an hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils toreceive 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 allowedalmost unlimited license; because the medical attendant insisted on thenecessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health: and had it beenotherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain them. Miss Temple’s wholeattention was absorbed by the patients: she lived in the sick-room, neverquitting it except to snatch a few hours’ rest at night. The teachers werefully occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations for thedeparture of those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends andrelations 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 wereburied quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay.

While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequentvisitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls; while its rooms andpassages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille strivingvainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone uncloudedover 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 withpink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning andevening, their scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were alluseless for most of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then ahandful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the sceneand season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies, from morning tillnight; 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 werenot scrutinised into; the cross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fearof 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; ourbreakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare aregular dinner, which often happened, she would give us a large piece of coldpie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us tothe 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 thevery middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through the water; afeat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to accommodate,comfortably, another girl and me, at that time my chosen comrade—one Mary AnnWilson; a shrewd, observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partlybecause she was witty and original, and partly because she had a manner whichset me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knew more of the world, andcould tell me many things I liked to hear: with her my curiosity foundgratification: to my faults also she gave ample indulgence, never imposing curbor rein on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis; sheliked to inform, I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving muchentertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.

And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days ofliberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so worthless as to have growntired of her pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned wasinferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, andreciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in; while, if I havespoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed theprivilege of her converse a taste of far higher things.

True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective being, withmany faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of Helen Burns; norever 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 circ*mstances, evinced for me a quietand faithful friendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation nevertroubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had been removedfrom my sight to I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in thehospital portion of the house with the fever patients; for her complaint wasconsumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understoodsomething 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 downstairson 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 sawher from the schoolroom window, and then not distinctly; for she was muchwrapped up, and sat at a distance under the verandah.

One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary Annin the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from the others, and hadwandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a lonelycottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked after a herd of half-wildswine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we got back, it was aftermoonrise: a pony, which we knew to be the surgeon’s, was standing at the gardendoor. 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; Istayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dugup in the forest, and which I feared would wither if I left them till themorning. This done, I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweetas the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the stillglowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow; the moon rosewith such majesty in the grave east. I was noting these things and enjoyingthem 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! Thisworld is pleasant—it would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to gowho knows where?”

And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had beeninfused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time it recoiled,baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each side, and before it,it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: it felt the one point where it stood—thepresent; all the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth; and it shuddered atthe thought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering thisnew idea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was anurse. After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was about toclose the door, but I ran up to her.

“How is Helen Burns?”

“Very poorly,” was the answer.

“Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?”

“Yes.”

“And what does he say about her?”

“He says she’ll not be here long.”

This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed thenotion that she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to her own home. Ishould not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but I knew instantlynow! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering herlast days in this world, and that she was going to be taken to the region ofspirits, if such region there were. I experienced a shock of horror, then astrong thrill of grief, then a desire—a necessity to see her; and I asked inwhat room she lay.

“She is in Miss Temple’s room,” said the nurse.

“May I go up and speak to her?”

“Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come in; you’llcatch 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 tothe schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o’clock, and Miss Miller wascalling the pupils to go to bed.

It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I—not having been ableto fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence of the dormitory, that mycompanions were all wrapt in profound repose—rose softly, put on my frock overmy night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, and set off inquest of Miss Temple’s room. It was quite at the other end of the house; but Iknew my way; and the light of the unclouded summer moon, entering here andthere at passage windows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour ofcamphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room: and Ipassed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night shouldhear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I must seeHelen,—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, andsucceeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I reached anotherflight of steps; these I mounted, and then just opposite to me was MissTemple’s room. A light shone through the keyhole and from under the door; aprofound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming near, I found the doorslightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode ofsickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses—soul andsenses quivering with keen throes—I put it back and looked in. My eye soughtHelen, and feared to find death.

Close by Miss Temple’s bed, and half covered with its white curtains, therestood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the clothes, but theface was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat in aneasy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Templewas not to be seen: I knew afterwards that she had been called to a deliriouspatient in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the crib side: my handwas on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I stillrecoiled 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 instantlydissipated.

“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 notspeak and look so calmly if she were.”

I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her cheek bothcold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of old.

“Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o’clock: I heard it strike someminutes since.”

“I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not sleeptill I had spoken to you.”

“You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably.”

“Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?”

“Yes; to my long home—my last home.”

“No, no, Helen!” I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my tears, a fitof coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the nurse; when it wasover, 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 longsilence, she resumed, still whispering—

“I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be sure andnot grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and theillness which is removing me is not painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mindis at rest. I leave no one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he islately married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape greatsufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in theworld: 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 implicitlyon His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the hours till thateventful 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 oursouls can get to it when we die?”

“I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign myimmortal 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? Doesit exist?” And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she seemed dearer to methan ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I lay with my face hidden onher neck. Presently she said, in the sweetest tone—

“How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little; I feelas if I could sleep: but don’t leave me, Jane; I like to have you near me.”

“I’ll stay with you, dear Helen: no one shall take me away.”

“Are you warm, darling?”

“Yes.”

“Good-night, Jane.”

“Good-night, Helen.”

She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.

When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I was insomebody’s arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through the passageback to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed; people hadsomething else to think about; no explanation was afforded then to my manyquestions; but a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returningto her own room at dawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face againstHelen Burns’s shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helenwas—dead.

Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her death itwas only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks thespot, inscribed with her name, and the word “Resurgam.”

CHAPTER X

Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence: tothe first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters. But thisis not to be a regular autobiography: I am only bound to invoke Memory where Iknow her responses will possess some degree of interest; therefore I now pass aspace of eight years almost in silence: a few lines only are necessary to keepup the links of connection.

When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at Lowood, itgradually disappeared from thence; but not till its virulence and the number ofits victims had drawn public attention on the school. Inquiry was made into theorigin of the scourge, and by degrees various facts came out which excitedpublic indignation in a high degree. The unhealthy nature of the site; thequantity and quality of the children’s food; the brackish, fetid water used inits preparation; the pupils’ wretched clothing and accommodations—all thesethings 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 forthe erection of a more convenient building in a better situation; newregulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing introduced; the fundsof the school were intrusted to the management of a committee. Mr.Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family connections, could not beoverlooked, still retained the post of treasurer; but he was aided in thedischarge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathisingminds: his office of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how tocombine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion withuprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and nobleinstitution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, foreight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both capacities I bear mytestimony to its value and importance.

During these eight years my life was uniform: but not unhappy, because it wasnot 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 witha great delight in pleasing my teachers, especially such as I loved, urged meon: I availed myself fully of the advantages offered me. In time I rose to bethe first girl of the first class; then I was invested with the office ofteacher; which I discharged with zeal for two years: but at the end of thattime I altered.

Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent of theseminary: to her instruction I owed the best part of my acquirements; herfriendship and society had been my continual solace; she had stood me in thestead of mother, governess, and, latterly, companion. At this period shemarried, removed with her husband (a clergyman, an excellent man, almost worthyof 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 settledfeeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home to me. Ihad imbibed from her something of her nature and much of her habits: moreharmonious thoughts: what seemed better regulated feelings had become theinmates of my mind. I had given in allegiance to duty and order; I was quiet; Ibelieved I was content: to the eyes of others, usually even to my own, Iappeared a disciplined and subdued character.

But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and MissTemple: I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise, shortlyafter the marriage ceremony; I watched the chaise mount the hill and disappearbeyond its brow; and then retired to my own room, and there spent in solitudethe 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 beregretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it; but when my reflections wereconcluded, and I looked up and found that the afternoon was gone, and eveningfar advanced, another discovery dawned on me, namely, that in the interval Ihad undergone a transforming process; that my mind had put off all it hadborrowed of Miss Temple—or rather that she had taken with her the sereneatmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity—and that now I was left in mynatural element, and beginning to feel the stirring of old emotions. It did notseem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone: it wasnot the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason fortranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in Lowood: myexperience had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the realworld was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations andexcitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, toseek real knowledge of life amidst its perils.

I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There were the two wings of thebuilding; there was the garden; there were the skirts of Lowood; there was thehilly 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 ofrock and heath seemed prison-ground, exile limits. I traced the white roadwinding 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 travelledthat very road in a coach; I remembered descending that hill at twilight; anage seemed to have elapsed since the day which brought me first to Lowood, andI 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 hadever been to visit me. I had had no communication by letter or message with theouter world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and notions, andvoices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and preferences, andantipathies—such was what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was notenough; I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desiredliberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemedscattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humblersupplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off intovague space: “Then,” I cried, half desperate, “grant me at least a newservitude!”

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 subjectto which I longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of small talk. How I wishedsleep would silence her. It seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea whichhad last entered my mind as I stood at the window, some inventive suggestionwould rise for my relief.

Miss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now herhabitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than asa nuisance; to-night I hailed the first deep notes with satisfaction; I wasdebarrassed of interruption; my half-effaced thought instantly revived.

“A new servitude! There is something in that,” I soliloquised (mentally, be itunderstood; I did not talk aloud). “I know there is, because it does not soundtoo sweet; it is not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment:delightful sounds truly; but no more than sounds for me; and so hollow andfleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen to them. But Servitude! Thatmust be matter of fact. Any one may serve: I have served here eight years; nowall I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is notthe thing feasible? Yes—yes—the end is not so difficult; if I had only a brainactive 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; Icovered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded to think againwith all my might.

“What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under newcirc*mstances: I want this because it is of no use wanting anything better. Howdo people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I suppose: I have nofriends. There are many others who have no friends, who must look about forthemselves and be their own helpers; and what is their resource?”

I could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my brain to find aresponse, and quickly. It worked and worked faster: I felt the pulses throb inmy head and temples; but for nearly an hour it worked in chaos; and no resultcame of its efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I got up and took a turn in theroom; undrew the curtain, noted a star or two, shivered with cold, and againcrept to bed.

A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on mypillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my mind:—“Those whowant 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 advertisem*nt and the money to pay for it under a coverdirected to the editor of the Herald; you must put it, the firstopportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers must be addressed toJ.E., at the post-office there; you can go and inquire in about a week afteryou 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 hadit in a clear practical form: I felt satisfied, and fell asleep.

With earliest day, I was up: I had my advertisem*nt written, enclosed, anddirected 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?) “isdesirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children areunder fourteen” (I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do toundertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). “She is qualified to teachthe usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing,and Music” (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue ofaccomplishments, 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 ofthe new superintendent to go to Lowton, in order to perform some smallcommissions for myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers; permission wasreadily 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 intothe post-office, and came back through heavy rain, with streaming garments, butwith a relieved heart.

The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, like allsublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a pleasant autumn day, Ifound myself afoot on the road to Lowton. A picturesque track it was, by theway; lying along the side of the beck and through the sweetest curves of thedale: but that day I thought more of the letters, that might or might not beawaiting me at the little burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of leaand 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 theclean and quiet little street from the shoemaker’s to the post-office: it waskept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens onher hands.

“Are there any letters for J.E.?” I asked.

She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and fumbledamong its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes began to falter. Atlast, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, shepresented it across the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitiveand mistrustful glance—it was for J.E.

“Is there only one?” I demanded.

“There are no more,” said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my facehomeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, andit was already half-past seven.

Various duties awaited me on my arrival: I had to sit with the girls duringtheir 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 forthe night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion: we had only ashort end of candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk tillit was all burnt out; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eatenproduced a soporific effect: she was already snoring before I had finishedundressing. 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 givesatisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can beoffered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years ofa*ge; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J.E. is requested to sendreferences, 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 ratheruncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circ*mstance was satisfactory: aprivate fear had haunted me, that in thus acting for myself, and by my ownguidance, I ran the risk of getting into some scrape; and, above all things, Iwished 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 onhand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow’s cap; frigid, perhaps,but not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that,doubtless, was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; though Ifailed 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 theremote county where I now resided: that was a recommendation to me. I longed togo where there was life and movement: Millcote was a large manufacturing townon the banks of the A——: a busy place enough, doubtless: so much the better; itwould be a complete change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated bythe idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke—“but,” I argued, “Thornfieldwill, 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 myown breast; I must impart them in order to achieve their success. Having soughtand 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 wouldbe 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 ofthe committee, and ascertain whether they would permit me to mention them asreferences. She obligingly consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. Thenext day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reedmust be written to, as she was my natural guardian. A note was accordinglyaddressed 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 theround of the committee, and at last, after what appeared to me most tediousdelay, formal leave was given me to better my condition if I could; and anassurance added, that as I had always conducted myself well, both as teacherand pupil, at Lowood, a testimonial of character and capacity, signed by theinspectors of that institution, should forthwith be furnished me.

This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month, forwarded a copy ofit to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady’s reply, stating that she was satisfied,and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my assuming the post ofgoverness in her house.

I now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed rapidly. I had not avery large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants; and the last daysufficed to pack my trunk,—the same I had brought with me eight years ago fromGateshead.

The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half-an-hour the carrier was to callfor it to take it to Lowton, whither I myself was to repair at an early hourthe next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my black stufftravelling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff; sought in all mydrawers to see that no article was left behind; and now having nothing more todo, I sat down and tried to rest. I could not; though I had been on foot allday, I could not now repose an instant; I was too much excited. A phase of mylife was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow: impossible to slumberin the interval; I must watch feverishly while the change was beingaccomplished.

“Miss,” said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like atroubled spirit, “a person below wishes to see you.”

“The carrier, no doubt,” I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry. I waspassing the back-parlour or teachers’ sitting-room, the door of which was halfopen, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out—

“It’s her, I am sure!—I could have told her anywhere!” cried the individual whostopped my progress and took my hand.

I looked: I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yetstill young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and livelycomplexion.

“Well, who is it?” she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half recognised;“you’ve not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?”

In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously: “Bessie! Bessie!Bessie!” that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, and we bothwent into the parlour. By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old, inplaid frock and trousers.

“That is my little boy,” said Bessie directly.

“Then you are married, Bessie?”

“Yes; nearly five years since to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I’ve a littlegirl besides Bobby there, that I’ve christened Jane.”

“And you don’t live at Gateshead?”

“I live at the lodge: the old porter has left.”

“Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie: butsit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will you?” but Bobbypreferred sidling over to his mother.

“You’re not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout,” continued Mrs.Leaven. “I dare say they’ve not kept you too well at school: Miss Reed is thehead and shoulders taller than you are; and Miss Georgiana would make two ofyou in breadth.”

“Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?”

“Very. She went up to London last winter with her mama, and there everybodyadmired her, and a young lord fell in love with her: but his relations wereagainst the match; and—what do you think?—he and Miss Georgiana made it up torun away; but they were found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found themout: I believe she was envious; and now she and her sister lead a cat and doglife 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 hegot—plucked, I think they call it: and then his uncles wanted him to be abarrister, and study the law: but he is such a dissipated young man, they willnever 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 hassuch thick lips.”

“And Mrs. Reed?”

“Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she’s not quiteeasy in her mind: Mr. John’s conduct does not please her—he spends a deal ofmoney.”

“Did she send you here, Bessie?”

“No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there hadbeen a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the country,I thought I’d just set off, and get a look at you before you were quite out ofmy reach.”

“I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie.” I said this laughing: Iperceived that Bessie’s glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shapedenote admiration.

“No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you look like a lady, andit is as much as ever I expected of you: you were no beauty as a child.”

I smiled at Bessie’s frank answer: I felt that it was correct, but I confess Iwas not quite indifferent to its import: at eighteen most people wish toplease, and the conviction that they have not an exterior likely to second thatdesire brings anything but gratification.

“I dare say you are clever, though,” continued Bessie, by way of solace. “Whatcan 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 sitdown 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 saidyou would surpass them in learning: and can you draw?”

“That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece.” It was a landscape inwater colours, of which I had made a present to the superintendent, inacknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf, andwhich she had framed and glazed.

“Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed’sdrawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies themselves, who couldnot 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 onwhether your relations notice you or not. There was something I wanted to askyou. Have you ever heard anything from your father’s kinsfolk, the Eyres?”

“Never in my life.”

“Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable: andthey may be poor; but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are; forone day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to seeyou; Missis said you were at school fifty miles off; he seemed so muchdisappointed, for he could not stay: he was going on a voyage to a foreigncountry, and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quitea gentleman, and I believe he was your father’s brother.”

“What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?”

“An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine—the butler did tellme—”

“Madeira?” I suggested.

“Yes, that is it—that is the very word.”

“So he went?”

“Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high with him;she called him afterwards a ‘sneaking tradesman.’ My Robert believes he was awine-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 obligedto 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 theBrocklehurst Arms there: each went her separate way; she set off for the browof 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 theunknown environs of Millcote.

CHAPTER XI

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when Idraw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a room in theGeorge Inn at Millcote, with such large figured papering on the walls as innrooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such ornaments on the mantelpiece,such prints, including a portrait of George the Third, and another of thePrince of Wales, and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this isvisible to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and bythat of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my muff andumbrella lie on the table, and I am warming away the numbness and chillcontracted by sixteen hours’ exposure to the rawness of an October day: I leftLowton at four o’clock A.M., and the Millcote town clock is nowjust striking eight.

Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil in mymind. 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 formy convenience, expecting to hear my name pronounced, and to see somedescription of carriage waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sortwas visible; and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire after aMiss Eyre, I was answered in the negative: so I had no resource but to requestto be shown into a private room: and here I am waiting, while all sorts ofdoubts and fears are troubling my thoughts.

It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quitealone in the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain whether theport to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by many impedimentsfrom returning to that it has quitted. The charm of adventure sweetens thatsensation, 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 wasalone. I bethought myself to ring the bell.

“Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?” I asked of thewaiter who answered the summons.

“Thornfield? I don’t know, ma’am; I’ll inquire at the bar.” He vanished, butreappeared 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: aman was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lit street I dimly saw aone-horse conveyance.

“This will be your luggage, I suppose?” said the man rather abruptly when hesaw 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 gotin; 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. Ourprogress was leisurely, and gave me ample time to reflect; I was content to beat length so near the end of my journey; and as I leaned back in thecomfortable though not elegant conveyance, I meditated much at my ease.

“I suppose,” thought I, “judging from the plainness of the servant andcarriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person: so much the better; Inever lived amongst fine people but once, and I was very miserable with them. Iwonder if she lives alone except this little girl; if so, and if she is in anydegree amiable, I shall surely be able to get on with her; I will do my best;it is a pity that doing one’s best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed, Itook that resolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, Iremember my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray God Mrs. Fairfax may notturn 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 ourroad now, I wonder?”

I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us; judging by thenumber of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable magnitude, much largerthan Lowton. We were now, as far as I could see, on a sort of common; but therewere houses scattered all over the district; I felt we were in a differentregion to Lowood, more populous, less picturesque; more stirring, lessromantic.

The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse walk all theway, and the hour and a half extended, I verily believe, to two hours; at lasthe turned in his seat and said—

“You’re noan so far fro’ Thornfield now.”

Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad tower againstthe sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a narrow galaxy of lightstoo, on a hillside, marking a village or hamlet. About ten minutes after, thedriver got down and opened a pair of gates: we passed through, and they clashedto behind us. We now slowly ascended a drive, and came upon the long front of ahouse: candlelight gleamed from one curtained bow-window; all the rest weredark. The car stopped at the front door; it was opened by a maid-servant; Ialighted and went in.

“Will you walk this way, ma’am?” said the girl; and I followed her across asquare hall with high doors all round: she ushered me into a room whose doubleillumination of fire and candle at first dazzled me, contrasting as it did withthe 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-backedand old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable little elderly lady, inwidow’s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron; exactly like what I hadfancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately and milder looking. She was occupied inknitting; a large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting tocomplete the beau-ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction fora new governess could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur tooverwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the old ladygot 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 drivesso 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 untiemy 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 ofthe storeroom.”

And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys, anddelivered them to the servant.

“Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,” she continued. “You’ve brought yourluggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll see it carried into your room,” she said, and bustled out.

“She treats me like a visitor,” thought I. “I little expected such a reception;I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is not like what I have heardof the treatment of governesses; but I must not exult too soon.”

She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a book ortwo from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now brought, and thenherself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at being the objectof more attention than I had ever before received, and, that too, shown by myemployer and superior; but as she did not herself seem to consider she wasdoing anything out of her place, I thought it better to take her civilitiesquietly.

“Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?” I asked, when Ihad 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 futurepupil.”

“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 Varenswas connected with her; but I recollected it was not polite to ask too manyquestions: besides, I was sure to hear in time.

“I am so glad,” she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took the caton her knee; “I am so glad you are come; it will be quite pleasant living herenow with a companion. To be sure it is pleasant at any time; for Thornfield isa fine old hall, rather neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is arespectable place; yet you know in winter-time one feels dreary quite alone inthe best quarters. I say alone—Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and John and hiswife are very decent people; but then you see they are only servants, and onecan’t converse with them on terms of equality: one must keep them at duedistance, for fear of losing one’s authority. I’m sure last winter (it was avery severe one, if you recollect, and when it did not snow, it rained andblew), not a creature but the butcher and postman came to the house, fromNovember till February; and I really got quite melancholy with sitting nightafter night alone; I had Leah in to read to me sometimes; but I don’t think thepoor girl liked the task much: she felt it confining. In spring and summer onegot on better: sunshine and long days make such a difference; and then, just atthe commencement of this autumn, little Adela Varens came and her nurse: achild makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quitegay.”

My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk; and I drew mychair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere wish that she might findmy company as agreeable as she anticipated.

“But I’ll not keep you sitting up late to-night,” said she; “it is on thestroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all day: you must feeltired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I’ll show you your bedroom. I’vehad the room next to mine prepared for you; it is only a small apartment, but Ithought you would like it better than one of the large front chambers: to besure they have finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary, I neversleep in them myself.”

I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt fatigued with mylong journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She took her candle, and Ifollowed her from the room. First she went to see if the hall-door wasfastened; having taken the key from the lock, she led the way upstairs. Thesteps 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 ifthey belonged to a church rather than a house. A very chill and vault-like airpervaded the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas of space andsolitude; and I was glad, when finally ushered into my chamber, to find it ofsmall 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 bythat 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 ofbodily fatigue and mental anxiety, I was now at last in safe haven. The impulseof gratitude swelled my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and offered upthanks where thanks were due; not forgetting, ere I rose, to implore aid on myfurther path, and the power of meriting the kindness which seemed so franklyoffered me before it was earned. My couch had no thorns in it that night; mysolitary 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 betweenthe gay blue chintz window curtains, showing papered walls and a carpetedfloor, so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of Lowood, that my spiritsrose at the view. Externals have a great effect on the young: I thought that afairer era of life was beginning for me, one that was to have its flowers andpleasures, as well as its thorns and toils. My faculties, roused by the changeof scene, the new field offered to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot preciselydefine what they expected, but it was something pleasant: not perhaps that dayor that month, but at an indefinite future period.

I rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain—for I had no article ofattire that was not made with extreme simplicity—I was still by naturesolicitous to be neat. It was not my habit to be disregardful of appearance orcareless of the impression I made: on the contrary, I ever wished to look aswell as I could, and to please as much as my want of beauty would permit. Isometimes regretted that I was not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosycheeks, 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, sopale, and had features so irregular and so marked. And why had I theseaspirations and these regrets? It would be difficult to say: I could not thendistinctly say it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural reasontoo. However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my blackfrock—which, Quakerlike as it was, at least had the merit of fitting to anicety—and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought I should do respectablyenough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that my new pupil would not at leastrecoil from me with antipathy. Having opened my chamber window, and seen that Ileft 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 onthe walls (one, I remember, represented a grim man in a cuirass, and one a ladywith powdered hair and a pearl necklace), at a bronze lamp pendent from theceiling, at a great clock whose case was of oak curiously carved, and ebonblack with time and rubbing. Everything appeared very stately and imposing tome; but then I was so little accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door, which washalf of glass, stood open; I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumnmorning; the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still greenfields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of themansion. It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, thoughconsiderable: a gentleman’s manor-house, not a nobleman’s seat: battlementsround the top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front stood out well fromthe background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants were now on the wing: theyflew over the lawn and grounds to alight in a great meadow, from which thesewere 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 themansion’s designation. Farther off were hills: not so lofty as those roundLowood, nor so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the livingworld; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace Thornfieldwith a seclusion I had not expected to find existent so near the stirringlocality 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 stoodnearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the house andgates.

I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet listening withdelight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the wide, hoary front of thehall, and thinking what a great place it was for one lonely little dame likeMrs. 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 toher, 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 oforder, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and residehere permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener: great houses and finegrounds 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 wascalled Rochester?”

Of course I did not—I had never heard of him before; but the old lady seemed toregard his existence as a universally understood fact, with which everybodymust be acquainted by instinct.

“I thought,” I continued, “Thornfield belonged to you.”

“To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the housekeeper—themanager. To be sure I am distantly related to the Rochesters by the mother’sside, or at least my husband was; he was a clergyman, incumbent of Hay—thatlittle village yonder on the hill—and that church near the gates was his. Thepresent Mr. Rochester’s mother was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my husband:but I never presume on the connection—in fact, it is nothing to me; I considermyself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper: my employer is alwayscivil, and I expect nothing more.”

“And the little girl—my pupil!”

“She is Mr. Rochester’s ward; he commissioned me to find a governess for her.He intended to have her brought up in ——shire, I believe. Here she comes, withher ‘bonne,’ as she calls her nurse.” The enigma then was explained: thisaffable and kind little widow was no great dame; but a dependent like myself. Idid not like her the worse for that; on the contrary, I felt better pleasedthan ever. The equality between her and me was real; not the mere result ofcondescension on her part: so much the better—my position was all the freer.

As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by herattendant, came running up the lawn. I looked at my pupil, who did not at firstappear 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 hairfalling in curls to her waist.

“Good morning, Miss Adela,” said Mrs. Fairfax. “Come and speak to the lady whois to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day.” She approached.

“C’est là ma gouvernante!” said she, pointing to me, and addressing her nurse;who answered—

“Mais oui, certainement.”

“Are they foreigners?” I inquired, amazed at hearing the French language.

“The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent; and, I believe,never left it till within six months ago. When she first came here she couldspeak no English; now she can make shift to talk it a little: I don’tunderstand her, she mixes it so with French; but you will make out her meaningvery 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 asI could, and had besides, during the last seven years, learnt a portion ofFrench by heart daily—applying myself to take pains with my accent, andimitating as closely as possible the pronunciation of my teacher, I hadacquired a certain degree of readiness and correctness in the language, and wasnot likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She came and shookhands with me when she heard that I was her governess; and as I led her in tobreakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her own tongue: she repliedbriefly at first, but after we were seated at the table, and she had examinedme some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, she suddenly commencedchattering fluently.

“Ah!” cried she, in French, “you speak my language as well as Mr. Rochesterdoes: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie. She will be glad:nobody here understands her: Madame Fairfax is all English. Sophie is my nurse;she came with me over the sea in a great ship with a chimney that smoked—how itdid 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 andI had little beds in another place. I nearly fell out of mine; it was like ashelf. And Mademoiselle—what is your name?”

“Eyre—Jane Eyre.”

“Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the morning, before itwas quite daylight, at a great city—a huge city, with very dark houses and allsmoky; not at all like the pretty clean town I came from; and Mr. Rochestercarried me in his arms over a plank to the land, and Sophie came after, and weall got into a coach, which took us to a beautiful large house, larger thanthis and finer, called an hotel. We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophieused 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 birdsin 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 ofMadame Pierrot.

“I wish,” continued the good lady, “you would ask her a question or two abouther parents: I wonder if she remembers them?”

“Adèle,” I inquired, “with whom did you live when you were in that pretty cleantown you spoke of?”

“I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy Virgin. Mama used toteach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A great many gentlemen andladies came to see mama, and I used to dance before them, or to sit on theirknees 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 heraccomplishments. Descending from her chair, she came and placed herself on myknee; then, folding her little hands demurely before her, shaking back hercurls and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she commenced singing a song fromsome opera. It was the strain of a forsaken lady, who, after bewailing theperfidy of her lover, calls pride to her aid; desires her attendant to deck herin her brightest jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false onethat night at a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her demeanour, howlittle his desertion has affected her.

The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I suppose thepoint of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and jealousy warbledwith the lisp of childhood; and in very bad taste that point was: at least Ithought so.

Adèle sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the naïveté ofher age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, “Now, Mademoiselle, Iwill repeat you some poetry.”

Assuming an attitude, she began, “La Ligue des Rats: fable de La Fontaine.” Shethen declaimed the little piece with an attention to punctuation and emphasis,a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness of gesture, very unusual indeedat 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 unde ces rats; parlez!’ She made me lift my hand—so—to remind me to raise myvoice 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 Frédéric and her husband: she took care of me, but she is nothingrelated to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a house as mama. Iwas not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go and live withhim in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew MadameFrédéric, and he was always kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys: butyou see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and now heis 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 bookswere locked up behind glass doors; but there was one bookcase left opencontaining everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works, andseveral volumes of light literature, poetry, biography, travels, a fewromances, &c. I suppose he had considered that these were all the governesswould require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply forthe present; compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able toglean at Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment andinformation. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite new and ofsuperior tone; also an easel for painting and a pair of globes.

I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply: she had notbeen used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would be injudicious toconfine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to her a great deal, andgot her to learn a little, and when the morning had advanced to noon, I allowedher to return to her nurse. I then proposed to occupy myself till dinner-timein drawing some little sketches for her use.

As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax calledto me: “Your morning school-hours are over now, I suppose,” said she. She wasin a room the folding-doors of which stood open: I went in when she addressedme. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple chairs and curtains, aTurkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast window rich in stained glass,and a lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases of finepurple spar, which stood on a sideboard.

“What a beautiful room!” I exclaimed, as I looked round; for I had never beforeseen any half so imposing.

“Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to let in alittle air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in apartments that areseldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault.”

She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like it with aTyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two broad steps, andlooking through, I thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy place, so bright to mynovice-eyes appeared the view beyond. Yet it was merely a very prettydrawing-room, and within it a boudoir, both spread with white carpets, on whichseemed laid brilliant garlands of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings ofwhite grapes and vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast crimsoncouches and ottomans; while the ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece wereof sparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between the windows large mirrorsrepeated the general blending of snow and fire.

“In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!” said I. “No dust, no canvascoverings: except that the air feels chilly, one would think they wereinhabited daily.”

“Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester’s visits here are rare, they are alwayssudden and unexpected; and as I observed that it put him out to find everythingswathed up, and to have a bustle of arrangement on his arrival, I thought itbest to keep the rooms in readiness.”

“Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?”

“Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman’s tastes and habits, and heexpects 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 inthis neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to the Rochesters timeout of mind.”

“Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you like him? Is he likedfor himself?”

I have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I believe he isconsidered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants: but he has never livedmuch 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 shouldthink. I dare say he is clever, but I never had much conversation with him.”

“In what way is he peculiar?”

“I don’t know—it is not easy to describe—nothing striking, but you feel it whenhe speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether he is in jest or earnest,whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don’t thoroughly understand him, inshort—at least, I don’t: but it is of no consequence, he is a very goodmaster.”

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, orobserving and describing salient points, either in persons or things: the goodlady evidently belonged to this class; my queries puzzled, but did not draw herout. Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a landedproprietor—nothing more: she inquired and searched no further, and evidentlywondered 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 thehouse; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs, admiring as I went; for allwas well arranged and handsome. The large front chambers I thought especiallygrand: and some of the third-storey rooms, though dark and low, wereinteresting from their air of antiquity. The furniture once appropriated to thelower apartments had from time to time been removed here, as fashions changed:and the imperfect light entering by their narrow casem*nt showed bedsteads of ahundred years old; chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strangecarvings 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 theserelics gave to the third storey of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a home of thepast: a shrine of memory. I liked the hush, the gloom, the quaintness of theseretreats in the day; but I by no means coveted a night’s repose on one of thosewide and heavy beds: shut in, some of them, with doors of oak; shaded, others,with wrought old English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigiesof strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings,—all whichwould 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 sleepshere: one would almost say that, if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, thiswould 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 violentthan a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the reason they resttranquilly in their graves now.”

“Yes—‘after life’s fitful fever they sleep well,’” I muttered. “Where are yougoing now, Mrs. Fairfax?” for she was moving away.

“On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?” I followedstill, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by a ladder andthrough a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on a level with the crowcolony, and could see into their nests. Leaning over the battlements andlooking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid out like a map: the bright andvelvet lawn closely girdling the grey base of the mansion; the field, wide as apark, dotted with its ancient timber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a pathvisibly overgrown, greener with moss than the trees were with foliage; thechurch at the gates, the road, the tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumnday’s sun; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with pearlywhite. No feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all was pleasing. When Iturned from it and repassed the trap-door, I could scarcely see my way down theladder; the attic seemed black as a vault compared with that arch of blue airto which I had been looking up, and to that sunlit scene of grove, pasture, andgreen hill, of which the hall was the centre, and over which I had been gazingwith delight.

Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by dint ofgroping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded to descend the narrowgarret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which this led, separatingthe front and back rooms of the third storey: narrow, low, and dim, with onlyone little window at the far end, and looking, with its two rows of small blackdoors all shut, like a corridor in some Bluebeard’s castle.

While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear in so still aregion, 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 aclamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber; though itoriginated but in one, and I could have pointed out the door whence the accentsissued.

“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 Leahis with her; they are frequently noisy together.”

The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an oddmurmur.

“Grace!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as tragic, aspreternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it was high noon, andthat no circ*mstance of ghostliness accompanied the curious cachinnation; butthat neither scene nor season favoured fear, I should have been superstitiouslyafraid. However, the event showed me I was a fool for entertaining a sense evenof surprise.

The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,—a woman of between thirtyand 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!” Gracecurtseyed silently and went in.

“She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid’s work,”continued the widow; “not altogether unobjectionable in some points, but shedoes well enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on with your new pupil thismorning?”

The conversation, thus turned on Adèle, continued till we reached the light andcheerful region below. Adèle came running to meet us in the hall, exclaiming—

“Mesdames, vous êtes servies!” adding, “J’ai bien faim, moi!”

We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax’s room.

CHAPTER XII

The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to ThornfieldHall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintance with the placeand its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, aplacid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent education and averageintelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt and indulged,and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was committed entirely to mycare, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plansfor her improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and became obedient andteachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiardevelopment of feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinarylevel of childhood; but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk herbelow it. She made reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, thoughperhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay prattle, andefforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a degree of attachmentsufficient to make us both content in each other’s society.

This, par parenthèse, will be thought cool language by persons whoentertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and the dutyof those charged with their education to conceive for them an idolatrousdevotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo cant, orprop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a conscientioussolicitude for Adèle’s welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her littleself: 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 forme, and the moderation of her mind and character.

Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, when Itook a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the gates and lookedthrough them along the road; or when, while Adèle played with her nurse, andMrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, I climbed the three staircases,raised the trap-door of the attic, and having reached the leads, looked outafar over sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line—that then I longedfor a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach thebusy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen—that thenI desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercoursewith my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here withinmy 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, andwhat I believed in I wished to behold.

Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I could nothelp 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 allowmy mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it—and,certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by theexultant movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it withlife; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—atale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all ofincident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actualexistence.

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: theymust have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions arecondemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revoltagainst their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides politicalrebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposedto be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercisefor their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothersdo; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation,precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privilegedfellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to makingpuddings 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 orlearn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s laugh: the same peal,the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard,too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There were days when shewas quite silent; but there were others when I could not account for the soundsshe made. Sometimes I saw her: she would come out of her room with a basin, ora 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 thecuriosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had nopoint to which interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her intoconversation, but she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic replyusually cut short every effort of that sort.

The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah thehousemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no respectremarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked herquestions about her native country; but she was not of a descriptive ornarrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and confused answers as werecalculated rather to check than encourage inquiry.

October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfaxhad begged a holiday for Adèle, because she had a cold; and, as Adèle secondedthe request with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidayshad been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it, deeming that I did well inshowing pliability on the point. It was a fine, calm day, though very cold; Iwas 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 onmy bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, twomiles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adèle comfortablyseated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour fireside, and given herher best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a drawer)to play with, and a story-book for change of amusem*nt; and having replied toher “Revenez bientôt, ma bonne amie, ma chère Mdlle. Jeannette,” with a kiss, Iset out.

The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast tillI got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species ofpleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was three o’clock; thechurch bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay inits approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a milefrom Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts andblackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hipsand haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leaflessrepose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not aholly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel busheswere as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of thepath. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle nowbrowsed; 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 satdown 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 frozekeenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the causeway, where a littlebrooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days since.From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hallwas the principal object in the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery roseagainst the west. I lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sankcrimson and clear behind them. I then turned eastward.

On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, butbrightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in trees, sentup a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile distant, but in theabsolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, feltthe flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could not tell: but there weremany hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes. Thatevening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough of themost remote.

A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far awayand so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which effaced thesoft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the roughboles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, efface theaërial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds wheretint melts into tint.

The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the lane yethid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet, as the path wasnarrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, and all sortsof fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery storieswere there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth addedto them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horseapproached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I rememberedcertain of Bessie’s tales, wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a“Gytrash,” which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitaryways, and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now comingupon 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 agreat dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against thetrees. It was exactly one form of Bessie’s Gytrash—a lion-like creature withlong hair and a huge head: it passed me, however, quietly enough; not stayingto look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half expected itwould. The horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, thehuman being, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it wasalways alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumbcarcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form.No Gytrash was this,—only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. Hepassed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and anexclamation of “What the deuce is to do now?” and a clattering tumble, arrestedmy attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of icewhich glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master ina predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hillsechoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffedround the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he coulddo,—there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down tothe traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His effortswere so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him thequestion—

“Are you injured, sir?”

I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing someformula 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, clatteringprocess, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually someyards’ 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 wassilenced with a “Down, Pilot!” The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot andleg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, forhe 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 nowdrew near him again.

“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either fromThornfield Hall or from Hay.”

“Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,—only a sprain;” and again hestood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”

Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I couldsee him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared andsteel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general pointsof middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, withstern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked irefuland 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 daredto stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my servicesunasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken toone. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry,fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, Ishould have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathywith 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 addressedhim; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I shouldhave gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries: but thefrown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at my ease: I retained my stationwhen 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 directionbefore.

“I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” said he, “if you have a homein this neighbourhood: where do you come from?”

“From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it ismoonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it:indeed, I am going there to post a letter.”

“You live just below—do you mean at that house with the battlements?” pointingto Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it outdistinct and pale from the woods that, by contrast with the western sky, nowseemed one mass of shadow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Whose house is it?”

“Mr. Rochester’s.”

“Do you know Mr. Rochester?”

“No, I have never seen him.”

“He is not resident, then?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“I cannot.”

“You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are—” He stopped, ran hiseye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, ablack beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady’s-maid. Heseemed 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! Thegoverness!” and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rosefrom 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 littleyourself, if you will be so kind.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?”

“No.”

“Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me: you are not afraid?”

I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it,I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and went up to thetall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, andwould 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 travellerwaited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed.

“I see,” he said, “the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all youcan do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to comehere.”

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, limpedto his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly and sprangto his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched hissprain.

“Now,” said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, “just hand me mywhip; 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 youcan.”

A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then boundaway; 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; yetit marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My help had beenneeded 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 wasweary of an existence all passive. The new face, too, was like a new pictureintroduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the othershanging there: firstly, because it was masculine; and, secondly, because it wasdark, strong, and stern. I had it still before me when I entered Hay, andslipped the letter into the post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hillall the way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked roundand listened, with an idea that a horse’s hoofs might ring on the causewayagain, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, mightbe again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me, risingup still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft ofwind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and whenI glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing thehall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded me that I waslate, and I hurried on.

I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return tostagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome staircase, to seekmy own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and spendthe long winter evening with her, and her only, was to quell wholly the faintexcitement wakened by my walk,—to slip again over my faculties the viewlessfetters of an uniform and too still existence; of an existence whose veryprivileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciating. Whatgood it would have done me at that time to have been tossed in the storms of anuncertain struggling life, and to have been taught by rough and bitterexperience to long for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as muchgood as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a “too easy chair” to takea long walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my circ*mstances,as it would be under his.

I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and forwardson the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I could not seeinto the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomyhouse—from the grey hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to me—tothat sky expanded before me,—a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud; the moonascending it in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left thehill-tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther below her, andaspired to the zenith, midnight dark in its fathomless depth and measurelessdistance; and for those trembling stars that followed her course; they made myheart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us toearth; the clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon andstars, opened a side-door, and went in.

The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze lamp; awarm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddyshine issued from the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood open, andshowed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and brassfire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture, in the mostpleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I hadscarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices,amongst which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adèle, when the door closed.

I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax’s room; there was a fire there too, but no candle,and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazingwith 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 andsaid—“Pilot,” and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressedhim, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alonewith, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted acandle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.

“What dog is this?”

“He came with master.”

“With whom?”

“With master—Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.”

“Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?”

“Yes, and Miss Adèle; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone for asurgeon; for master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle issprained.”

“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 offmy things.

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon’s orders, went to bed early that night;nor did he rise soon next morning. When he did come down, it was to attend tobusiness: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting to speakwith him.

Adèle and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily requisition asa reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an apartment upstairs, andthere I carried our books, and arranged it for the future schoolroom. Idiscerned in the course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a changedplace: no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour or two to a knock atthe door, or a clang of the bell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and newvoices spoke in different keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowingthrough 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 tothe door and looking over the banisters to see if she could get a glimpse ofMr. Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as Ishrewdly 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 talkincessantly of her “ami, Monsieur Edouard Fairfax de Rochester,” as shedubbed him (I had not before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture whatpresents 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 alittle box in whose contents she had an interest.

“Et cela doit signifier,” said she, “qu’il y aura là dedans un cadeau pour moi,et peut-être pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a parlé de vous: il m’ademandé le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n’était pas une petite personne,assez mince et un peu pâle. J’ai dit qu’oui: car c’est vrai, n’est-ce pas,mademoiselle?”

I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour; the afternoon was wildand snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adèle to putaway books and work, and to run downstairs; for, from the comparative silencebelow, and from the cessation of appeals to the door-bell, I conjectured thatMr. Rochester was now at liberty. Left alone, I walked to the window; butnothing was to be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together thickened theair, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down the curtain and went backto the fireside.

In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I remembered tohave 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, andscattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts that were beginning to throng onmy solitude.

“Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with him inthe drawing-room this evening,” said she: “he has been so much engaged all daythat he could not ask to see you before.”

“When is his tea-time?” I inquired.

“Oh, at six o’clock: he keeps early hours in the country. You had better changeyour 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 ishere.”

This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired to myroom, and, with Mrs. Fairfax’s aid, replaced my black stuff dress by one ofblack silk; the best and the only additional one I had, except one of lightgrey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought too fine to beworn, except on first-rate occasions.

“You want a brooch,” said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl ornamentwhich Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put it on, and then we wentdownstairs. Unused as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to appear thusformally summoned in Mr. Rochester’s presence. I let Mrs. Fairfax precede meinto 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 recessbeyond.

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece; baskingin the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot—Adèle knelt near him. Halfreclined 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 mytraveller with his broad and jetty eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarerby the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose, moreremarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought,choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw—yes, all three were very grim, and nomistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in squarenesswith his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense ofthe term—broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful.

Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and myself;but it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us, for he never lifted hishead as we approached.

“Here is Miss Eyre, sir,” said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He bowed, stillnot 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 stiffbow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to express, “Whatthe deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not? At this moment I amnot disposed to accost her.”

I sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished politeness wouldprobably have confused me: I could not have returned or repaid it by answeringgrace 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 theadvantage. Besides, the eccentricity of the proceeding was piquant: I feltinterested to see how he would go on.

He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Fairfaxseemed to think it necessary that some one should be amiable, and she began totalk. Kindly, as usual—and, as usual, rather trite—she condoled with him on thepressure of business he had had all day; on the annoyance it must have been tohim with that painful sprain: then she commended his patience and perseverancein going through with it.

“Madam, I should like some tea,” was the sole rejoinder she got. She hastenedto 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; butthe master did not leave his couch.

“Will you hand Mr. Rochester’s cup?” said Mrs. Fairfax to me; “Adèle mightperhaps spill it.”

I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adèle, thinking the momentpropitious for making a request in my favour, cried out—

“N’est-ce pas, monsieur, qu’il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votrepetit 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 weredark, irate, and piercing.

“I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generallythought pleasant things.”

“Generally thought? But what do you think?”

“I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answerworthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not? and oneshould 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 preferthe claim of old acquaintance, and the right too of custom; for she says youhave always been in the habit of giving her playthings; but if I had to makeout a case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger, and have done nothing toentitle me to an acknowledgment.”

“Oh, don’t fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Adèle, and find you havetaken great pains with her: she is not bright, she has no talents; yet in ashort time she has made much improvement.”

“Sir, you have now given me my ‘cadeau;’ I am obliged to you: it is the meedteachers most covet—praise of their pupils’ progress.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.

“Come to the fire,” said the master, when the tray was taken away, and Mrs.Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting; while Adèle was leading meby the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful books and ornaments on theconsoles and chiffonnières. We obeyed, as in duty bound; Adèle wanted to take aseat 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 aplace would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the lookof another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When youcame on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, andhad half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not sureyet. 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 thatstile?”

“For whom, sir?”

“For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them. Did I breakthrough 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 thefields about it, could you find a trace of them. I don’t think either summer orharvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more.”

Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows, seemedwondering what sort of talk this was.

“Well,” resumed Mr. Rochester, “if you disown parents, you must have some sortof 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 advertisem*nt.”

“Yes,” said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon, “and I amdaily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been aninvaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adèle.”

“Don’t trouble yourself to give her a character,” returned Mr. Rochester:“eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. She began by felling myhorse.”

“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 ofThornfield.”

“Have you read much?”

“Only such books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous or verylearned.”

“You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in religiousforms;—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 wouldworship their director.”

“Oh, no.”

“You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest! That soundsblasphemous.”

“I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling. He is a harshman; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our hair; and for economy’s sakebought us bad needles and thread, with which we could hardly sew.”

“That was very false economy,” remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again caught thedrift 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 provisiondepartment, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with longlectures 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 beenable to guess your age. It is a point difficult to fix where the features andcountenance are so much at variance as in your case. And now what did you learnat Lowood? Can you play?”

“A little.”

“Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the library—I mean, if youplease.—(Excuse my tone of command; I am used to say, ‘Do this,’ and it isdone: I cannot alter my customary habits for one new inmate.)—Go, then, intothe library; take a candle with you; leave the door open; sit down to thepiano, 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 notwell.”

I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued—

“Adèle showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don’tknow 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 itscontents being original; but don’t pass your word unless you are certain: I canrecognise 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 finishwith them; but don’t push your faces up to mine.”

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside; theothers, when he had examined them, he swept from him.

“Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,” said he, “and look at themwith Adèle;—you” (glancing at me) “resume your seat, and answer my questions. Iperceive 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 somethought.”

“I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no otheroccupation.”

“Where did you get your copies?”

“Out of my head.”

“That head I see now on your shoulders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has it other furniture of the same kind within?”

“I should think it may have: I should hope—better.”

He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.

While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are: and first, Imust premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects had, indeed, risenvividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual eye, before I attempted toembody them, they were striking; but my hand would not second my fancy, and ineach 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 andlivid, 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. Onegleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on which sat acormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak held a goldbracelet set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints as mypalette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart.Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced through the greenwater; a fair arm was the only limb clearly visible, whence the bracelet hadbeen washed or torn.

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill, withgrass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread anexpanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky was a woman’sshape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. Thedim forehead was crowned with a star; the lineaments below were seen as throughthe suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamedshadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail. On theneck lay a pale reflection like moonlight; the same faint lustre touched thetrain 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: amuster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along thehorizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,—acolossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thinhands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lowerfeatures a sable veil; a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollowand fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone werevisible. 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 “thelikeness of a kingly crown;” what it diademed was “the shape which shape hadnone.”

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?” asked Mr. Rochesterpresently.

“I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was toenjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

“That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few;but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist’s dreamland while you blent andarranged 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 frommorning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the midsummer daysfavoured my inclination to apply.”

“And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?”

“Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork:in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.”

“Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably.You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yetthe drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they areelfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How couldyou make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet abovequells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And whotaught you to paint wind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on thishill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For that is Latmos. There! put the drawingsaway!”

I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his watch, hesaid abruptly—

“It is nine o’clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adèle sit up solong? Take her to bed.”

Adèle went to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the caress, butscarcely 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 handtowards the door, in token that he was tired of our company, and wished todismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: wecurtseyed 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 hismanner, I never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities of temper,allowance should be made.”

“Why?”

“Partly because it is his nature—and we can none of us help our nature; andpartly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make hisspirits unequal.”

“What about?”

“Family troubles, for one thing.”

“But he has no family.”

“Not now, but he has had—or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder brother afew years since.”

“His elder brother?”

“Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of theproperty; only about nine years.”

“Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to bestill inconsolable for his loss?”

“Why, no—perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them.Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr. Edward; and perhaps heprejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of money, andanxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to diminish theproperty by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should havewealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he was ofa*ge, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a great deal ofmischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward intowhat he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune: whatthe precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his spiritcould not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he brokewith his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life. Idon’t think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together,since the death of his brother without a will left him master of the estate;and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place.”

“Why should he shun it?”

“Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.”

The answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but Mrs. Fairfaxeither could not, or would not, give me more explicit information of the originand nature of Mr. Rochester’s trials. She averred they were a mystery toherself, 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 heseemed much engaged with business, and, in the afternoon, gentlemen fromMillcote 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 gooddeal; probably to return these visits, as he generally did not come back tilllate at night.

During this interval, even Adèle was seldom sent for to his presence, and allmy 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 andcoldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance, andsometimes bow and smile with gentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood didnot 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 apublic meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but the night beingwet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany them. Soon after they weregone he rang the bell: a message came that I and Adèle were to go downstairs. Ibrushed Adèle’s hair and made her neat, and having ascertained that I wasmyself in my usual Quaker trim, where there was nothing to retouch—all beingtoo close and plain, braided locks included, to admit of disarrangement—wedescended, Adèle wondering whether the petit coffre was at length come;for, owing to some mistake, its arrival had hitherto been delayed. She wasgratified: there it stood, a little carton, on the table when we entered thedining-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 genuinedaughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling it,” said the deepand rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the depths of animmense easy-chair at the fireside. “And mind,” he continued, “don’t bother mewith any details of the anatomical process, or any notice of the condition ofthe entrails: let your operation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille,enfant; comprends-tu?”

Adèle seemed scarcely to need the warning; she had already retired to a sofawith her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which secured the lid. Havingremoved this impediment, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper,she merely exclaimed—

“Oh ciel! Que c’est beau!” and then remained absorbed in ecstaticcontemplation.

“Is Miss Eyre there?” now demanded the master, half rising from his seat tolook round to the door, near which I still stood.

“Ah! well, come forward; be seated here.” He drew a chair near his own. “I amnot 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 beintolerable to me to pass a whole evening tête-à-tête with a brat. Don’tdraw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it—ifyou please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually forget them. Nordo I particularly affect simple-minded old ladies. By-the-bye, I must have minein mind; it won’t do to neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and bloodis 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 forbiddenAdèle 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 oneof 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 waxencontents of her “boite;” pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures insuch broken English as she was mistress of.

“Now I have performed the part of a good host,” pursued Mr. Rochester, “put myguests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at liberty to attendto 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 inthis comfortable chair, which I have no mind to do.”

I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat in theshade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it seemed amatter of course to obey him promptly.

We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which had been lit fordinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light; the large fire was allred and clear; the purple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty windowand loftier arch; everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adèle (shedared not speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rainagainst the panes.

Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different to whatI had seen him look before; not quite so stern—much less gloomy. There was asmile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine or not, I am notsure; 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 andrigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning hismassive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light ofthe fire on his granite-hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he hadgreat, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too—not without a certain change in theirdepths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, ofthat feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the samelength of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened onhis 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 somethingconventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tonguebefore I was aware—“No, sir.”

“Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you,” said he: “you have theair of a little nonnette; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as you sitwith 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, forinstance); and when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you areobliged to reply, you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is atleast brusque. What do you mean by it?”

“Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied that it wasnot easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about appearances; thattastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little consequence, or something ofthat 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 andsoothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on: whatfault do you find with me, pray? I suppose I have all my limbs and all myfeatures like any other man?”

“Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no pointedrepartee: it was only a blunder.”

“Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it. Criticise me: does myforehead not please you?”

He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his brow, andshowed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs, but an abrupt deficiencywhere the suave sign of benevolence should have risen.

“Now, ma’am, am I a fool?”

“Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired in returnwhether 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 Ibear a conscience;” and he pointed to the prominences which are said toindicate that faculty, and which, fortunately for him, were sufficientlyconspicuous; 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 oldas 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 mewith her knuckles, and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as anIndia-rubber ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with onesentient 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 answerto make to his queer question: how could I tell whether he was capable of beingre-transformed?

“You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not pretty anymore than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it isconvenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from myphysiognomy, 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 onthe marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape was seen plainly as well ashis face; his unusual breadth of chest, disproportionate almost to his lengthof limb. I am sure most people would have thought him an ugly man; yet therewas so much unconscious pride in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; sucha look of complete indifference to his own external appearance; so haughty areliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic or adventitious, to atonefor the lack of mere personal attractiveness, that, in looking at him, oneinevitably shared the indifference, and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, putfaith in the confidence.

“I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night,” he repeated, “andthat is why I sent for you: the fire and the chandelier were not sufficientcompany for me; nor would Pilot have been, for none of these can talk. Adèle isa degree better, but still far below the mark; Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I ampersuaded, can suit me if you will: you puzzled me the first evening I invitedyou down here. I have almost forgotten you since: other ideas have driven yoursfrom my head; but to-night I am resolved to be at ease; to dismiss whatimportunes, and recall what pleases. It would please me now to draw you out—tolearn more of you—therefore speak.”

Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive smileeither.

“Speak,” he urged.

“What about, sir?”

“Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and the manner oftreating it entirely to yourself.”

Accordingly I sat and said nothing: “If he expects me to talk for the mere sakeof talking and showing off, he will find he has addressed himself to the wrongperson,” I thought.

“You are dumb, Miss Eyre.”

I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me, and with a single hastyglance seemed to dive into my eyes.

“Stubborn?” he said, “and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put my request in anabsurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg your pardon. The fact is, oncefor all, I don’t wish to treat you like an inferior: that is” (correctinghimself), “I claim only such superiority as must result from twenty years’difference in age and a century’s advance in experience. This is legitimate,et j’y tiens, as Adèle would say; and it is by virtue of thissuperiority, and this alone, that I desire you to have the goodness to talk tome a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on onepoint—cankering as a rusty nail.”

He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not feel insensibleto his condescension, and would not seem so.

“I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir—quite willing; but I cannot introducea topic, because how do I know what will interest you? Ask me questions, and Iwill do my best to answer them.”

“Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to be alittle 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 througha varied experience with many men of many nations, and roamed over half theglobe, 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 evasiveone. Reply clearly.”

“I don’t think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because you areolder than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have; yourclaim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time andexperience.”

“Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won’t allow that, seeing that it would neversuit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to say a bad, use of bothadvantages. Leaving superiority out of the question, then, you must still agreeto receive my orders now and then, without being piqued or hurt by the tone ofcommand. Will you?”

I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester is peculiar—he seems toforget 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 inquirewhether 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 hadforgotten the salary! Well then, on that mercenary ground, will you agree tolet me hector a little?”

“No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you did forget it, andthat you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in his dependency, Iagree heartily.”

“And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional forms andphrases, without thinking that the omission arises from insolence?”

“I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence: one I ratherlike, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even for a salary.”

“Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary; therefore,keep to yourself, and don’t venture on generalities of which you are intenselyignorant. However, I mentally shake hands with you for your answer, despite itsinaccuracy; and as much for the manner in which it was said, as for thesubstance of the speech; the manner was frank and sincere; one does not oftensee such a manner: no, on the contrary, affectation, or coldness, or stupid,coarse-minded misapprehension of one’s meaning are the usual rewards ofcandour. Not three in three thousand raw school-girl-governesses would haveanswered me as you have just done. But I don’t mean to flatter you: if you arecast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours: Nature didit. 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 tocounterbalance your few good points.”

“And so may you,” I thought. My eye met his as the idea crossed my mind: heseemed to read the glance, answering as if its import had been spoken as wellas imagined—

“Yes, yes, you are right,” said he; “I have plenty of faults of my own: I knowit, and I don’t wish to palliate them, I assure you. God wot I need not be toosevere about others; I have a past existence, a series of deeds, a colour oflife to contemplate within my own breast, which might well call my sneers andcensures from my neighbours to myself. I started, or rather (for like otherdefaulters, I like to lay half the blame on ill fortune and adversecirc*mstances) was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and-twenty, andhave never recovered the right course since: but I might have been verydifferent; I might have been as good as you—wiser—almost as stainless. I envyyou your peace of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Littlegirl, a memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure—aninexhaustible 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 tofetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen—quite your equal. Nature meant me tobe, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre; one of the better kind, and you see Iam not so. You would say you don’t see it; at least I flatter myself I read asmuch in your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what you express with that organ; I amquick at interpreting its language). Then take my word for it,—I am not avillain: you are not to suppose that—not to attribute to me any such bademinence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to circ*mstances than to mynatural bent, I am a trite commonplace sinner, hackneyed in all the poor pettydissipations with which the rich and worthless try to put on life. Do youwonder that I avow this to you? Know, that in the course of your future lifeyou will often find yourself elected the involuntary confidant of youracquaintances’ 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 talkof themselves; they will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn oftheir indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comfortingand 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 mythoughts in a diary. You would say, I should have been superior tocirc*mstances; so I should—so I should; but you see I was not. When fatewronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool: I turned desperate; then Idegenerated. Now, when any vicious simpleton excites my disgust by his paltryribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that I am better than he: I am forced toconfess that he and I are on a level. I wish I had stood firm—God knows I do!Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison oflife.”

“Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.”

“It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform—I havestrength yet for that—if—but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered,burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, Ihave a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost whatit may.”

“Then you will degenerate still more, sir.”

“Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure? And I may getit as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor.”

“It will sting—it will taste bitter, sir.”

“How do you know?—you never tried it. How very serious—how very solemn youlook: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head” (taking onefrom the mantelpiece). “You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte, thathave not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely unacquainted with itsmysteries.”

“I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brought remorse, andyou pronounced remorse the poison of existence.”

“And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that flittered acrossmy brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration rather than atemptation: it was very genial, very soothing—I know that. Here it comes again!It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angelof light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to myheart.”

“Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.”

“Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to distinguishbetween a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternalthrone—between a guide and a seducer?”

“I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said thesuggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more misery ifyou listen to it.”

“Not at all—it bears the most gracious message in the world: for the rest, youare not my conscience-keeper, so don’t make yourself uneasy. Here, come in,bonny wanderer!”

He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own; then,folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he seemed toenclose in their embrace the invisible being.

“Now,” he continued, again addressing me, “I have received the pilgrim—adisguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good: my heart wasa sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine.”

“To speak truth, sir, I don’t understand you at all: I cannot keep up theconversation, because it has got out of my depth. Only one thing, I know: yousaid you were not as good as you should like to be, and that you regretted yourown imperfection;—one thing I can comprehend: you intimated that to have asullied 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 thoughtsand actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store ofrecollections, to which you might revert with pleasure.”

“Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I am paving hellwith energy.”

“Sir?”

“I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint. Certainly,my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have been.”

“And better?”

“And better—so much better as pure ore is than foul dross. You seem to doubtme; I don’t doubt myself: I know what my aim is, what my motives are; and atthis moment I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes and Persians, thatboth 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-ofcombinations of circ*mstances demand unheard-of rules.”

“That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once that it isliable to abuse.”

“Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods not to abuse it.”

“You are human and fallible.”

“I am: so are you—what then?”

“The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine andperfect alone can be safely intrusted.”

“What power?”

“That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,—‘Let it beright.’”

“‘Let it be right’—the very words: you have pronounced them.”

May it be right then,” I said, as I rose, deeming it useless tocontinue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides, sensible thatthe character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration; at least, beyondits 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 certainlynot afraid.”

“You are afraid—your self-love dreads a blunder.”

“In that sense I do feel apprehensive—I have no wish to talk nonsense.”

“If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake it forsense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don’t trouble yourself to answer—I seeyou laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are notnaturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraintstill clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice,and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and abrother—or father, or master, or what you will—to smile too gaily, speak toofreely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I think you will learn to be naturalwith me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then yourlooks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offernow. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through theclose-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were itbut 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, favoursobservation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched Adèle (Ihave 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 tenminutes 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 ofher bones. ‘Il faut que je l’essaie!’ cried she, ‘et à l’instant même!’ and sherushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: ina few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see,—a miniature ofCéline Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of—But nevermind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about to receive a shock: such ismy presentiment; stay now, to see whether it will be realised.”

Ere long, Adèle’s little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She entered,transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of rose-coloured satin, veryshort, and as full in the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brownfrock she had previously worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead; herfeet 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 chasséed across the room till, having reachedMr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe, then dropped onone knee at his feet, exclaiming—

“Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonté;” then rising, she added,“C’est comme cela que maman faisait, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?”

“Pre-cise-ly!” was the answer; “and, ‘comme cela,’ she charmed my English goldout 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. MySpring 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 whenceit sprang; having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust couldmanure, I have but half a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks soartificial as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholicprinciple of expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I’llexplain all this some day. Good-night.”

CHAPTER XV

Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one afternoon, whenhe chanced to meet me and Adèle in the grounds: and while she played with Pilotand her shuttleco*ck, he asked me to walk up and down a long beech avenue withinsight of her.

He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, Céline Varens,towards whom he had once cherished what he called a “grande passion.”This passion Céline had professed to return with even superior ardour. Hethought himself her idol, ugly as he was: he believed, as he said, that shepreferred his “taille d’athlète” to the elegance of the ApolloBelvidere.

“And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference of the Gallic sylphfor her British gnome, that I installed her in an hotel; gave her a completeestablishment of servants, a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &c.In short, I began the process of ruining myself in the received style, like anyother spoony. I had not, it seems, the originality to chalk out a new road toshame and destruction, but trode the old track with stupid exactness not todeviate an inch from the beaten centre. I had—as I deserved to have—the fate ofall other spoonies. Happening to call one evening when Céline did not expectme, I found her out; but it was a warm night, and I was tired with strollingthrough Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the airconsecrated so lately by her presence. No,—I exaggerate; I never thought therewas any consecrating virtue about her: it was rather a sort of pastille perfumeshe had left; a scent of musk and amber, than an odour of sanctity. I was justbeginning to stifle with the fumes of conservatory flowers and sprinkledessences, when I bethought myself to open the window and step out on to thebalcony. It was moonlight and gaslight besides, and very still and serene. Thebalcony was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and took out a cigar,—Iwill take one now, if you will excuse me.”

Here ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and lighting of a cigar; havingplaced it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah incense on the freezingand sunless air, he went on—

“I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I wascroquant—(overlook the barbarism)—croquant chocolate comfits, andsmoking alternately, watching meantime the equipages that rolled along thefashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house, when in an elegantclose carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and distinctly seenin the brilliant city-night, I recognised the ‘voiture’ I had given Céline. Shewas returning: of course my heart thumped with impatience against the ironrails 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 muffedin a cloak—an unnecessary encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so warm a June evening—Iknew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from the skirt of herdress, as she skipped from the carriage-step. Bending over the balcony, I wasabout to murmur ‘Mon ange’—in a tone, of course, which should be audible to theear of love alone—when a figure jumped from the carriage after her; cloakedalso; but that was a spurred heel which had rung on the pavement, and that wasa hatted head which now passed under the arched porte cochère of thehotel.

“You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not askyou; 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 thinkall existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth hash*therto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neithersee the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear thebreakers boil at their base. But I tell you—and you may mark my words—you willcome some day to a craggy pass in the channel, where the whole of life’s streamwill be broken up into whirl and tumult, foam and noise: either you will bedashed to atoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-waveinto a calmer current—as I am now.

“I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and stillnessof the world under this frost. I like Thornfield, its antiquity, itsretirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its grey façade, andlines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin: and yet how long have Iabhorred the very thought of it, shunned it like a great plague-house? How I dostill abhor—”

He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck his bootagainst the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in its grip, andto 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 neversaw before or since. Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, detestation, seemedmomentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupil dilating under hisebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount; but anotherfeeling rose and triumphed: something hard and cynical: self-willed andresolute: 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 mydestiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk—a hag like one of those whoappeared 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 luridhieroglyphics all along the house-front, between the upper and lower row ofwindows, ‘Like it if you can! Like it if you dare!’

“‘I will like it,’ said I; ‘I dare like it;’ and” (he subjoined moodily) “Iwill keep my word; I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness—yes,goodness. I wish to be a better man than I have been, than I am; as Job’sleviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hindrances which otherscount as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten wood.”

Adèle here ran before him with her shuttleco*ck. “Away!” he cried harshly; “keepat a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!” Continuing then to pursue his walkin silence, I ventured to recall him to the point whence he had abruptlydiverged—

“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 thecontrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he turned his eyes towardsme, and the shade seemed to clear off his brow. “Oh, I had forgotten Céline!Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in accompanied by a cavalier,I seemed to hear a hiss, and the green snake of jealousy, rising on undulatingcoils from the moonlit balcony, glided within my waistcoat, and ate its way intwo minutes to my heart’s core. Strange!” he exclaimed, suddenly starting againfrom the point. “Strange that I should choose you for the confidant of allthis, young lady; passing strange that you should listen to me quietly, as ifit were the most usual thing in the world for a man like me to tell stories ofhis opera-mistresses to a quaint, inexperienced girl like you! But the lastsingularity explains the first, as I intimated once before: you, with yourgravity, 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 aunique one. Happily I do not mean to harm it: but, if I did, it would not takeharm from me. The more you and I converse, the better; for while I cannotblight you, you may refresh me.” After this digression he proceeded—

“I remained in the balcony. ‘They will come to her boudoir, no doubt,’ thoughtI: ‘let me prepare an ambush.’ So putting my hand in through the open window, Idrew the curtain over it, leaving only an opening through which I could takeobservations; then I closed the casem*nt, all but a chink just wide enough tofurnish an outlet to lovers’ whispered vows: then I stole back to my chair; andas I resumed it the pair came in. My eye was quickly at the aperture. Céline’schamber-maid entered, lit a lamp, left it on the table, and withdrew. Thecouple were thus revealed to me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and therewas ‘the Varens,’ shining in satin and jewels,—my gifts of course,—and therewas her companion in an officer’s uniform; and I knew him for a young roué of avicomte—a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society, andhad never thought of hating because I despised him so absolutely. Onrecognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy was instantly broken; becauseat the same moment my love for Céline sank under an extinguisher. A woman whocould betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for; she deservedonly 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 thanenrage 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 tobelabour me soundly, but they insulted me as coarsely as they could in theirlittle way: especially Céline, who even waxed rather brilliant on my personaldefects—deformities she termed them. Now it had been her custom to launch outinto fervent admiration of what she called my ‘beauté mâle:’ wherein shediffered diametrically from you, who told me point-blank, at the secondinterview, that you did not think me handsome. The contrast struck me at thetime and—”

Adèle here came running up again.

“Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and wishes tosee you.”

“Ah! in that case I must abridge. Opening the window, I walked in upon them;liberated Céline from my protection; gave her notice to vacate her hotel;offered her a purse for immediate exigencies; disregarded screams, hysterics,prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an appointment with the vicomte for ameeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning I had the pleasure ofencountering him; left a bullet in one of his poor etiolated arms, feeble asthe wing of a chicken in the pip, and then thought I had done with the wholecrew. But unluckily the Varens, six months before, had given me this filetteAdèle, who, she affirmed, was my daughter; and perhaps she may be, though I seeno proofs of such grim paternity written in her countenance: Pilot is more likeme than she. Some years after I had broken with the mother, she abandoned herchild, and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I acknowledged nonatural claim on Adèle’s part to be supported by me, nor do I now acknowledgeany, for I am not her father; but hearing that she was quite destitute, I e’entook the poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted ithere, 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 illegitimateoffspring of a French opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of yourpost and protégée: you will be coming to me some day with notice that you havefound another place—that you beg me to look out for a new governess,&c.—Eh?”

“No: Adèle is not answerable for either her mother’s faults or yours: I have aregard for her; and now that I know she is, in a sense, parentless—forsaken byher mother and disowned by you, sir—I shall cling closer to her than before.How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hateher governess as a nuisance, to a lonely little orphan, who leans towards heras a friend?”

“Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go in now; and youtoo: it darkens.”

But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adèle and Pilot—ran a race with her,and played a game of battledore and shuttleco*ck. When we went in, and I hadremoved 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 freedomsand trivialities into which she was apt to stray when much noticed, and whichbetrayed in her a superficiality of character, inherited probably from hermother, hardly congenial to an English mind. Still she had her merits; and Iwas disposed to appreciate all that was good in her to the utmost. I sought inher countenance and features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none: notrait, no turn of expression announced relationship. It was a pity: if shecould 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 Isteadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me. As he had said, there wasprobably nothing at all extraordinary in the substance of the narrative itself:a wealthy Englishman’s passion for a French dancer, and her treachery to him,were every-day matters enough, no doubt, in society; but there was somethingdecidedly strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him whenhe was in the act of expressing the present contentment of his mood, and hisnewly revived pleasure in the old hall and its environs. I meditatedwonderingly on this incident; but gradually quitting it, as I found it for thepresent inexplicable, I turned to the consideration of my master’s manner tomyself. The confidence he had thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute tomy discretion: I regarded and accepted it as such. His deportment had now forsome weeks been more uniform towards me than at the first. I never seemed inhis 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 forme: when summoned by formal invitation to his presence, I was honoured by acordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power to amusehim, and that these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure asfor my benefit.

I, indeed, talked comparatively little, but I heard him talk with relish. Itwas his nature to be communicative; he liked to open to a mind unacquaintedwith the world glimpses of its scenes and ways (I do not mean its corruptscenes and wicked ways, but such as derived their interest from the great scaleon which they were acted, the strange novelty by which they werecharacterised); and I had a keen delight in receiving the new ideas he offered,in imagining the new pictures he portrayed, and following him in thoughtthrough the new regions he disclosed, never startled or troubled by one noxiousallusion.

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 attimes as if he were my relation rather than my master: yet he was imperioussometimes still; but I did not mind that; I saw it was his way. So happy, sogratified did I become with this new interest added to life, that I ceased topine after kindred: my thin crescent-destiny seemed to enlarge; the blanks ofexistence were filled up; my bodily health improved; I gathered flesh andstrength.

And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader: gratitude, and manyassociations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face the object I best likedto see; his presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire. Yet Ihad not forgotten his faults; indeed, I could not, for he brought themfrequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, harsh to inferiority of everydescription: in my secret soul I knew that his great kindness to me wasbalanced by unjust severity to many others. He was moody, too; unaccountablyso; I more than once, when sent for to read to him, found him sitting in hislibrary alone, with his head bent on his folded arms; and, when he looked up, amorose, almost a malignant, scowl blackened his features. But I believed thathis moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of morality (I sayformer, for now he seemed corrected of them) had their source in somecruel cross of fate. I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies,higher principles, and purer tastes than such as circ*mstances had developed,education instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there were excellentmaterials in him; though for the present they hung together somewhat spoiledand tangled. I cannot deny that I grieved for his grief, whatever that was, andwould have given much to assuage it.

Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed, I could notsleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue, and told how hisdestiny 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 itagain soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer than a fortnight ata time; and he has now been resident eight weeks. If he does go, the changewill be doleful. Suppose he should be absent spring, summer, and autumn: howjoyless sunshine and fine days will seem!”

I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any rate, Istarted wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and lugubrious, whichsounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I had kept my candle burning: thenight 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 wasbroken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seemed mychamber-door was touched; as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a wayalong the dark gallery outside. I said, “Who is there?” Nothing answered. I waschilled with fear.

All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the kitchen-doorchanced to be left open, not unfrequently found his way up to the threshold ofMr. Rochester’s chamber: I had seen him lying there myself in the mornings. Theidea calmed me somewhat: I lay down. Silence composes the nerves; and as anunbroken hush now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel thereturn of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dreamhad scarcely approached my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by amarrow-freezing incident enough.

This was a demoniac laugh—low, suppressed, and deep—uttered, as it seemed, atthe very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, andI thought at first the goblin-laugher stood at my bedside—or rather, crouchedby my pillow: but I rose, looked round, and could see nothing; while, as Istill gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behindthe panels. My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again tocry out, “Who is there?”

Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery towardsthe third-storey staircase: a door had lately been made to shut in thatstaircase; 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 hurriedon my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt and opened the door with atrembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and on the matting inthe gallery. I was surprised at this circ*mstance: but still more was I amazedto perceive the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke; and, while looking tothe right hand and left, to find whence these blue wreaths issued, I becamefurther aware of a strong smell of burning.

Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr. Rochester’s, andthe smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax; Ithought no more of Grace Poole, or the laugh: in an instant, I was within thechamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire. Inthe midst of blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deepsleep.

“Wake! wake!” I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned: the smokehad stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, Irushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, andboth were filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and itsoccupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized thecouch afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames whichwere devouring it.

The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I flung frommy hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash of the shower-bath Ihad liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now dark, Iknew he was awake; because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at findinghimself 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 quenchednow; I will fetch you a candle.”

“In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?” he demanded.“What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in the room besides you?Have you plotted to drown me?”

“I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven’s name, get up. Somebody hasplotted 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 minutestill I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be—yes, here is mydressing-gown. Now run!”

I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He took itfrom my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened and scorched, thesheets 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 inthe gallery: the step ascending to the third storey; the smoke,—the smell offire which had conducted me to his room; in what state I had found mattersthere, 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 thanastonishment; 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? Lether 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 ofthe wet. I am going to leave you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remainwhere you are till I return; be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to thesecond storey. Don’t move, remember, or call any one.”

He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very softly,unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible, shut it afterhim, and the last ray vanished. I was left in total darkness. I listened forsome noise, but heard nothing. A very long time elapsed. I grew weary: it wascold, in spite of the cloak; and then I did not see the use of staying, as Iwas not to rouse the house. I was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester’sdispleasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly onthe gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the matting. “I hope it ishe,” 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 theend 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 inthat way. She is a singular person.”

“Just so. Grace Poole—you have guessed it. She is, as you say, singular—very.Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am glad that you are the onlyperson, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of to-night’sincident. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it. I will account forthis 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. Itis near four:—in two hours the servants will be up.”

“Good-night, then, sir,” said I, departing.

He seemed surprised—very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to go.

“What!” he exclaimed, “are you quitting me already, and in that way?”

“You said I might go, sir.”

“But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of acknowledgment andgood-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved mylife!—snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death! and you walk past meas if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands.”

He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, then in bothhis own.

“You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. Icannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me inthe character of creditor for such an obligation: but you: it is different;—Ifeel your benefits no burden, Jane.”

He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,—but hisvoice was checked.

“Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in thecase.”

“I knew,” he continued, “you would do me good in some way, at some time;—I sawit in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile didnot”—(again he stopped)—“did not” (he proceeded hastily) “strike delight to myvery inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I haveheard of good genii: there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. Mycherished preserver, good-night!”

Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.

“I am glad I happened to be awake,” I said: and then I was going.

“What! you will go?”

“I am cold, sir.”

“Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!” But he still retainedmy 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 wastossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled undersurges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweetas 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, evenin fancy—a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back.Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish to rest,I rose as soon as day dawned.

CHAPTER XVI

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed thissleepless 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 wasnot in the frequent habit of entering the schoolroom, but he did step in for afew minutes sometimes, and I had the impression that he was sure to visit itthat day.

But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened to interrupt the quietcourse of Adèle’s studies; only soon after breakfast, I heard some bustle inthe neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester’s chamber, Mrs. Fairfax’s voice, and Leah’s,and the cook’s—that is, John’s wife—and even John’s own gruff tones. There wereexclamations of “What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!” “It is alwaysdangerous to keep a candle lit at night.” “How providential that he hadpresence of mind to think of the water-jug!” “I wonder he waked nobody!” “It isto 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; andwhen I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I saw through the opendoor that all was again restored to complete order; only the bed was strippedof its hangings. Leah stood up in the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glassdimmed with smoke. I was about to address her, for I wished to know whataccount had been given of the affair: but, on advancing, I saw a second personin the chamber—a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, and sewing rings tonew 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, inwhich her whole thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard forehead, and in hercommonplace features, was nothing either of the paleness or desperation onewould have expected to see marking the countenance of a woman who had attemptedmurder, 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 wasamazed—confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her: no start, noincrease or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt, or fearof detection. She said “Good morning, Miss,” in her usual phlegmatic and briefmanner; 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 ispast comprehension.”

“Good morning, Grace,” I said. “Has anything happened here? I thought I heardthe servants all talking together a while ago.”

“Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep with hiscandle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he awoke before thebed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to quench the flames withthe water in the ewer.”

“A strange affair!” I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her fixedly—“DidMr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move?”

She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something ofconsciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine me warily; then sheanswered—

“The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be likely tohear. Mrs. Fairfax’s room and yours are the nearest to master’s; but Mrs.Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people get elderly, they often sleepheavy.” She paused, and then added, with a sort of assumed indifference, butstill in a marked and significant tone—“But you are young, Miss; and I shouldsay a light sleeper: perhaps you may have heard a noise?”

“I did,” said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still polishing thepanes, could not hear me, “and at first I thought it was Pilot: but Pilotcannot 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 needlewith a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure—

“It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he was insuch danger: You must have been dreaming.”

“I was not dreaming,” I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolnessprovoked me. Again she looked at me; and with the same scrutinising andconscious 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?” shefurther asked.

She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me informationunawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew or suspected herguilt, she would be playing of some of her malignant pranks on me; I thought itadvisable 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 getinto 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 haveoften omitted to fasten the bolt: I did not think it necessary. I was not awareany 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 allsecure before I venture to lie down.”

“It will be wise so to do,” was her answer: “this neighbourhood is as quiet asany I know, and I never heard of the hall being attempted by robbers since itwas a house; though there are hundreds of pounds’ worth of plate in theplate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for such a large house, there arevery few servants, because master has never lived here much; and when he doescome, being a bachelor, he needs little waiting on: but I always think it bestto err on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it is as well to have adrawn 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 notdispense with the means, though He often blesses them when they are useddiscreetly.” And here she closed her harangue: a long one for her, and utteredwith the demureness of a Quakeress.

I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her miraculousself-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the cook entered.

“Mrs. Poole,” said she, addressing Grace, “the servants’ dinner will soon beready: will you come down?”

“No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and I’ll carry itupstairs.”

“You’ll have some meat?”

“Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that’s all.”

“And the sago?”

“Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime: I’ll make itmyself.”

The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me: so Ideparted.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax’s account of the curtain conflagration duringdinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmaticalcharacter of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of herposition at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into custodythat morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master’s service. Hehad 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 gentlemanseemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependents; so much inher power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life, he dared notopenly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think thattenderer 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 contemporarywith her master’s: Mrs. Fairfax told me once, she had lived here many years. Idon’t think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she maypossess originality and strength of character to compensate for the want ofpersonal 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 toa nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, andshe now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his ownindiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?” But, havingreached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole’s square, flat figure, anduncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind’s eye, thatI thought, “No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,” suggestedthe secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, “you are notbeautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any rate, you haveoften felt as if he did; and last night—remember his words; remember his look;remember his voice!”

I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment vividlyrenewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Adèle was drawing; I bent over her anddirected 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 conceivingrespecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared myself with her, and foundwe were different. Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady; and she spoketruth—I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me;I had more colour and more flesh, more life, more vivacity, because I hadbrighter hopes and keener enjoyments.

“Evening approaches,” said I, as I looked towards the window. “I have neverheard Mr. Rochester’s voice or step in the house to-day; but surely I shall seehim before night: I feared the meeting in the morning; now I desire it, becauseexpectation 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 nurserywith Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for the bell to ringbelow; I listened for Leah coming up with a message; I fancied sometimes Iheard Mr. Rochester’s own tread, and I turned to the door, expecting it to openand admit him. The door remained shut; darkness only came in through thewindow. Still it was not late; he often sent for me at seven and eight o’clock,and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be wholly disappointed to-night,when I had so many things to say to him! I wanted again to introduce thesubject of Grace Poole, and to hear what he would answer; I wanted to ask himplainly if he really believed it was she who had made last night’s hideousattempt; and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It little matteredwhether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothinghim by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and a sure instinct alwaysprevented me from going too far; beyond the verge of provocation I neverventured; on the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill. Retaining everyminute form of respect, every propriety of my station, I could still meet himin 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 wasonly to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax’s room. Thither I repaired,glad at least to go downstairs; for that brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr.Rochester’s presence.

“You must want your tea,” said the good lady, as I joined her; “you ate solittle at dinner. I am afraid,” she continued, “you are not well to-day: youlook flushed and feverish.”

“Oh, quite well! I never felt better.”

“Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill the teapotwhile I knit off this needle?” Having completed her task, she rose to draw downthe blind, which she had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of making themost 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 notstarlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day for hisjourney.”

“Journey!—Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he was out.”

“Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas, Mr.Eshton’s place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe there is quitea party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, andothers.”

“Do you expect him back to-night?”

“No—nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay a week ormore: when these fine, fashionable people get together, they are so surroundedby elegance and gaiety, so well provided with all that can please andentertain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gentlemen especially are often inrequest on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is so talented and so lively insociety, that I believe he is a general favourite: the ladies are very fond ofhim; though you would not think his appearance calculated to recommend himparticularly in their eyes: but I suppose his acquirements and abilities,perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any little fault of look.”

“Are there ladies at the Leas?”

“There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters—very elegant young ladiesindeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram, most beautifulwomen, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven years since, whenshe was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr.Rochester gave. You should have seen the dining-room that day—how richly it wasdecorated, how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies andgentlemen present—all of the first county families; and Miss Ingram wasconsidered 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 wasChristmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to hear someof the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to come in, and I satdown in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene: theladies were magnificently dressed; most of them—at least most of the youngerones—looked handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen.”

“And what was she like?”

“Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive complexion,dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr. Rochester’s: large andblack, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then she had such a fine head ofhair; 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 inpure white; an amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across herbreast, 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 withthe jetty mass of her curls.”

“She was greatly admired, of course?”

“Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She wasone of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She andMr. 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 listento her;—and she played afterwards. I am no judge of music, but Mr. Rochesteris; and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good.”

“And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?”

“It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large fortunes.Old Lord Ingram’s estates were chiefly entailed, and the eldest son came in foreverything 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. Rochesteris 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 thesort. 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. Rochesterand the beautiful Blanche; but Adèle came in, and the conversation was turnedinto another channel.

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into myheart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with astrict hand such as had been straying through imagination’s boundless andtrackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes,sentiments I had been cherishing since last night—of the general state of mindin which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forwardand told, in her own quiet way, a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I hadrejected the real, and rabidly devoured the ideal;—I pronounced judgment tothis effect:—

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; thata more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowedpoison as if it were nectar.

You,” I said, “a favourite with Mr. Rochester? You gifted withthe power of pleasing him? You of importance to him in any way? Go! yourfolly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens ofpreference—equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of theworld to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe!—Could noteven self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning thebrief scene of last night?—Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something inpraise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look onyour own accursed senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered byher superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in allwomen to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned andunknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and respondedto, must lead, ignis-fatuus-like, into miry wilds whence there is noextrication.

“Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass beforeyou, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without softening onedefect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; writeunder it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.’

“Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory—you have one prepared in yourdrawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints;choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliestface you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines,according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; rememberthe raven ringlets, the oriental eye;—What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as amodel! Order! No snivel!—no sentiment!—no regret! I will endure only sense andresolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck andbust; let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omitneither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,aërial 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 ofyou, take out these two pictures and compare them: say, ‘Mr. Rochester mightprobably win that noble lady’s love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likelyhe would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?’”

“I’ll do it,” I resolved: and having framed this determination, I grew calm,and fell asleep.

I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in crayons;and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory miniature of an imaginaryBlanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face enough, and when compared with the realhead in chalk, the contrast was as great as self-control could desire. Iderived benefit from the task: it had kept my head and hands employed, and hadgiven force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly onmy heart.

Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesomediscipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit. Thanks to it, Iwas able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm, which, had theyfound me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to maintain, evenexternally.

CHAPTER XVII

A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester: ten days, and still he didnot come. Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to gostraight from the Leas to London, and thence to the Continent, and not show hisface again at Thornfield for a year to come; he had not unfrequently quitted itin a manner quite as abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was beginningto feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was actually permittingmyself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment; but rallying my wits,and recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and itwas wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder—how I cleared up the mistakeof supposing Mr. Rochester’s movements a matter in which I had any cause totake a vital interest. Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion ofinferiority: on the contrary, I just said—

“You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receivethe salary he gives you for teaching his protégée, and to be grateful for suchrespectful and kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right toexpect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledgesbetween you and him; so don’t make him the object of your fine feelings, yourraptures, 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, andstrength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised.”

I went on with my day’s business tranquilly; but ever and anon vaguesuggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quitThornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisem*nts and ponderingconjectures about new situations: these thoughts I did not think to check; theymight germinate and bear fruit if they could.

Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post broughtMrs. Fairfax a letter.

“It is from the master,” said she, as she looked at the direction. “Now Isuppose 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 mycoffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed to thatcirc*mstance 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 didnot choose to consider.

“Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being busyenough now: for a little while at least,” said Mrs. Fairfax, still holding thenote before her spectacles.

Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of Adèle’spinafore, which happened to be loose: having helped her also to another bun andrefilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly—

“Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?”

“Indeed he is—in three days, he says: that will be next Thursday; and not aloneeither. I don’t know how many of the fine people at the Leas are coming withhim: he sends directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and thelibrary and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; I am to get more kitchen handsfrom the George Inn, at Millcote, and from wherever else I can; and the ladieswill bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a fullhouse of it.” And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away tocommence operations.

The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought all therooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged; but it appears I wasmistaken. Three women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such brushing, suchwashing of paint and beating of carpets, such taking down and putting up ofpictures, such polishing of mirrors and lustres, such lighting of fires inbedrooms, 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: thepreparations for company and the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw herinto ecstasies. She would have Sophie to look over all her “toilettes,” as shecalled frocks; to furbish up any that were “passées,” and to air andarrange the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the frontchambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and piled-upbolsters and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys. Fromschool 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 andgarnish desert-dishes.

The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for dinner atsix. During the intervening period I had no time to nurse chimeras; and Ibelieve I was as active and gay as anybody—Adèle excepted. Still, now and then,I received a damping check to my cheerfulness; and was, in spite of myself,thrown back on the region of doubts and portents, and dark conjectures. Thiswas when I chanced to see the third-storey staircase door (which of late hadalways been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the form of GracePoole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; when I watched her glidealong the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw herlook into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,—just say a word, perhaps, to thecharwoman about the proper way to polish a grate, or clean a marblemantelpiece, or take stains from papered walls, and then pass on. She wouldthus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate pipeon the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for herprivate solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. Only one hour in thetwenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants below; all the rest of hertime was spent in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey: thereshe sat and sewed—and probably laughed drearily to herself,—as companionless asa 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 positionor employment; no one pitied her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed,overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen, of whichGrace formed the subject. Leah had been saying something I had not caught, andthe charwoman remarked—

“She gets good wages, I guess?”

“Yes,” said Leah; “I wish I had as good; not that mine are to complainof,—there’s no stinginess at Thornfield; but they’re not one fifth of the sumMrs. Poole receives. And she is laying by: she goes every quarter to the bankat Millcote. I should not wonder but she has saved enough to keep herindependent if she liked to leave; but I suppose she’s got used to the place;and then she’s not forty yet, and strong and able for anything. It is too soonfor 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 Leahsignificantly; “and it is not every one could fill her shoes—not for all themoney 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 sheinstantly gave her companion a nudge.

“Doesn’t she know?” I heard the woman whisper.

Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped. All I hadgathered from it amounted to this,—that there was a mystery at Thornfield; andthat from participation in that mystery I was purposely excluded.

Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening; carpets werelaid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilettables arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in vases: both chambers andsaloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make them. The hall, too, wasscoured; and the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of thestaircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the dining-room, thesideboard 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 theladies to their rooms, &c. Adèle, too, would be dressed: though I thoughtshe 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 notbe called upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was nowbecome to me,—“a very pleasant refuge in time of trouble.”

It had been a mild, serene spring day—one of those days which, towards the endof March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth as heralds ofsummer. It was drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm, and I satat work in the schoolroom with the window open.

“It gets late,” said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state. “I am glad Iordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned; for it is pastsix now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on theroad: one can see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote.” Shewent to the window. “Here he is!” said she. “Well, John” (leaning out), “anynews?”

“They’re coming, ma’am,” was the answer. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Adèle flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side, sothat, 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 cavalierswere young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on hisblack horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his side rode a lady, andhe and she were the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost sweptthe ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparentfolds, 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 ofthe house, and I lost sight of it. Adèle now petitioned to go down; but I tookher on my knee, and gave her to understand that she must not on any accountthink 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 verygrave, she consented at last to wipe them.

A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen’s deep tones and ladies’silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and distinguishable above all,though not loud, was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall,welcoming his fair and gallant guests under its roof. Then light steps ascendedthe stairs; and there was a tripping through the gallery, and soft cheerfullaughs, and opening and closing doors, and, for a time, a hush.

“Elles changent de toilettes,” said Adèle; who, listening attentively, hadfollowed every movement; and she sighed.

“Chez maman,” said she, “quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais partout, ausalon et à leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coifferet habiller les dames, et c’était si amusant: comme cela on apprend.”

“Don’t you feel hungry, Adèle?”

“Mais oui, mademoiselle: voilà cinq ou six heures que nous n’avons pas mangé.”

“Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down and get yousomething to eat.”

And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a back-stairs whichconducted 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 overher crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening spontaneous combustion.In the servants’ hall two coachmen and three gentlemen’s gentlemen stood or satround the fire; the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses;the new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were bustling abouteverywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last reached the larder; there I tookpossession of a cold chicken, a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two and aknife and fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regained thegallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind me, when an accelerated humwarned me that the ladies were about to issue from their chambers. I could notproceed to the schoolroom without passing some of their doors, and running therisk of being surprised with my cargo of victualage; so I stood still at thisend, which, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set andtwilight gathering.

Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another: each cameout gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous through the dusk. For amoment they stood grouped together at the other extremity of the gallery,conversing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity: they then descended thestaircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill. Theircollective appearance had left on me an impression of high-born elegance, suchas I had never before received.

I found Adèle peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held ajar. “Whatbeautiful ladies!” cried she in English. “Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do youthink Mr. Rochester will send for us by-and-by, after dinner?”

“No, indeed, I don’t; Mr. Rochester has something else to think about. Nevermind the ladies to-night; perhaps you will see them to-morrow: here is yourdinner.”

She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to divert her attentionfor a time. It was well I secured this forage, or both she, I, and Sophie, towhom I conveyed a share of our repast, would have run a chance of getting nodinner at all: every one downstairs was too much engaged to think of us. Thedessert was not carried out till after nine; and at ten footmen were stillrunning to and fro with trays and coffee-cups. I allowed Adèle to sit up muchlater than usual; for she declared she could not possibly go to sleep while thedoors kept opening and shutting below, and people bustling about. Besides, sheadded, 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 Itook her out into the gallery. The hall lamp was now lit, and it amused her tolook over the balustrade and watch the servants passing backwards and forwards.When the evening was far advanced, a sound of music issued from thedrawing-room, whither the piano had been removed; Adèle and I sat down on thetop step of the stairs to listen. Presently a voice blent with the rich tonesof the instrument; it was a lady who sang, and very sweet her notes were. Thesolo over, a duet followed, and then a glee: a joyous conversational murmurfilled up the intervals. I listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear waswholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to discriminateamidst the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester; and when it caughtthem, which it soon did, it found a further task in framing the tones, renderedby distance inarticulate, into words.

The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adèle, whose head leant against myshoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up in my arms and carriedher off to bed. It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought theirchambers.

The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by the party to anexcursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They set out early in theforenoon, some on horseback, the rest in carriages; I witnessed both thedeparture 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 apartfrom the rest. I pointed out this circ*mstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who wasstanding at the window with me—

“You said it was not likely they should think of being married,” said I, “butyou 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 wereconversing confidentially; I wish I could see her face; I have never had aglimpse of it yet.”

“You will see her this evening,” answered Mrs. Fairfax. “I happened to remarkto Mr. Rochester how much Adèle wished to be introduced to the ladies, and hesaid: ‘Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after dinner; and request MissEyre 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 thinkyou would like appearing before so gay a party—all strangers; and he replied,in his quick way—‘Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is my particular wish;and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her in case of contumacy.’”

“I will not give him that trouble,” I answered. “I will go, if no better maybe; but I don’t like it. Shall you be there, Mrs. Fairfax?”

“No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I’ll tell you how to manage so asto avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance, which is the mostdisagreeable part of the business. You must go into the drawing-room while itis empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose your seat in anyquiet nook you like; you need not stay long after the gentlemen come in, unlessyou please: just let Mr. Rochester see you are there and then slip away—nobodywill notice you.”

“Will these people remain long, do you think?”

“Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the Easter recess, SirGeorge Lynn, who was lately elected member for Millcote, will have to go up totown and take his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him: itsurprises 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 torepair with my charge to the drawing-room. Adèle had been in a state of ecstasyall 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 shesobered down. Then the importance of the process quickly steadied her, and bythe time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, herpink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, shelooked 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 carepreviously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, andassured me she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly was: mybest dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss Temple’s wedding, and neverworn since) was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed; my sole ornament, thepearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended.

Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than that throughthe 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 inbright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorned.The crimson curtain hung before the arch: slight as was the separation thisdrapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low akey that nothing of their conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothingmurmur.

Adèle, who appeared to be still under the influence of a most solemnisingimpression, sat down, without a word, on the footstool I pointed out to her. Iretired to a window-seat, and taking a book from a table near, endeavoured toread. Adèle brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my knee.

“What is it, Adèle?”

“Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendre une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques,mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma toilette.”

“You think too much of your ‘toilette,’ Adèle: but you may have a flower.” AndI took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash. She sighed a sigh ofineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness were now full. I turned myface away to conceal a smile I could not suppress: there was somethingludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne’s earnest and innatedevotion to matters of dress.

A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept back from thearch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its lit lustre pouring downlight on the silver and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a longtable; a band of ladies stood in the opening; they entered, and the curtainfell behind them.

There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave theimpression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall; many weredressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed tomagnify their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose and curtseyed tothem: 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 oftheir movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some of them threw themselvesin half-reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans: some bent over thetables and examined the flowers and books: the rest gathered in a group roundthe fire: all talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. Iknew their names afterwards, and may as well mention them now.

First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had evidently been ahandsome woman, and was well preserved still. Of her daughters, the eldest,Amy, was rather little: naïve, and child-like in face and manner, and piquantin 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 thatorder the French term minois chiffoné: both sisters were fair as lilies.

Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty, very erect, veryhaughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful sheen: her darkhair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume, and within the circletof a band of gems.

Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more lady-like. She had aslight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her black satin dress, herscarf of rich foreign lace, and her pearl ornaments, pleased me better than therainbow radiance of the titled dame.

But the three most distinguished—partly, perhaps, because the tallest figuresof the band—were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters, Blanche and Mary.They were all three of the loftiest stature of women. The Dowager might bebetween forty and fifty: her shape was still fine; her hair (by candle-light atleast) still black; her teeth, too, were still apparently perfect. Most peoplewould 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 insupportablehaughtiness in her bearing and countenance. She had Roman features and a doublechin, disappearing into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to menot only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride; and the chin wassustained by the same principle, in a position of almost preternaturalerectness. She had, likewise, a fierce and a hard eye: it reminded me of Mrs.Reed’s; she mouthed her words in speaking; her voice was deep, its inflectionsvery pompous, very dogmatical,—very intolerable, in short. A crimson velvetrobe, and a shawl turban of some gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (Isuppose she thought) with a truly imperial dignity.

Blanche and Mary were of equal stature,—straight and tall as poplars. Mary wastoo 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 appearanceaccorded with Mrs. Fairfax’s description; secondly, whether it at all resembledthe fancy miniature I had painted of her; and thirdly—it will out!—whether itwere such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester’s taste.

As far as person went, she answered point for point, both to my picture andMrs. Fairfax’s description. The noble bust, the sloping shoulders, the gracefulneck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were all there;—but her face? Her facewas like her mother’s; a youthful unfurrowed likeness: the same low brow, thesame high features, the same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a pride!she laughed continually; her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitualexpression of her arched and haughty lip.

Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was agenius, but she was self-conscious—remarkably self-conscious indeed. Sheentered 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 withan air. I presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed)trailing Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance; her trailmight be clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played: herexecution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she talked French apartto 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 wasdeficient in life: her face lacked expression, her eye lustre; she had nothingto say, and having once taken her seat, remained fixed like a statue in itsniche. The sisters were both attired in spotless white.

And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be likelyto make? I could not tell—I did not know his taste in female beauty. If heliked the majestic, she was the very type of majesty: then she wasaccomplished, sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and thathe did admire her, I already seemed to have obtained proof: to removethe last shade of doubt, it remained but to see them together.

You are not to suppose, reader, that Adèle has all this time been sittingmotionless on the stool at my feet: no; when the ladies entered, she rose,advanced to meet them, made a stately reverence, and said with gravity—

“Bon jour, mesdames.”

And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking air, and exclaimed, “Oh,what a little puppet!”

Lady Lynn had remarked, “It is Mr. Rochester’s ward, I suppose—the littleFrench girl he was speaking of.”

Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a kiss. Amy and LouisaEshton had cried out simultaneously—

“What a love of a child!”

And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensconced betweenthem, chattering alternately in French and broken English; absorbing not onlythe young ladies’ attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and gettingspoilt to her heart’s content.

At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. I sit in theshade—if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment; thewindow-curtain half hides me. Again the arch yawns; they come. The collectiveappearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very imposing: theyare all costumed in black; most of them are tall, some young. Henry andFrederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed; and Colonel Dent is a finesoldierly man. Mr. Eshton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like:his hair is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which gives himsomething of the appearance of a “père noble de théâtre.” Lord Ingram, like hissisters, is very tall; like them, also, he is handsome; but he shares Mary’sapathetic and listless look: he seems to have more length of limb than vivacityof 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 toconcentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes of the purse Iam forming—I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see only thesilver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly beholdhis figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after Ihad rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding myhand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heartfull and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had Iapproached him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to changehis 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 notwonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of theroom, and began conversing with some of the ladies.

No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I mightgaze 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 wouldfix on him. I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking,—a precious yetpoignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure likewhat the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he hascrept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.

Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’scolourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deepeyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth,—all energy, decision, will,—were notbeautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me; theywere full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me,—that took myfeelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to lovehim; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs oflove there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, theyspontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking atme.

I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the Lynns, thelanguid 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 intheir appearance, their expression: yet I could imagine that most observerswould call them attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them smile,laugh—it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much soul in it as theirsmile; 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 andgentle, its ray both searching and sweet. He was talking, at the moment, toLouisa and Amy Eshton. I wondered to see them receive with calm that look whichseemed to me so penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall, their colour torise under it; yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved. “He isnot to them what he is to me,” I thought: “he is not of their kind. I believehe is of mine;—I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language ofhis countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I havesomething in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates mementally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with himbut to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him inany other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good,true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I mustconceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot caremuch for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I havehis force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I havecertain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeatcontinually 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 livelyas larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel Dent and Mr. Eshton argueon politics; their wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and LadyIngram, confabulate together. Sir George—whom, by-the-bye, I have forgotten todescribe,—a very big, and very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands beforetheir sofa, coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr. FrederickLynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is showing her the engravings ofa 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 ofthe little and lively Amy Eshton; she glances up at him, and chatters like awren: she likes him better than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has takenpossession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa: Adèle shares it with him: he istrying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whomwill Blanche Ingram pair? She is standing alone at the table, bendinggracefully over an album. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not waittoo long: she herself selects a mate.

Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth as solitary asshe stands by the table: she confronts him, taking her station on the oppositeside 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 justnow—is she gone? Oh, no! there she is still, behind the window-curtain. You payher, of course; I should think it quite as expensive,—more so; for you havethem both to keep in addition.”

I feared—or should I say, hoped?—the allusion to me would make Mr. Rochesterglance my way; and I involuntarily shrank farther into the shade: but he neverturned his eyes.

“I have not considered the subject,” said he indifferently, looking straightbefore him.

“No, you men never do consider economy and common sense. You should hear mamaon the chapter of governesses: Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen atleast in our day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and allincubi—were they not, mama?”

“Did you speak, my own?”

The young lady thus claimed as the dowager’s special property, reiterated herquestion with an explanation.

“My dearest, don’t mention governesses; the word makes me nervous. I havesuffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice. I thank Heaven I havenow 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 theanathematised race was present.

“Tant pis!” said her Ladyship, “I hope it may do her good!” Then, in a lowertone, but still loud enough for me to hear, “I noticed her; I am a judge ofphysiognomy, 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 threetimes with portentous significancy.

“But my curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food now.”

“Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I.”

“Oh, don’t refer him to me, mama! I have just one word to say of the wholetribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I ever suffered much from them; I tookcare to turn the tables. What tricks Theodore and I used to play on our MissWilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and Madame Jouberts! Mary was always too sleepy tojoin in a plot with spirit. The best fun was with Madame Joubert: Miss Wilsonwas a poor sickly thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the trouble ofvanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and insensible; no blow tookeffect on her. But poor Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions,when we had driven her to extremities—spilt our tea, crumbled our bread andbutter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, and played a charivari with theruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons. Theodore, do you remember thosemerry days?”

“Yaas, to be sure I do,” drawled Lord Ingram; “and the poor old stick used tocry out, ‘Oh you villains childs!’—and then we sermonised her on thepresumption of attempting to teach such clever blades as we were, when she washerself so ignorant.”

“We did; and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecuting (or persecuting) yourtutor, whey-faced Mr. Vining—the parson in the pip, as we used to call him. Heand Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling in love with each other—at leastTedo and I thought so; we surprised sundry tender glances and sighs which weinterpreted as tokens of ‘la belle passion,’ and I promise you the public soonhad the benefit of our discovery; we employed it as a sort of lever to hoistour dead-weights from the house. Dear mama, there, as soon as she got aninkling of the business, found out that it was of an immoral tendency. Did younot, my lady-mother?”

“Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on that: there are athousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and tutors should never betolerated a moment in any well-regulated house; firstly—”

“Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the enumeration! Au reste, we all knowthem: danger of bad example to innocence of childhood; distractions andconsequent neglect of duty on the part of the attached—mutual alliance andreliance; confidence thence resulting—insolence accompanying—mutiny and generalblow-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 sucha good creature, she would bear anything: nothing put her out. She was nevercross with us; was she, Louisa?”

“No, never: we might do what we pleased; ransack her desk and her workbox, andturn her drawers inside out; and she was so good-natured, she would give usanything we asked for.”

“I suppose, now,” said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically, “we shallhave an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses extant: in order toavert 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 invoice 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 andother 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 shemoved to the piano. “It is my opinion the fiddler David must have been aninsipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell better: to my mind a man isnothing without a spice of the devil in him; and history may say what it willof 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 brilliantprelude; talking meantime. She appeared to be on her high horse to-night; bothher words and her air seemed intended to excite not only the admiration, butthe amazement of her auditors: she was evidently bent on striking them assomething very dashing and daring indeed.

“Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!” exclaimed she, rattlingaway at the instrument. “Poor, puny things, not fit to stir a step beyondpapa’s park gates: nor to go even so far without mama’s permission andguardianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty faces, and theirwhite hands, and their small feet; as if a man had anything to do with beauty!As if loveliness were not the special prerogative of woman—her legitimateappanage and heritage! I grant an ugly woman is a blot on the fair faceof creation; but as to the gentlemen, let them be solicitous to possessonly strength and valour: let their motto be:—Hunt, shoot, and fight: the restis 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 amresolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me. I will suffer nocompetitor near the throne; I shall exact an undivided homage: his devotionsshall 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 thatreason, sing it con spirito.”

“Commands from Miss Ingram’s lips would put spirit into a mug of milk andwater.”

“Take care, then: if you don’t please me, I will shame you by showing how suchthings 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 proportionatepunishment.”

“Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her power to inflict achastisem*nt beyond mortal endurance.”

“Ha! explain!” commanded the lady.

“Pardon me, madam: no need of explanation; your own fine sense must inform youthat one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute for capitalpunishment.”

“Sing!” said she, and again touching the piano, she commenced an accompanimentin spirited style.

“Now is my time to slip away,” thought I: but the tones that then severed theair arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice: hedid—a mellow, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his ownforce; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and there waking sensationstrangely. I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired—till thetide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted mysheltered 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 mysandal was loose; I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on themat at the foot of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; agentleman 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 nottake that freedom. I answered—

“I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir.”

“What have you been doing during my absence?”

“Nothing particular; teaching Adèle as usual.”

“And getting a good deal paler than you were—as I saw at first sight. What isthe matter?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?”

“Not the least.”

“Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too early.”

“I am tired, sir.”

He looked at me for a minute.

“And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”

“Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.”

“But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words would bringtears to your eyes—indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming; and a beadhas slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was notin mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know whatall this means. Well, to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as myvisitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it ismy wish; don’t 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 fromthe first three months of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passedbeneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house, all gloomyassociations forgotten: there was life everywhere, movement all day long. Youcould not now traverse the gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the frontchambers, once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady’s-maid or adandy valet.

The kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the servants’ hall, the entrance hall, wereequally alive; and the saloons were only left void and still when the blue skyand halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather called their occupants outinto the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and continuous rain set infor some days, no damp seemed cast over enjoyment: indoor amusem*nts onlybecame more lively and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoorgaiety.

I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change ofentertainment was proposed: they spoke of “playing charades,” but in myignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called in, thedining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairsplaced in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr. Rochester and the othergentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were running up and downstairs ringing for their maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give informationrespecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of anykind; and certain wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked, and theircontents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, blackmodes, 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 theboudoir within the drawing-room.

Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him, and wasselecting certain of their number to be of his party. “Miss Ingram is mine, ofcourse,” said he: afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and Mrs. Dent. Helooked at me: I happened to be near him, as I had been fastening the clasp ofMrs. Dent’s bracelet, which had got loose.

“Will you play?” he asked. I shook my head. He did not insist, which I ratherfeared 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 washeaded by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of chairs. One of thegentlemen, Mr. Eshton, observing me, seemed to propose that I should be askedto 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 bulkyfigure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had likewise chosen, was seenenveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a large book; andat his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr. Rochester’s cloak, and holding abook in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adèle (who hadinsisted on being one of her guardian’s party), bounded forward, scatteringround her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Thenappeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil onher 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. Dentand Louisa Eshton, dressed also in white, took up their stations behind them. Aceremony followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise thepantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent and his partyconsulted 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 risingdisplayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last. The drawing-room, asI have before observed, was raised two steps above the dining-room, and on thetop of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within the room, appeared alarge marble basin, which I recognised as an ornament of the conservatory—whereit usually stood, surrounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish—and whenceit must have been transported with some trouble, on account of its size andweight.

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 skinand Paynim features suited the costume exactly: he looked the very model of anEastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring. Presently advanced intoview Miss Ingram. She, too, was attired in oriental fashion: a crimson scarftied sash-like round the waist: an embroidered handkerchief knotted about hertemples; her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them upraised in the act ofsupporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head. Both her cast of form andfeature, her complexion and her general air, suggested the idea of someIsraelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was doubtless thecharacter she intended to represent.

She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her pitcher; she againlifted it to her head. The personage on the well-brink now seemed to accosther; to make some request:—“She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, andgave him to drink.” From the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket,opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and earrings; she acted astonishmentand admiration; kneeling, he laid the treasure at her feet; incredulity anddelight were expressed by her looks and gestures; the stranger fastened thebracelets 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 notagree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated. Colonel Dent, theirspokesman, demanded “the tableau of the whole;” whereupon the curtain againdescended.

On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed; the restbeing 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 kitchenchair: these objects were visible by a very dim light proceeding from a hornlantern, the wax candles being all extinguished.

Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting on hisknees, and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr. Rochester; though thebegrimed face, the disordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm, as ifit had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle), the desperate and scowlingcountenance, the rough, bristling hair might well have disguised him. As hemoved, 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 theirordinary costume, they re-entered the dining-room. Mr. Rochester led in MissIngram; she was complimenting him on his acting.

“Do you know,” said she, “that, of the three characters, I liked you in thelast best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a gallantgentleman-highwayman you would have made!”

“Is all the soot washed from my face?” he asked, turning it towards her.

“Alas! yes: the more’s the pity! Nothing could be more becoming to yourcomplexion than that ruffian’s rouge.”

“You would like a hero of the road then?”

“An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian bandit;and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate.”

“Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married an hour since,in the presence of all these witnesses.” She giggled, and her colour rose.

“Now, Dent,” continued Mr. Rochester, “it is your turn.” And as the other partywithdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself ather leader’s right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on each side ofhim and her. I did not now watch the actors; I no longer waited with interestfor the curtain to rise; my attention was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes,erewhile fixed on the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircleof chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word theychose, how they acquitted themselves, I no longer remember; but I still see theconsultation which followed each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to MissIngram, and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards him, tillthe jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek; I heartheir mutual whisperings; I recall their interchanged glances; and somethingeven 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 notunlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me—becauseI might pass hours in his presence, and he would never once turn his eyes in mydirection—because I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady, whoscorned to touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever herdark and imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly asfrom an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him, because Ifelt sure he would soon marry this very lady—because I read daily in her aproud security in his intentions respecting her—because I witnessed hourly inhim a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing rather to be soughtthan to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness, captivating, and in its verypride, irresistible.

There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circ*mstances, though much tocreate despair. Much too, you will think, reader, to engender jealousy: if awoman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram’s.But I was not jealous: or very rarely;—the nature of the pain I suffered couldnot be explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she wastoo inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what Isay. She was very showy, but she was not genuine: she had a fine person, manybrilliant attainments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature:nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delightedby its freshness. She was not good; she was not original: she used to repeatsounding 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 ofsympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayedthis, by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had conceivedagainst little Adèle: pushing her away with some contumelious epithet if shehappened to approach her; sometimes ordering her from the room, and alwaystreating her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine watched thesemanifestations of character—watched them closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes; thefuture bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over his intended aceaseless surveillance; and it was from this sagacity—this guardedness ofhis—this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one’s defects—this obviousabsence of passion in his sentiments towards her, that my ever-torturing painarose.

I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons, becauseher rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given her his love, andthat her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure. Thiswas the point—this was where the nerve was touched and teased—this was wherethe fever was sustained and fed: she could not charm him.

If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and sincerely laidhis 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 noblewoman, endowed with force, fervour, kindness, sense, I should have had onevital struggle with two tigers—jealousy and despair: then, my heart torn outand devoured, I should have admired her—acknowledged her excellence, and beenquiet for the rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, thedeeper would have been my admiration—the more truly tranquil my quiescence. Butas matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram’s efforts at fascinating Mr.Rochester, to witness their repeated failure—herself unconscious that they didfail; vainly fancying that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedlypluming herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelledfurther and further what she wished to allure—to witness this, was to beat once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.

Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows thatcontinually glanced off from Mr. Rochester’s breast and fell harmless at hisfeet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proudheart—have called love into his stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face;or, better still, without weapons a silent conquest might have been won.

“Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so near tohim?” I asked myself. “Surely she cannot truly like him, or not like him withtrue affection! If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly, flash herglances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so elaborate, graces somultitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by merely sitting quietly at hisside, saying little and looking less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in hisface a far different expression from that which hardens it now while she is sovivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself: it was not elicited bymeretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres; and one had but to accept it—toanswer what he asked without pretension, to address him when needful withoutgrimace—and it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like afostering sunbeam. How will she manage to please him when they are married? Ido not think she will manage it; and yet it might be managed; and his wifemight, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman the sun shines on.”

I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester’s project ofmarrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first discoveredthat such was his intention: I had thought him a man unlikely to be influencedby motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife; but the longer I consideredthe position, education, &c., of the parties, the less I felt justified injudging and blaming either him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideasand principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood. All theirclass held these principles: I supposed, then, they had reasons for holdingthem such as I could not fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman likehim, I would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the veryobviousness of the advantages to the husband’s own happiness offered by thisplan convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption ofwhich I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world would act as Iwished 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. Ithad formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take thebad with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form an equitablejudgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness thathad startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: theirpresence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid.And as for the vague something—was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing ora desponding expression?—that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, inhis eye, and closed again before one could fathom the strange depth partiallydisclosed; that something which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I hadbeen wandering amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the groundquiver and seen it gape: that something, I, at intervals, beheld still; andwith throbbing heart, but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun,I longed only to dare—to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, becauseone day she might look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets andanalyse their nature.

Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride—saw only them,heard only their discourse, and considered only their movements ofimportance—the rest of the party were occupied with their own separateinterests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued to consort insolemn conferences, where they nodded their two turbans at each other, and heldup 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 magnifiedpuppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton; and the twosometimes bestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, ColonelDent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justicebusiness. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang to andwith one of the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallantspeeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended theirby-play to observe and listen to the principal actors: for, after all, Mr.Rochester and—because closely connected with him—Miss Ingram were the life andsoul of the party. If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptibledulness seemed to steal over the spirits of his guests; and his re-entrance wassure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity of conversation.

The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt one day thathe had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not likely to return tilllate. The afternoon was wet: a walk the party had proposed to take to see agipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond Hay, was consequently deferred.Some of the gentlemen were gone to the stables: the younger ones, together withthe younger ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. The dowagersIngram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet game at cards. Blanche Ingram, afterhaving repelled, by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent andMrs. Eshton to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over somesentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a novel fromthe library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and preparedto beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room andthe house were silent: only now and then the merriment of the billiard-playerswas heard from above.

It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already given warning of the hour todress for dinner, when little Adèle, who knelt by me in the drawing-roomwindow-seat, suddenly exclaimed—

“Voilà Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!”

I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the others, too,looked up from their several occupations; for at the same time a crunching ofwheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel. Apost-chaise was approaching.

“What can possess him to come home in that style?” said Miss Ingram. “He rodeMesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went out? and Pilot was withhim:—what has he done with the animals?”

As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments so near thewindow, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking of my spine: inher eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when she did, she curled herlip and moved to another casem*nt. The post-chaise stopped; the driver rang thedoor-bell, and a gentleman alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was notMr. Rochester; it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.

“How provoking!” exclaimed Miss Ingram: “you tiresome monkey!” (apostrophisingAdèle), “who perched you up in the window to give false intelligence?” and shecast on me an angry glance, as if I were in fault.

Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the new-comer entered. Hebowed 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 thinkI may presume so far on old and intimate acquaintance as to instal myself heretill he returns.”

His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck me as being somewhatunusual,—not precisely foreign, but still not altogether English: his age mightbe about Mr. Rochester’s,—between thirty and forty; his complexion wassingularly sallow: otherwise he was a fine-looking man, at first sightespecially. On closer examination, you detected something in his face thatdispleased, or rather that failed to please. His features were regular, but toorelaxed: his eye was large and well cut, but the life looking out of it was atame, vacant life—at least so I thought.

The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party. It was not till afterdinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at his ease. But I liked hisphysiognomy even less than before: it struck me as being at the same timeunsettled 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 ahandsome and not an unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: therewas no power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness inthat 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 girandoleson the mantelpiece beaming full over him—for he occupied an arm-chair drawnclose to the fire, and kept shrinking still nearer, as if he were cold, Icompared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with deference be it spoken) thecontrast 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 theirsmust have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old adage that “extremesmeet.”

Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times scraps oftheir conversation across the room. At first I could not make much sense ofwhat I heard; for the discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary Ingram, who satnearer to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that reached me at intervals.These last were discussing the stranger; they both called him “a beautifulman.” Louisa said he was “a love of a creature,” and she “adored him;” and Maryinstanced his “pretty little mouth, and nice nose,” as her ideal of thecharming.

“And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!” cried Louisa,—“so smooth—none ofthose frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and such a placid eye andsmile!”

And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned them to the other side ofthe 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 Ipresently gathered that the new-comer was called Mr. Mason; then I learned thathe 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 sonear 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 waswith no little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he had there first seen andbecome acquainted with Mr. Rochester. He spoke of his friend’s dislike of theburning 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 thecontinent of Europe had bounded his wanderings; till now I had never heard ahint 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 toopen the door, asked for more coal to be put on the fire, which had burnt outit* flame, though its mass of cinder still shone hot and red. The footman whobrought the coal, in going out, stopped near Mr. Eshton’s chair, and saidsomething to him in a low voice, of which I heard only the words, “oldwoman,”—“quite troublesome.”

“Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take herself off,”replied the magistrate.

“No—stop!” interrupted Colonel Dent. “Don’t send her away, Eshton; we mightturn the thing to account; better consult the ladies.” And speaking aloud, hecontinued—“Ladies, you talked of going to Hay Common to visit the gipsy camp;Sam here says that one of the old Mother Bunches is in the servants’ hall atthis moment, and insists upon being brought in before ‘the quality,’ to tellthem their fortunes. Would you like to see her?”

“Surely, colonel,” cried Lady Ingram, “you would not encourage such a lowimpostor? Dismiss her, by all means, at once!”

“But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,” said the footman; “nor can anyof 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 stirher from it till she gets leave to come in here.”

“What does she want?” asked Mrs. Eshton.

“‘To tell the gentry their fortunes,’ she says, ma’am; and she swears she mustand will do it.”

“What is she like?” inquired the Misses Eshton, in a breath.

“A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as a crock.”

“Why, she’s a real sorceress!” cried Frederick Lynn. “Let us have her in, ofcourse.”

“To be sure,” rejoined his brother; “it would be a thousand pities to throwaway 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 theDowager Ingram.

“Indeed, mama, but you can—and will,” pronounced the haughty voice of Blanche,as she turned round on the piano-stool; where till now she had sat silent,apparently examining sundry sheets of music. “I have a curiosity to hear myfortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame forward.”

“My darling Blanche! recollect—”

“I do—I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will—quick, Sam!”

“Yes—yes—yes!” cried all the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen. “Let hercome—it will be excellent sport!”

The footman still lingered. “She looks such a rough one,” said he.

“Go!” ejacul*ted Miss Ingram, and the man went.

Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of raillery andjests was proceeding when Sam returned.

“She won’t come now,” said he. “She says it’s not her mission to appear beforethe ‘vulgar herd’ (them’s her words). I must show her into a room by herself,and then those who wish to consult her must go to her one by one.”

“You see now, my queenly Blanche,” began Lady Ingram, “she encroaches. Beadvised, my angel girl—and—”

“Show her into the library, of course,” cut in the “angel girl.” “It is not mymission to listen to her before the vulgar herd either: I mean to have her allto myself. Is there a fire in the library?”

“Yes, ma’am—but she looks such a tinkler.”

“Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.”

Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expectation rose to full flow oncemore.

“She’s ready now,” said the footman, as he reappeared. “She wishes to know whowill be her first visitor.”

“I think I had better just look in upon her before any of the ladies go,” saidColonel Dent.

“Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming.”

Sam went and returned.

“She says, sir, that she’ll have no gentlemen; they need not trouble themselvesto come near her; nor,” he added, with difficulty suppressing a titter, “anyladies 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 havebefitted the leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a breach in the van of his men.

“Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause—reflect!” was her mama’s cry; but she sweptpast her in stately silence, passed through the door which Colonel Dent heldopen, and we heard her enter the library.

A comparative silence ensued. Lady Ingram thought it “le cas” to wring herhands: which she did accordingly. Miss Mary declared she felt, for her part,she never dared venture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under their breath, andlooked a little frightened.

The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the library-dooragain 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 ofeager curiosity, and she met all eyes with one of rebuff and coldness; shelooked neither flurried nor merry: she walked stiffly to her seat, and took itin 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?” demandedthe Misses Eshton.

“Now, now, good people,” returned Miss Ingram, “don’t press upon me. Reallyyour organs of wonder and credulity are easily excited: you seem, by theimportance of you all—my good mama included—ascribe to this matter, absolutelyto believe we have a genuine witch in the house, who is in close alliance withthe old gentleman. I have seen a gipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyedfashion the science of palmistry and told me what such people usually tell. Mywhim is gratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag inthe stocks to-morrow morning, as he threatened.”

Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and so declined furtherconversation. I watched her for nearly half-an-hour: during all that time shenever turned a page, and her face grew momently darker, more dissatisfied, andmore sourly expressive of disappointment. She had obviously not heard anythingto her advantage: and it seemed to me, from her prolonged fit of gloom andtaciturnity, 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 ofthe ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and fro, till, I think, the saidSam’s calves must have ached with the exercise, permission was at last, withgreat difficulty, extorted from the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait uponher in a body.

Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram’s had been: we heard hystericalgiggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library; and at the end ofabout twenty minutes they burst the door open, and came running across thehall, 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 ussuch things! She knows all about us!” and they sank breathless into the variousseats the gentlemen hastened to bring them.

Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of things theyhad said and done when they were mere children; described books and ornamentsthey had in their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that different relations hadpresented to them. They affirmed that she had even divined their thoughts, andhad whispered in the ear of each the name of the person she liked best in theworld, and informed them of what they most wished for.

Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further enlightenedon these two last-named points; but they got only blushes, ejacul*tions,tremors, and titters, in return for their importunity. The matrons, meantime,offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and again reiterated theexpression of their concern that their warning had not been taken in time; andthe elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged their services on theagitated fair ones.

In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged inthe 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 singlelady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she will not gotill 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 unexpectedopportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped out of the room,unobserved by any eye—for the company were gathered in one mass about thetrembling trio just returned—and I closed the door quietly behind me.

“If you like, miss,” said Sam, “I’ll wait in the hall for you; and if shefrightens you, just call and I’ll come in.”

“No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid.” Nor was I; butI was a good deal interested and excited.

CHAPTER XIX

The library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sibyl—if Sibyl shewere—was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the chimney-corner. She hadon a red cloak and a black bonnet: or rather, a broad-brimmed gipsy hat, tieddown with a striped handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stoodon the table; she was bending over the fire, and seemed reading in a littleblack book, like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she muttered thewords to herself, as most old women do, while she read; she did not desistimmediately 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 ata distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did inmy life: there was nothing indeed in the gipsy’s appearance to trouble one’scalm. She shut her book and slowly looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded herface, yet I could see, as she raised it, that it was a strange one. It lookedall brown and black: elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white band whichpassed under her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or rather jaws: her eyeconfronted me at once, with a bold and direct gaze.

“Well, and you want your fortune told?” she said, in a voice as decided as herglance, as harsh as her features.

“I don’t care about it, mother; you may please yourself: but I ought to warnyou, I have no faith.”

“It’s like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you; I heard it in yourstep as you crossed the threshold.”

“Did you? You’ve a quick ear.”

“I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain.”

“You need them all in your trade.”

“I do; especially when I’ve customers like you to deal with. Why don’t youtremble?”

“I’m not cold.”

“Why don’t you turn pale?”

“I am not sick.”

“Why don’t you consult my art?”

“I’m not silly.”

The old crone “nichered” a laugh under her bonnet and bandage; she then drewout a short black pipe, and lighting it began to smoke. Having indulged a whilein this sedative, she raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, andwhile gazing steadily at the fire, said very deliberately—

“You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly.”

“Prove it,” I rejoined.

“I will, in few words. You are cold, because you are alone: no contact strikesthe 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 aresilly, because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to approach, nor willyou stir one step to meet it where it waits you.”

She again put her short black pipe to her lips, and renewed her smoking withvigour.

“You might say all that to almost any one who you knew lived as a solitarydependent in a great house.”

“I might say it to almost any one: but would it be true of almost any one?”

“In my circ*mstances.”

“Yes; just so, in your circ*mstances: but find me another preciselyplaced as you are.”

“It would be easy to find you thousands.”

“You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are peculiarly situated:very near happiness; yes, within reach of it. The materials are all prepared;there only wants a movement to combine them. Chance laid them somewhat apart;let them be once approached and bliss results.”

“I don’t understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my life.”

“If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm.”

“And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?”

“To be sure.”

I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which she took outof her pocket, and having tied it round and returned it, she told me to holdout my hand. I did. She approached her face to the palm, and pored over itwithout touching it.

“It is too fine,” said she. “I can make nothing of such a hand as that; almostwithout 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, inthe 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 toput some faith in you presently.”

I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so that a ripple oflight broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however, as she sat, only threwher face into deeper shadow: mine, it illumined.

“I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night,” she said, when she hadexamined me a while. “I wonder what thoughts are busy in your heart during allthe hours you sit in yonder room with the fine people flitting before you likeshapes in a magic-lantern: just as little sympathetic communion passing betweenyou and them as if they were really mere shadows of human forms, and not theactual 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 ofthe future?”

“Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my earnings to set upa 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 anacquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole—”

I started to my feet when I heard the name.

“You have—have you?” thought I; “there is diablerie in the business after all,then!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” continued the strange being; “she’s a safe hand is Mrs.Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose confidence in her. But, as I wassaying: sitting in that window-seat, do you think of nothing but your futureschool? Have you no present interest in any of the company who occupy the sofasand chairs before you? Is there not one face you study? one figure whosemovements you follow with at least curiosity?”

“I like to observe all the faces and all the figures.”

“But do you never single one from the rest—or it may be, two?”

“I do frequently; when the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling a tale: itamuses me to watch them.”

“What tale do you like best to hear?”

“Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same theme—courtship;and promise to end in the same catastrophe—marriage.”

“And do you like that monotonous theme?”

“Positively, I don’t care about it: it is nothing to me.”

“Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and health, charming withbeauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune, sits and smiles in theeyes of a gentleman you—”

“I what?”

“You know—and perhaps think well of.”

“I don’t know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a syllable withone of them; and as to thinking well of them, I consider some respectable, andstately, and middle-aged, and others young, dashing, handsome, and lively: butcertainly they are all at liberty to be the recipients of whose smiles theyplease, without my feeling disposed to consider the transaction of any momentto me.”

“You don’t know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged a syllable with oneof 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 circ*mstance exclude himfrom the list of your acquaintance—blot him, as it were, out of existence?”

“No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme you hadintroduced.”

“I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of late so manysmiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester’s eyes that they overflow like twocups 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 thetales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been favoured with the mostlively and the most continuous?”

“The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator.” I said thisrather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk, voice, manner, had bythis time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One unexpected sentence came from herlips after another, till I got involved in a web of mystification; and wonderedwhat unseen spirit had been sitting for weeks by my heart watching its workingsand taking record of every pulse.

“Eagerness of a listener!” repeated she: “yes; Mr. Rochester has sat by thehour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such delight in theirtask of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive and lookedso 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 notgratitude?”

I said nothing.

“You have seen love: have you not?—and, looking forward, you have seen himmarried, and beheld his bride happy?”

“Humph! Not exactly. Your witch’s skill is rather at fault sometimes.”

“What the devil have you seen, then?”

“Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known that Mr.Rochester is to be married?”

“Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.”

“Shortly?”

“Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt (though, with anaudacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to question it), they willbe 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 leasthis purse. I know she considers the Rochester estate eligible to the lastdegree; though (God pardon me!) I told her something on that point about anhour ago which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her mouth fell halfan inch. I would advise her blackaviced suitor to look out: if another comes,with a longer or clearer rent-roll,—he’s dished—”

“But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester’s fortune: I came to hear myown; and you have told me nothing of it.”

“Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face, one traitcontradicted 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 oneside 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 againon the rug.”

“Don’t keep me long; the fire scorches me.”

I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in herchair. She began muttering,—

“The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks soft and fullof feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is susceptible; impression followsimpression through its clear sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; anunconscious lassitude weighs on the lid: that signifies melancholy resultingfrom loneliness. It turns from me; it will not suffer further scrutiny; itseems to deny, by a mocking glance, the truth of the discoveries I have alreadymade,—to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin: its pride andreserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable.

“As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed to impartall that the brain conceives; though I daresay it would be silent on much theheart experiences. Mobile and flexible, it was never intended to be compressedin the eternal silence of solitude: it is a mouth which should speak much andsmile often, and have human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too ispropitious.

“I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow professesto say,—‘I can live alone, if self-respect, and circ*mstances require me so todo. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born withme, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld, oroffered 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 burstaway and hurry her to wild chasms. The passions may rage furiously, like trueheathens, 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 castingvote 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 thedictates of conscience.’

“Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have formed myplans—right plans I deem them—and in them I have attended to the claims ofconscience, the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloomperish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavourof remorse were detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution—suchis not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight—to earn gratitude, not towring tears of blood—no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles, inendearments, in sweet—That will do. I think I rave in a kind of exquisitedelirium. I should wish now to protract this moment ad infinitum; but Idare not. So far I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardlyswore I would act; but further might try me beyond my strength. Rise, MissEyre: leave me; ‘the play is played out.’”

Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still? Theold woman’s voice had changed: her accent, her gesture, and all were familiarto me as my own face in a glass—as the speech of my own tongue. I got up, butdid not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again: but she drew herbonnet 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 fordiscoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was no more the withered limb ofeld than my own; it was a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers,symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stoopingforward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before. AgainI looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me—on the contrary, thebonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced.

“Well, Jane, do you know me?” asked the familiar voice.

“Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then—”

“But the string is in a knot—help me.”

“Break it, sir.”

“There, then—‘Off, ye lendings!’” And Mr. Rochester stepped out of hisdisguise.

“Now, sir, what a strange idea!”

“But well carried out, eh? Don’t you think so?”

“With the ladies you must have managed well.”

“But not with you?”

“You did not act the character of a gipsy with me.”

“What character did I act? My own?”

“No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been trying to drawme out—or in; you have been talking nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It isscarcely fair, sir.”

“Do you forgive me, Jane?”

“I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection, I find Ihave fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you; but it was notright.”

“Oh, you have been very correct—very careful, very sensible.”

I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort; but, indeed, Ihad been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. Something ofmasquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not expressthemselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself; besides I had notedher feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had beenrunning on Grace Poole—that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as Iconsidered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.

“Well,” said he, “what are you musing about? What does that grave smilesignify?”

“Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire now, Isuppose?”

“No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room yonder aredoing.”

“Discussing the gipsy, I daresay.”

“Sit down!—Let me hear what they said about me.”

“I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o’clock. Oh, are youaware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left thismorning?”

“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 ofinstalling 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 achair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip; the smile on his lipsfroze: apparently a spasm caught his breath.

“Mason!—the West Indies!” he said, in the tone one might fancy a speakingautomaton to enounce its single words; “Mason!—the West Indies!” he reiterated;and he went over the syllables three times, growing, in the intervals ofspeaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly seemed to know what he was doing.

“Do you feel ill, sir?” I inquired.

“Jane, I’ve got a blow; I’ve got a blow, Jane!” He staggered.

“Oh, lean on me, sir.”

“Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now.”

“Yes, sir, yes; and my arm.”

He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both his own, hechafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most troubled and drearylook.

“My little friend!” said he, “I wish I were in a quiet island with only you;and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me.”

“Can I help you, sir?—I’d give my life to serve you.”

“Jane, if aid is wanted, I’ll seek it at your hands; I promise you that.”

“Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do,—I’ll try, at least, to do it.”

“Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they will be atsupper 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. Rochesterhad said; they were not seated at table,—the supper was arranged on thesideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they stood about here and there ingroups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one seemed in high glee;laughter and conversation were general and animated. Mr. Mason stood near thefire, talking to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. Ifilled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did so: shethought I was taking a liberty, I daresay), and I returned to the library.

Mr. Rochester’s extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked once more firmand stern. He took the glass from my hand.

“Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!” he said. He swallowed the contentsand returned it to me. “What are they doing, Jane?”

“Laughing and talking, sir.”

“They don’t look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard something strange?”

“Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety.”

“And Mason?”

“He was laughing too.”

“If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you do, Jane?”

“Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could.”

He half smiled. “But if I were to go to them, and they only looked at mecoldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then dropped off andleft 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 carenothing 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 earthat Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show him in here and thenleave 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: Iushered 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 repairto their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester’s voice, and heard him say,“This way, Mason; this is your room.”

He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease. I was soon asleep.

CHAPTER XX

I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to let downmy window-blind. The consequence was, that when the moon, which was full andbright (for the night was fine), came in her course to that space in the skyopposite my casem*nt, and looked in at me through the unveiled panes, herglorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the dead of night, I opened my eyes on herdisk—silver-white and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn: I halfrose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain.

Good God! What a cry!

The night—its silence—its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp, ashrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.

My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralysed. The crydied, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriekcould not soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on the Andes could,twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie.The thing delivering such utterance must rest ere it could repeat the effort.

It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead. And overhead—yes, inthe room just above my chamber-ceiling—I now heard a struggle: a deadly one itseemed 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 wenton wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster:—

“Rochester! Rochester! for God’s sake, come!”

A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Another stepstamped 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 myapartment. The sleepers were all aroused: ejacul*tions, terrified murmurssounded in every room; door after door unclosed; one looked out and anotherlooked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted theirbeds; and “Oh! what is it?”—“Who is hurt?”—“What has happened?”—“Fetch alight!”—“Is it fire?”—“Are there robbers?”—“Where shall we run?” was demandedconfusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would have been in completedarkness. They ran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed, somestumbled: the confusion was inextricable.

“Where the devil is Rochester?” cried Colonel Dent. “I cannot find him in hisbed.”

“Here! here!” was shouted in return. “Be composed, all of you: I’m coming.”

And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced witha candle: he had just descended from the upper storey. One of the ladies ran tohim directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram.

“What awful event has taken place?” said she. “Speak! let us know the worst atonce!”

“But don’t pull me down or strangle me,” he replied: for the Misses Eshton wereclinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast white wrappers, werebearing down on him like ships in full sail.

“All’s right!—all’s right!” he cried. “It’s a mere rehearsal of Much Ado aboutNothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous.”

And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks. Calming himself by aneffort, he added—

“A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She’s an excitable, nervousperson: 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 backinto 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 amsure 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 thedowagers), “you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in this chillgallery any longer.”

And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived to get themall once more enclosed in their separate dormitories. I did not wait to beordered 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 myselfcarefully. The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the words that had beenuttered, had probably been heard only by me; for they had proceeded from theroom above mine: but they assured me that it was not a servant’s dream whichhad thus struck horror through the house; and that the explanation Mr.Rochester had given was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. Idressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed, I sat a long time bythe window looking out over the silent grounds and silvered fields and waitingfor I knew not what. It seemed to me that some event must follow the strangecry, struggle, and call.

No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually, and in aboutan hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a desert. It seemed that sleepand night had resumed their empire. Meantime the moon declined: she was aboutto set. Not liking to sit in the cold and darkness, I thought I would lie downon my bed, dressed as I was. I left the window, and moved with little noiseacross the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tappedlow at the door.

“Am I wanted?” I asked.

“Are you up?” asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master’s.

“Yes, sir.”

“And dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Come out, then, quietly.”

I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

“I want you,” he said: “come this way: take your time, and make no noise.”

My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. Heglided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the dark, low corridorof the fateful third storey: I had followed and stood at his side.

“Have you a sponge in your room?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you any salts—volatile salts?”

“Yes.”

“Go back and fetch both.”

I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer, andonce more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand:approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused,and addressed me again.

“You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?”

“I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet.”

I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness.

“Just give me your hand,” he said: “it will not do to risk a fainting fit.”

I put my fingers into his. “Warm and steady,” was his remark: he turned the keyand opened the door.

I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed meover the house: it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped upin one part, and there was a door apparent, which had then been concealed. Thisdoor 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 hiscandle, said to me, “Wait a minute,” and he went forward to the innerapartment. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, andterminating in Grace Poole’s own goblin ha! ha! She then was there. Hemade some sort of arrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voiceaddress 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 theexception 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 seeminglylifeless face—the stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side, andone arm, was almost soaked in blood.

“Hold the candle,” said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a basin ofwater 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 mysmelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed hiseyes; he groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose armand shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away blood, trickling fast down.

“Is there immediate danger?” murmured Mr. Mason.

“Pooh! No—a mere scratch. Don’t be so overcome, man: bear up! I’ll fetch asurgeon for you now, myself: you’ll be able to be removed by morning, I hope.Jane,” he continued.

“Sir?”

“I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, orperhaps two hours: you will sponge the blood as I do when it returns: if hefeels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, andyour salts to his nose. You will not speak to him on any pretext—and—Richard,it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her: open yourlips—agitate yourself—and I’ll not answer for the consequences.”

Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear, either ofdeath or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester putthe 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 theroom. I experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and thesound 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; amurderess hardly separated from me by a single door: yes—that was appalling—therest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole bursting outupon me.

I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly countenance—theseblue, still lips forbidden to unclose—these eyes now shut, now opening, nowwandering through the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulnessof 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 candlewane on my employment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestryround me, and grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiverstrangely over the doors of a great cabinet opposite—whose front, divided intotwelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles, eachenclosed in its separate panel as in a frame; while above them at the top rosean ebon crucifix and a dying Christ.

According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here orglanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his brow; nowSt. John’s long hair that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grewout of the panel, and seemed gathering life and threatening a revelation of thearch-traitor—of Satan himself—in his subordinate’s form.

Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen for the movementsof the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But since Mr. Rochester’svisit it seemed spellbound: all the night I heard but three sounds at threelong intervals,—a step creak, a momentary renewal of the snarling, caninenoise, and a deep human groan.

Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this, that lived incarnate inthis sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by theowner?—what mystery, that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at thedeadest hours of night? What creature was it, that, masked in an ordinarywoman’s face and shape, uttered the voice, now of a mocking demon, and anon ofa carrion-seeking bird of prey?

And this man I bent over—this commonplace, quiet stranger—how had he becomeinvolved in the web of horror? and why had the Fury flown at him? What made himseek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he should have beenasleep in bed? I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below—whatbrought him here! And why, now, was he so tame under the violence or treacherydone him? Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochesterenforced? Why did Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest hadbeen outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plottedagainst; and both attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion!Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuouswill of the latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former: the fewwords which had passed between them assured me of this. It was evident that intheir former intercourse, the passive disposition of the one had beenhabitually influenced by the active energy of the other: whence then had arisenMr. Rochester’s dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason’s arrival? Why had the merename of this unresisting individual—whom his word now sufficed to control likea child—fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on anoak?

Oh! I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered: “Jane, Ihave got a blow—I have got a blow, Jane.” I could not forget how the arm hadtrembled which he rested on my shoulder: and it was no light matter which couldthus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of FairfaxRochester.

“When will he come? When will he come?” I cried inwardly, as the night lingeredand lingered—as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened: and neither daynor aid arrived. I had, again and again, held the water to Mason’s white lips;again and again offered him the stimulating salts: my efforts seemedineffectual: either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of blood, or all threecombined, 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 ofgrey light edging the window curtains: dawn was then approaching. Presently Iheard Pilot bark far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hoperevived. Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more the grating key, theyielding lock, warned me my watch was relieved. It could not have lasted morethan 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 buthalf-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting thepatient 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 keptup. Come, set to work.”

Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the holland blind, let inall the daylight he could; and I was surprised and cheered to see how far dawnwas advanced: what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then heapproached Mason, whom the surgeon was already handling.

“Now, my good fellow, how are you?” he asked.

“She’s done for me, I fear,” was the faint reply.

“Not a whit!—courage! This day fortnight you’ll hardly be a pin the worse ofit: you’ve lost a little blood; that’s all. Carter, assure him there’s nodanger.”

“I can do that conscientiously,” said Carter, who had now undone the bandages;“only I wish I could have got here sooner: he would not have bled so much—buthow is this? The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound wasnot done with a knife: there have been teeth here!”

“She bit me,” he murmured. “She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester gotthe knife from her.”

“You should not have yielded: you should have grappled with her at once,” saidMr. Rochester.

“But under such circ*mstances, what could one do?” returned Mason. “Oh, it wasfrightful!” he added, shuddering. “And I did not expect it: she looked so quietat first.”

“I warned you,” was his friend’s answer; “I said—be on your guard when you gonear 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 myadvice; so I’ll say no more. Carter—hurry!—hurry! The sun will soon rise, and Imust have him off.”

“Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other woundin the arm: she has had her teeth here too, I think.”

“She sucked the blood: she said she’d drain my heart,” said Mason.

I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror,hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only said—

“Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don’t repeat it.”

“I wish I could forget it,” was the answer.

“You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town,you may think of her as dead and buried—or rather, you need not think of her atall.”

“Impossible to forget this night!”

“It is not impossible: have some energy, man. You thought you were as dead as aherring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. There!—Carterhas done with you or nearly so; I’ll make you decent in a trice. Jane” (heturned to me for the first time since his re-entrance), “take this key: go downinto my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room: open the topdrawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bringthem here; and be nimble.”

I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, andreturned with them.

“Now,” said he, “go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; butdon’t leave the room: you may be wanted again.”

I retired as directed.

“Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?” inquired Mr. Rochesterpresently.

“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 avoidexposure, and I should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him onwith his waist-coat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You can’t travel amile without that, I know, in this damned cold climate. In your room?—Jane, rundown to Mr. Mason’s room,—the one next mine,—and fetch a cloak you will seethere.”

Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and edged withfur.

“Now, I’ve another errand for you,” said my untiring master; “you must away tomy room again. What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane!—a clod-hoppingmessenger would never do at this juncture. You must open the middle drawer ofmy toilet-table and take out a little phial and a little glass you will findthere,—quick!”

I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.

“That’s well! Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a dosemyself, on my own responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, of an Italiancharlatan—a fellow you would have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be usedindiscriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as now, for instance. Jane, alittle water.”

He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the water-bottle on thewashstand.

“That will do;—now wet the lip of the phial.”

I did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid, and presented it toMason.

“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 dressednow: he still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochesterlet him sit three minutes after he had swallowed the liquid; he then took hisarm—

“Now I am sure you can get on your feet,” he said—“try.”

The patient rose.

“Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard; stepout—that’s it!”

“I do feel better,” remarked Mr. Mason.

“I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs; unboltthe side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see inthe yard—or just outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels overthe pavement—to be ready; we are coming: and, Jane, if any one is about, cometo the foot of the stairs and hem.”

It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of rising; butI 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 thegates stood wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses readyharnessed, and driver seated on the box, stationed outside. I approached him,and said the gentlemen were coming; he nodded: then I looked carefully roundand listened. The stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtainswere yet drawn over the servants’ chamber windows; little birds were justtwittering in the blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped likewhite garlands over the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriagehorses 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; Carterfollowed.

“Take care of him,” said Mr. Rochester to the latter, “and keep him at yourhouse till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a day or two to see how hegets on. Richard, how is it with you?”

“The fresh air revives me, Fairfax.”

“Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind—good-bye, Dick.”

“Fairfax—”

“Well what is it?”

“Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be: let her—”he stopped and burst into tears.

“I do my best; and have done it, and will do it,” was the answer: he shut upthe chaise door, and the vehicle drove away.

“Yet would to God there was an end of all this!” added Mr. Rochester, as heclosed and barred the heavy yard-gates.

This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in thewall bordering the orchard. I, supposing he had done with me, prepared toreturn to the house; again, however, I heard him call “Jane!” He had opened theportal and stood at it, waiting for me.

“Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,” he said; “that houseis a mere dungeon: don’t you feel it so?”

“It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir.”

“The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes,” he answered; “and you see itthrough a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and thesilk draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woodsmere refuse chips and scaly bark. Now here” (he pointed to the leafyenclosure we had entered) “all is real, sweet, and pure.”

He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees, and cherrytrees on one side, and a border on the other full of all sorts of old-fashionedflowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood,sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs. They were fresh now as a succession ofApril showers and gleams, followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them:the sun was just entering the dappled east, and his light illumined thewreathed 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 whichare sure to melt away as the day waxes warm—this placid and balmly atmosphere?”

“I do, very much.”

“You have passed a strange night, Jane.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it has made you look pale—were you afraid when I left you alone withMason?”

“I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room.”

“But I had fastened the door—I had the key in my pocket: I should have been acareless shepherd if I had left a lamb—my pet lamb—so near a wolf’s den,unguarded: you were safe.”

“Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?”

“Oh yes! don’t trouble your head about her—put the thing out of your thoughts.”

“Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she stays.”

“Never fear—I will take care of myself.”

“Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now, sir?”

“I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor even then. To live,for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust which may crack and spue fire anyday.”

“But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence, sir, is evidently potentwith him: he will never set you at defiance or wilfully injure you.”

“Oh, no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me—but,unintentionally, he might in a moment, by one careless word, deprive me, if notof life, yet for ever of happiness.”

“Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear, and show him how toavert the danger.”

He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw it fromhim.

“If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger be? Annihilated in amoment. 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: Icannot say ‘Beware of harming me, Richard;’ for it is imperative that I shouldkeep him ignorant that harm to me is possible. Now you look puzzled; and I willpuzzle 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, youreye and face, when you are helping me and pleasing me—working for me, and withme, in, as you characteristically say, ‘all that is right:’ for if I bidyou do what you thought wrong, there would be no light-footed running, noneat-handed alacrity, no lively glance and animated complexion. My friend wouldthen turn to me, quiet and pale, and would say, ‘No, sir; that is impossible: Icannot 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 youwhere I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you shouldtransfix me at once.”

“If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me, sir, you arevery safe.”

“God grant it may be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down.”

The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic seat.Mr. Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for me: but I stood before him.

“Sit,” he said; “the bench is long enough for two. You don’t hesitate to take aplace at my side, do you? Is that wrong, Jane?”

I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise.

“Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew—while all the flowers inthis 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 ofwork—I’ll put a case to you, which you must endeavour to suppose your own: butfirst, look at me, and tell me you are at ease, and not fearing that I err indetaining 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 girlwell reared and disciplined, but a wild boy indulged from childhood upwards;imagine yourself in a remote foreign land; conceive that you there commit acapital error, no matter of what nature or from what motives, but one whoseconsequences must follow you through life and taint all your existence. Mind, Idon’t say a crime; I am not speaking of shedding of blood or any otherguilty act, which might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my word iserror. The results of what you have done become in time to you utterlyinsupportable; you take measures to obtain relief: unusual measures, butneither unlawful nor culpable. Still you are miserable; for hope has quittedyou on the very confines of life: your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, whichyou feel will not leave it till the time of setting. Bitter and baseassociations have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here andthere, seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure—I mean in heartless,sensual pleasure—such as dulls intellect and blights feeling. Heart-weary andsoul-withered, you come home after years of voluntary banishment: you make anew acquaintance—how or where no matter: you find in this stranger much of thegood and bright qualities which you have sought for twenty years, and neverbefore encountered; and they are all fresh, healthy, without soil and withouttaint. Such society revives, regenerates: you feel better days come back—higherwishes, purer feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to spend whatremains to you of days in a way more worthy of an immortal being. To attainthis end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom—a mereconventional impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies nor yourjudgment approves?”

He paused for an answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for some good spirit tosuggest a judicious and satisfactory response! Vain aspiration! The west windwhispered in the ivy round me; but no gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as amedium of speech: the birds sang in the tree-tops; but their song, howeversweet, was inarticulate.

Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query:

“Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant, man justifiedin daring the world’s opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle,gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind andregeneration of life?”

“Sir,” I answered, “a wanderer’s repose or a sinner’s reformation should neverdepend 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 himlook higher than his equals for strength to amend and solace to heal.”

“But the instrument—the instrument! God, who does the work, ordains theinstrument. I have myself—I tell it you without parable—been a worldly,dissipated, restless man; and I believe I have found the instrument for my curein—”

He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I almostwondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch the suspendedrevelation; but they would have had to wait many minutes—so long was thesilence protracted. At last I looked up at the tardy speaker: he was lookingeagerly at me.

“Little friend,” said he, in quite a changed tone—while his face changed too,losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic—“you havenoticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don’t you think if I married hershe would regenerate me with a vengeance?”

He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and when he cameback he was humming a tune.

“Jane, Jane,” said he, stopping before me, “you are quite pale with yourvigils: don’t you curse me for disturbing your rest?”

“Curse you? No, sir.”

“Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fingers! They were warmerlast 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 tosleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company? To you I can talkof my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s a rare one, is she not, Jane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A strapper—a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair just suchas the ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me! there’s Dent and Lynn in thestables! Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket.”

As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in the yard, sayingcheerfully—

“Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise: Irose at four to see him off.”

CHAPTER XXI

Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; andthe three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found thekey. I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strangeones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, betweenfar-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstandingtheir alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his origin)whose workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, maybe but the sympathies of Nature with man.

When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leavensay to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and thatto dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one’s self or one’skin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circ*mstanceimmediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The next dayBessie 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 pastweek scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it adream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled onmy knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabblingits hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughingone the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatevermood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for sevensuccessive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.

I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one image,and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near.It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on thatmoonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the dayfollowing I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me inMrs. Fairfax’s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, havingthe appearance of a gentleman’s servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, andthe 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 myname 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 aride sometimes on Miss Georgiana’s bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are marriedto Bessie?”

“Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another littleone about two months since—we have three now—and both mother and child arethriving.”

“And are the family well at the house, Robert?”

“I am sorry I can’t give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly atpresent—in great trouble.”

“I hope no one is dead,” I said, glancing at his black dress. He too lookeddown 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 verywild: these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his deathwas shocking.”

“I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.”

“Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongstthe worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into jail: his motherhelped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his oldcompanions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongstfooled him beyond anything I ever heard. He came down to Gateshead about threeweeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her meanshave long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and thenext news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!—they say he killedhimself.”

I was silent: the tidings 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 werequite breaking her down. The information about Mr. John’s death and the mannerof it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She was three days withoutspeaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if shewanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It wasonly yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncingyour name; and at last she made out the words, ‘Bring Jane—fetch Jane Eyre: Iwant to speak to her.’ Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, ormeans anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, andadvised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but theirmother grew so restless, and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so many times, that at lastthey consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, Ishould 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 Isuppose 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, andrecommended him to the care of John’s wife, and the attentions of John himself,I went in search of Mr. Rochester.

He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, orthe grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;—yes: she believed he wasplaying billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened: the clickof 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. Itrequired 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 MissIngram’s side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyesseemed 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 meaway. I remember her appearance at the moment—it was very graceful and verystriking: she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf wastwisted in her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and irritatedpride did not lower the expression of her haughty lineaments.

“Does that person want you?” she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochesterturned to see who the “person” was. He made a curious grimace—one of hisstrange and equivocal demonstrations—threw down his cue and followed me fromthe room.

“Well, Jane?” he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, whichhe 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 tosee her that distance?”

“Her name is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.”

“Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate.”

“It is his widow, sir.”

“And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?”

“Mr. Reed was my uncle—my mother’s brother.”

“The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had norelations.”

“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 ofa Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals ontown; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who wasmuch 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, andis supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that itbrought on an apoplectic attack.”

“And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running ahundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reachher: besides, you say she cast you off.”

“Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circ*mstances were verydifferent: 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 anypretext to take up a permanent residence with her?”

“Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well.”

“And who goes with you? You don’t travel a hundred miles alone.”

“No, sir, she has sent her coachman.”

“A person to be trusted?”

“Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family.”

Mr. Rochester meditated. “When do you wish to go?”

“Early to-morrow morning, sir.”

“Well, you must have some money; you can’t travel without money, and I daresayyou have not much: I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in theworld, Jane?” he asked, smiling.

I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. “Five shillings, sir.” He took thepurse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if itsscantiness 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 himI had no change.

“I don’t want change; you know that. Take your wages.”

I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then, as ifrecollecting something, he said—

“Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away threemonths 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 Ihave 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 bemarried?”

“Yes; what then?”

“In that case, sir, Adèle ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceivethe necessity of it.”

“To get her out of my bride’s way, who might otherwise walk over her rather tooemphatically? There’s sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adèle, as yousay, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to—the devil?”

“I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere.”

“In course!” he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of featuresequally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.

“And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you toseek a place, I suppose?”

“No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me inasking favours of them—but I shall advertise.”

“You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!” he growled. “At your peril youadvertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds.Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I’ve a use for it.”

“And so have I, sir,” I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. “Icould not spare the money on any account.”

“Little nigg*rd!” said he, “refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me fivepounds, Jane.”

“Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.”

“Just let me look at the cash.”

“No, sir; you are not to be trusted.”

“Jane!”

“Sir?”

“Promise me one thing.”

“I’ll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform.”

“Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I’ll find youone in time.”

“I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I andAdèle shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.”

“Very well! very well! I’ll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?”

“Yes, sir; early.”

“Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?”

“No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.”

“Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me; I’m notquite 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 likesomething else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, forinstance; but no—that would not content me either. So you’ll do no more thansay Farewell, Jane?”

“It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as inmany.”

“Very likely; but it is blank and cool—‘Farewell.’”

“How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?” I askedmyself; “I want to commence my packing.” The dinner-bell rang, and suddenlyaway he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no more during the day, andwas off before he had risen in the morning.

I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o’clock in the afternoon of thefirst of May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It was very cleanand neat: the ornamental windows were hung with little white curtains; thefloor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and thefire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robertand 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 doctorsays she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finallyrecover.”

“Has she mentioned me lately?”

“She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come, but sheis sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house. Shegenerally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about sixor seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up withyou?”

Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and wentto welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and havingsome tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept herhospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just aspassively as I used to let her undress me when a child.

Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about—setting outthe tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting atea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tapor push, just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained herquick 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 daintyon 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 personthe mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was anice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, butquite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly, and I was content. Then Iwent on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at thehouse; and to these details Bessie listened with interest: they were preciselyof 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 alsoaccompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path Iwas now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left ahostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart—a sense of outlawry andalmost of reprobation—to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne sofar away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: myprospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as awanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself andmy own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of mywrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished.

“You shall go into the breakfast-room first,” said Bessie, as she preceded methrough the hall; “the young ladies will be there.”

In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article offurniture 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. Glancingat the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick’sBritish Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver’sTravels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects werenot changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.

Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as MissIngram—very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien. There was somethingascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of astraight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed awayfrom the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and acrucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblanceto her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.

The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered—theslim 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, andringleted yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion wasso different from her sister’s—so much more flowing and becoming—it looked asstylish as the other’s looked puritanical.

In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother—and only one; the thinand pallid elder daughter had her parent’s Cairngorm eye: the blooming andluxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin—perhaps a littlesoftened, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenanceotherwise so voluptuous and buxom.

Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by thename of “Miss Eyre.” Eliza’s greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice,without a smile; and then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, andseemed to forget me. Georgiana added to her “How d’ye do?” several commonplacesabout my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone:and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot—nowtraversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plaintrimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way of lettingyou know that they think you a “quiz” without actually saying the words. Acertain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone,express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing them by anypositive rudeness in word or deed.

A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power over meit once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find howeasy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi-sarcasticattentions of the other—Eliza did not mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. Thefact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few monthsfeelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they couldraise—pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excitedthan any it was in their power to inflict or bestow—that their airs gave me noconcern either for good or bad.

“How is Mrs. Reed?” I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fitto 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 seeher to-night.”

“If,” said I, “you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should bemuch obliged to you.”

Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. “I knowshe had a particular wish to see me,” I added, “and I would not defer attendingto 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 stepout to Bessie—who was, I dared say, in the kitchen—and ask her to ascertainwhether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or not to-night. I went, andhaving found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to takefurther measures. It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink fromarrogance: received as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolvedto quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me all atonce that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundredmiles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she was better—or dead: asto her daughters’ pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myselfindependent 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 trunkconveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on thelanding.

“Missis is awake,” said she; “I have told her you are here: come and let us seeif she will know you.”

I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so oftenbeen summoned for chastisem*nt or reprimand in former days. I hastened beforeBessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the table, for it wasnow getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as ofold; there the toilet-table, the armchair, and the footstool, at which I had ahundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by meuncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half-expecting to see theslim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leapout imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached thebed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows.

Well did I remember Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image.It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes thepromptings 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 hergreat sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries—tobe reconciled and clasp hands in amity.

The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever—there was thatpeculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious,despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! and how therecollection of childhood’s terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harshline 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 toforget and break that vow now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which layoutside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment haveexperienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soonsoftened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took herhand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the nightwas warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion ofme—her feeling towards me—was unchanged and unchangeable. I knew by her stonyeye—opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears—that she was resolved toconsider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her nogenerous pleasure: only a sense of mortification.

I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdueher—to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears hadrisen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source. I brought achair 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 tillI 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 overwith you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty inrecalling them. But there was something I wished to say—let me see—”

The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in heronce vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; myelbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at onceirritated.

“Sit up!” said she; “don’t annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you JaneEyre?”

“I am Jane Eyre.”

“I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such aburden to be left on my hands—and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily andhourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper,and her continual, unnatural watchings of one’s movements! I declare she talkedto me once like something mad, or like a fiend—no child ever spoke or looked asshe did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with herat Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She,however, did not die: but I said she did—I wish she had died!”

“A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?”

“I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband’s only sister,and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family’s disowning her when shemade her low marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like asimpleton. He would send for the baby; though I entreated him rather to put itout to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it the first time I set myeyes on it—a sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle allnight long—not screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering andmoaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it hadbeen his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age. He wouldtry to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could notbear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his lastillness, he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour beforehe died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have beencharged 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 meand like my brothers—he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormentingme with letters for money! I have no more money to give him: we are gettingpoor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or letit off. I can never submit to do that—yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds ofmy income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully,and always loses—poor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk anddegraded—his look is frightful—I feel ashamed for him when I see him.”

She was getting much excited. “I think I had better leave her now,” said I toBessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.

“Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night—in themorning she is calmer.”

I rose. “Stop!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, “there is another thing I wished to say.He threatens me—he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine: and Idream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, orwith a swollen and blackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavytroubles. What is to be done? How is the money to be had?”

Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: shesucceeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed, and sankinto a dozing state. I then left her.

More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her. Shecontinued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctor forbade everythingwhich could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could withGeorgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sithalf the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either tome or her sister. Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by thehour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss foroccupation or amusem*nt: I had brought my drawing materials with me, and theyserved me for both.

Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take aseat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in sketching fancyvignettes, representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself inthe ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea between tworocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds andwater-flags, and a naiad’s head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out ofthem; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow’s nest, under a wreath ofhawthorn-bloom.

One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I didnot care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and workedaway. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and asquare lower outline of visage: that contour gave me pleasure; my fingersproceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontaleyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, awell-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then aflexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decidedcleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, andsome jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now forthe eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most carefulworking. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long andsombre; the irids lustrous and large. “Good! but not quite the thing,” Ithought, as I surveyed the effect: “they want more force and spirit;” and Iwrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly—ahappy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend’s face under my gaze;and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me? Ilooked 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 meunnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneaththe other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithfulrepresentation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any one butmyself? 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. Ioffered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline.Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colourdrawing: this put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in thegrounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidentialconversation: she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant wintershe had spent in London two seasons ago—of the admiration she had thereexcited—the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titledconquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hintswere enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimentalscenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life wasthat day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed fromday to day: they always ran on the same theme—herself, her loves, and woes. Itwas strange she never once adverted either to her mother’s illness, or herbrother’s death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mindseemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations afterdissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother’ssick-room, and no more.

Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw abusier 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 callher up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but afterthat meal she divided her time into regular portions, and each hour had itsallotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, oninspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the greatattraction of that volume, and she said, “the Rubric.” Three hours she gave tostitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost largeenough 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 erectednear Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herselfin the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed towant no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: thisroutine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence ofany incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.

She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual,that John’s conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a sourceof profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said, settled her mind, andformed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and whenher mother died—and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that sheshould either recover or linger long—she would execute a long-cherishedproject: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently securedfrom disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolousworld. 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. Georgianashould take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers.”

Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time inlying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing overand 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 wayfor a month or two, till all was over.” I did not ask what she meant by “allbeing over,” but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her motherand the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice ofher sister’s indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, loungingobject had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-bookand unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus—

“Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowedto 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, youseek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person’s strength: if no onecan 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 andexcitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must becourted, you must be flattered—you must have music, dancing, and society—or youlanguish, you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will makeyou 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 strayunemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes—include all; do eachpiece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity. The day willclose almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are indebted to no onefor helping you to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no one’scompany, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as anindependent being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shalloffer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglectit—go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling—and suffer the results ofyour idiocy, however bad and insufferable they may be. I tell you this plainly;and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, Ishall steadily act on it. After my mother’s death, I wash my hands of you: fromthe day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I willbe as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think thatbecause we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fastenme down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this—if the whole humanrace, 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, heartlesscreature in existence: and I know your spiteful hatred towards me: Ihave had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord EdwinVere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to bereceived into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted thespy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever.” Georgiana took out herhandkerchief 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 twonatures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably savourlessfor the want of it. Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed; butjudgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for humandeglutition.

It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa overthe perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint’s-day service at thenew church—for in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist: no weatherever prevented the punctual discharge of what she considered her devotionalduties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often onweek-days as there were prayers.

I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who laythere almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention:the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenevershe could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and couldonly come occasionally to the hall. I found the sick-room unwatched, as I hadexpected: 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 renewedthe fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not nowgaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.

The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: “Onelies there,” I thought, “who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements.Whither will that spirit—now struggling to quit its material tenement—flit whenat length released?”

In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dyingwords—her faith—her doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls. I was stilllistening in thought to her well-remembered tones—still picturing her pale andspiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placiddeathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her divine Father’sbosom—when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: “Who is that?”

I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up to her.

“It is I, Aunt Reed.”

“Who—I?” was her answer. “Who are you?” looking at me with surprise and a sortof alarm, but still not wildly. “You are quite a stranger to me—where isBessie?”

“She is at the lodge, aunt.”

“Aunt,” she repeated. “Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; andyet I know you—that face, and the eyes and forehead, are quiet familiar to me:you are like—why, you are like Jane Eyre!”

I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring myidentity.

“Yet,” said she, “I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I wishedto see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in eightyears she must be so changed.” I now gently assured her that I was the personshe supposed and desired me to be: and seeing that I was understood, and thather senses were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband tofetch me from Thornfield.

“I am very ill, I know,” she said ere long. “I was trying to turn myself a fewminutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I should ease mymind before I die: what we think little of in health, burdens us at such anhour as the present is to me. Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the roombut you?”

I assured her we were alone.

“Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breakingthe promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child; theother—” she stopped. “After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,” shemurmured to herself: “and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to heris painful.”

She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; sheseemed to experience some inward sensation—the precursor, perhaps, of the lastpang.

“Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.—Go tomy 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, andto tell me how she is? It is my intention to write shortly and desire her tocome to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure acompetency; and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during mylife, 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 inlifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane—the furywith which you once turned on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorredme the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and voice with whichyou affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I hadtreated you with miserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations whenyou thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind: I felt fear as if ananimal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes andcursed me in a man’s voice.—Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!”

“Dear Mrs. Reed,” said I, as I offered her the draught she required, “think nomore of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me for my passionatelanguage: 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 drawnbreath, she went on thus—

“I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adoptedby your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was what I could notendure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but JaneEyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please:write and contradict my assertion—expose my falsehood as soon as you like. Youwere born, I think, to be my torment: my last hour is racked by therecollection of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted tocommit.”

“If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard mewith kindness and forgiveness——”

“You have a very bad disposition,” said she, “and one to this day I feel itimpossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiescentunder any treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and violence, I cannever comprehend.”

“My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but notvindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love youif 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 oppressedher by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water. As I laid her down—for Iraised her and supported her on my arm while she drank—I covered her ice-coldand clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank from my touch—the glazingeyes shunned my gaze.

“Love me, then, or hate me, as you will,” I said at last, “you have my full andfree forgiveness: ask now for God’s, and be at peace.”

Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to changeher habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me—dying, she must hateme 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 relapsinginto stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o’clock that night shedied. 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 timelaid out. Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out intoloud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed’s oncerobust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with itscold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorablesoul. A strange and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it withgloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, orsubduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for her woes—notmy loss—and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in sucha 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 wasshortened 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 haddropt a tear.

CHAPTER XXII

Mr. Rochester had given me but one week’s leave of absence: yet a month elapsedbefore I quitted Gateshead. I wished to leave immediately after the funeral,but Georgiana entreated me to stay till she could get off to London, whithershe was now at last invited by her uncle, Mr. Gibson, who had come down todirect his sister’s interment and settle the family affairs. Georgiana said shedreaded being left alone with Eliza; from her she got neither sympathy in herdejection, support in her fears, nor aid in her preparations; so I bore withher feeble-minded wailings and selfish lamentations as well as I could, and didmy best in sewing for her and packing her dresses. It is true, that while Iworked, she would idle; and I thought to myself, “If you and I were destined tolive always together, cousin, we would commence matters on a different footing.I should not settle tamely down into being the forbearing party; I shouldassign you your share of labour, and compel you to accomplish it, or else itshould be left undone: I should insist, also, on your keeping some of thosedrawling, half-insincere complaints hushed in your own breast. It is onlybecause our connection happens to be very transitory, and comes at a peculiarlymournful season, that I consent thus to render it so patient and compliant onmy part.”

At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza’s turn to request me to stayanother week. Her plans required all her time and attention, she said; she wasabout to depart for some unknown bourne; and all day long she stayed in her ownroom, her door bolted within, filling trunks, emptying drawers, burning papers,and holding no communication with any one. She wished me to look after thehouse, to see callers, and answer notes of condolence.

One morning she told me I was at liberty. “And,” she added, “I am obliged toyou for your valuable services and discreet conduct! There is some differencebetween living with such an one as you and with Georgiana: you perform your ownpart in life and burden no one. To-morrow,” she continued, “I set out for theContinent. I shall take up my abode in a religious house near Lisle—a nunneryyou would call it; there I shall be quiet and unmolested. I shall devote myselffor a time to the examination of the Roman Catholic dogmas, and to a carefulstudy of the workings of their system: if I find it to be, as I half suspect itis, the one best calculated to ensure the doing of all things decently and inorder, I shall embrace the tenets of Rome and probably take the veil.”

I neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor attempted to dissuade herfrom it. “The vocation will fit you to a hair,” I thought: “much good may it doyou!”

When we parted, she said: “Good-bye, cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well: youhave some sense.”

I then returned: “You are not without sense, cousin Eliza; but what you have, Isuppose, in another year will be walled up alive in a French convent. However,it is not my business, and so it suits you, I don’t much care.”

“You are in the right,” said she; and with these words we each went ourseparate way. As I shall not have occasion to refer either to her or her sisteragain, I may as well mention here, that Georgiana made an advantageous matchwith 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 hernovitiate, and which she endowed with her fortune.

How people feel when they are returning home from an absence, long or short, Idid not know: I had never experienced the sensation. I had known what it was tocome back to Gateshead when a child after a long walk, to be scolded forlooking cold or gloomy; and later, what it was to come back from church toLowood, to long for a plenteous meal and a good fire, and to be unable to geteither. Neither of these returnings was very pleasant or desirable: no magnetdrew me to a given point, increasing in its strength of attraction the nearer Icame. The return to Thornfield was yet to be tried.

My journey seemed tedious—very tedious: fifty miles one day, a night spent atan inn; fifty miles the next day. During the first twelve hours I thought ofMrs. Reed in her last moments; I saw her disfigured and discoloured face, andheard her strangely altered voice. I mused on the funeral day, the coffin, thehearse, the black train of tenants and servants—few was the number ofrelatives—the gaping vault, the silent church, the solemn service. Then Ithought of Eliza and Georgiana; I beheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, theother the inmate of a convent cell; and I dwelt on and analysed their separatepeculiarities of person and character. The evening arrival at the great town of—— scattered these thoughts; night gave them quite another turn: laid down onmy traveller’s bed, I left reminiscence for anticipation.

I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there? Not long; ofthat 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 threeweeks ago, but he was then expected to return in a fortnight. Mrs. Fairfaxsurmised that he was gone to make arrangements for his wedding, as he hadtalked of purchasing a new carriage: she said the idea of his marrying MissIngram still seemed strange to her; but from what everybody said, and from whatshe had herself seen, she could no longer doubt that the event would shortlytake place. “You would be strangely incredulous if you did doubt it,” was mymental comment. “I don’t doubt it.”

The question followed, “Where was I to go?” I dreamt of Miss Ingram all thenight: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the gates of Thornfieldagainst me and pointing me out another road; and Mr. Rochester looked on withhis arms folded—smiling sardonically, as it seemed, at both her and me.

I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax the exact day of my return; for I did notwish either car or carriage to meet me at Millcote. I proposed to walk thedistance quietly by myself; and very quietly, after leaving my box in theostler’s care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about six o’clock of a Juneevening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a road which lay chiefly throughfields, and was now little frequented.

It was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though fair and soft: thehaymakers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far fromcloudless, was such as promised well for the future: its blue—where blue wasvisible—was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high and thin. The west,too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it—it seemed as if there was a fire lit,an altar burning behind its screen of marbled vapour, and out of aperturesshone a golden redness.

I felt glad as the road shortened before me: so glad that I stopped once to askmyself what that joy meant: and to remind reason that it was not to my home Iwas going, or to a permanent resting-place, or to a place where fond friendslooked out for me and waited my arrival. “Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calmwelcome, to be sure,” said I; “and little Adèle will clap her hands and jump tosee you: but you know very well you are thinking of another than they, and thathe is not thinking of you.”

But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience? Theseaffirmed that it was pleasure enough to have the privilege of again looking onMr. Rochester, whether he looked on me or not; and they added—“Hasten! hasten!be with him while you may: but a few more days or weeks, at most, and you areparted from him for ever!” And then I strangled a new-born agony—a deformedthing which I could not persuade myself to own and rear—and ran on.

They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or rather, the labourers arejust quitting their work, and returning home with their rakes on theirshoulders, 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 ofroses! But I have no time to gather any; I want to be at the house. I passed atall briar, shooting leafy and flowery branches across the path; I see thenarrow stile with stone steps; and I see—Mr. Rochester sitting there, a bookand 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 ambeyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not think I should tremble inthis way when I saw him, or lose my voice or the power of motion in hispresence. I will go back as soon as I can stir: I need not make an absolutefool of myself. I know another way to the house. It does not signify if I knewtwenty ways; for he has seen me.

“Hillo!” he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil. “There you are! Comeon, if you please.”

I suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know not; being scarcelycognisant of my movements, and solicitous only to appear calm; and, above all,to control the working muscles of my face—which I feel rebel insolently againstmy will, and struggle to express what I had resolved to conceal. But I have aveil—it is down: I may make shift yet to behave with decent composure.

“And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote, and on foot? Yes—just oneof your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come clattering over street androad like a common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage of your home alongwith twilight, just as if you were a dream or a shade. What the deuce have youdone 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 otherworld—from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she meets mealone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I’d touch you, to see if you aresubstance or shadow, you elf!—but I’d as soon offer to take hold of a blueignis fatuus light in a marsh. Truant! truant!” he added, when he hadpaused an instant. “Absent from me a whole month, and forgetting me quite, I’llbe sworn!”

I knew there would be pleasure in meeting my master again, even though brokenby the fear that he was so soon to cease to be my master, and by the knowledgethat I was nothing to him: but there was ever in Mr. Rochester (so at least Ithought) such a wealth of the power of communicating happiness, that to tastebut of the crumbs he scattered to stray and stranger birds like me, was tofeast genially. His last words were balm: they seemed to imply that it importedsomething to him whether I forgot him or not. And he had spoken of Thornfieldas my home—would that it were my home!

He did not leave the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go by. I inquired soonif he had not been to London.

“Yes; I suppose you found that out by second-sight.”

“Mrs. Fairfax told me in a letter.”

“And did she inform you what I went to do?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Everybody knew your errand.”

“You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don’t think it will suitMrs. Rochester exactly; and whether she won’t look like Queen Boadicea, leaningback against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle betteradapted to match with her externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are—can’t yougive me a charm, or a philter, or something of that sort, to make me a handsomeman?”

“It would be past the power of magic, sir;” and, in thought, I added, “A lovingeye is all the charm needed: to such you are handsome enough; or rather yoursternness has a power beyond beauty.”

Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken thoughts with an acumen to meincomprehensible: in the present instance he took no notice of my abrupt vocalresponse; but he smiled at me with a certain smile he had of his own, and whichhe used but on rare occasions. He seemed to think it too good for commonpurposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling—he shed it over me now.

“Pass, Janet,” said he, making room for me to cross the stile: “go up home, andstay your weary little wandering feet at a friend’s threshold.”

All I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need for me to colloquisefurther. I got over the stile without a word, and meant to leave him calmly. Animpulse held me fast—a force turned me round. I said—or something in me saidfor me, and in spite of me—

“Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to getback again to you: and wherever you are is my home—my only home.”

I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken me had he tried.Little Adèle was half wild with delight when she saw me. Mrs. Fairfax receivedme with her usual plain friendliness. Leah smiled, and even Sophie bid me “bonsoir” with glee. This was very pleasant; there is no happiness like that ofbeing loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is anaddition to their comfort.

I that evening shut my eyes resolutely against the future: I stopped my earsagainst 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 alow seat near her, and Adèle, kneeling on the carpet, had nestled close up tome, and a sense of mutual affection seemed to surround us with a ring of goldenpeace, I uttered a silent prayer that we might not be parted far or soon; butwhen, as we thus sat, Mr. Rochester entered, unannounced, and looking at us,seemed to take pleasure in the spectacle of a group so amicable—when he said hesupposed the old lady was all right now that she had got her adopted daughterback again, and added that he saw Adèle was “prête à croquer sa petite mamanAnglaise”—I half ventured to hope that he would, even after his marriage, keepus together somewhere under the shelter of his protection, and not quite exiledfrom the sunshine of his presence.

A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to Thornfield Hall. Nothing wassaid of the master’s marriage, and I saw no preparation going on for such anevent. Almost every day I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had yet heard anythingdecided: her answer was always in the negative. Once she said she had actuallyput the question to Mr. Rochester as to when he was going to bring his bridehome; but he had answered her only by a joke and one of his queer looks, andshe could not tell what to make of him.

One thing specially surprised me, and that was, there were no journeyingsbackward and forward, no visits to Ingram Park: to be sure it was twenty milesoff, on the borders of another county; but what was that distance to an ardentlover? To so practised and indefatigable a horseman as Mr. Rochester, it wouldbe but a morning’s ride. I began to cherish hopes I had no right to conceive:that the match was broken off; that rumour had been mistaken; that one or bothparties had changed their minds. I used to look at my master’s face to see ifit were sad or fierce; but I could not remember the time when it had been souniformly clear of clouds or evil feelings. If, in the moments I and my pupilspent with him, I lacked spirits and sank into inevitable dejection, he becameeven gay. Never had he called me more frequently to his presence; never beenkinder to me when there—and, alas! never had I loved him so well.

CHAPTER XXIII

A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant as werethen seen in long succession, seldom favour even singly, our wave-girt land. Itwas as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock ofglorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion. Thehay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roadswhite and baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood,full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of thecleared meadows between.

On Midsummer-eve, Adèle, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay Lanehalf the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop asleep, and whenI left her, I sought the garden.

It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:—“Day its fervid fires hadwasted,” and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit. Where the sunhad gone down in simple state—pure of the pomp of clouds—spread a solemnpurple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, onone hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over halfheaven. The east had its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, arising and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneaththe horizon.

I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent—that of acigar—stole from some window; I saw the library casem*nt open a handbreadth; Iknew I might be watched thence; so I went apart into the orchard. No nook inthe grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomedwith flowers: a very high wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on theother, a beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunkfence; its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered withlaurels and terminating in a giant horse-chestnut, circled at the base by aseat, led down to the fence. Here one could wander unseen. While such honey-dewfell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could hauntsuch shade for ever; but in threading the flower and fruit parterres at theupper part of the enclosure, enticed there by the light the now rising mooncast on this more open quarter, my step is stayed—not by sound, not by sight,but once more by a warning fragrance.

Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been yieldingtheir evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither of shrub norflower; it is—I know it well—it is Mr. Rochester’s cigar. I look round and Ilisten. I see trees laden with ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling ina wood half a mile off; no moving form is visible, no coming step audible; butthat perfume increases: I must flee. I make for the wicket leading to theshrubbery, 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 stillhe will never see me.

But no—eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden asattractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree branches to lookat the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden; now taking a ripecherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhaletheir fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A great moth goeshumming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester’s foot: he sees it, andbends 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 notbetray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant from where Ihad to pass; the moth apparently engaged him. “I shall get by very well,” Imeditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon,not yet risen high, he said quietly, without turning—

“Jane, come and look at this fellow.”

I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind—could his shadow feel? I started atfirst, 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 isflown.”

The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr. Rochesterfollowed 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 surelyno 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 ananswer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing an excuse; and alwaysthe lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext isspecially wanted to get me out of painful embarrassment. I did not like to walkat this hour alone with Mr. Rochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could notfind a reason to allege for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, andthoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himselflooked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling anyconfusion: the evil—if evil existent or prospective there was—seemed to liewith me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet.

“Jane,” he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed downin the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut, “Thornfield is apleasant place in summer, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must have become in some degree attached to the house,—you, who have aneye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?”

“I am attached to it, indeed.”

“And though I don’t comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a degreeof regard for that foolish little child Adèle, too; and even for simple dameFairfax?”

“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 thislife,” he continued presently: “no sooner have you got settled in a pleasantresting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hourof repose is expired.”

“Must I move on, sir?” I asked. “Must I leave Thornfield?”

“I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must.”

This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me.

“Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.”

“It is come now—I must give it to-night.”

“Then you are going to be married, sir?”

“Ex-act-ly—pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nailstraight on the head.”

“Soon, sir?”

“Very soon, my—that is, Miss Eyre: and you’ll remember, Jane, the first time I,or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to put my oldbachelor’s neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate ofmatrimony—to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she’s an extensive armful:but that’s not to the point—one can’t have too much of such a very excellentthing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was saying—listen to me, Jane!You’re not turning your head to look after more moths, are you? That was only alady-clock, child, ‘flying away home.’ I wish to remind you that it was you whofirst said to me, with that discretion I respect in you—with that foresight,prudence, and humility which befit your responsible and dependent position—thatin case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Adèle had better trotforthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on thecharacter of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I’ll try toforget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it mylaw of action. Adèle must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a newsituation.”

“Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose—” I was goingto say, “I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to betakemyself to:” but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, formy voice was not quite under command.

“In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,” continued Mr. Rochester; “and inthe 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 aswell as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer for anylittle 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 isto undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall ofBitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You’ll like Ireland, I think: they’resuch warm-hearted people there, they say.”

“It is a long way off, sir.”

“No matter—a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance.”

“Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier—”

“From what, Jane?”

“From England and from Thornfield: and—”

“Well?”

“From you, sir.”

I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free will, mytears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing.The thought of Mrs. O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; andcolder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rushbetween me and the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest theremembrance of the wider ocean—wealth, caste, custom intervened between me andwhat 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, Ishall never see you again, Jane: that’s morally certain. I never go over toIreland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been goodfriends, Jane; have we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the littletime that remains to them close to each other. Come! we’ll talk over the voyageand the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into theirshining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the benchat its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we shouldnever 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 onsuch weary travels: but if I can’t do better, how is it to be helped? Are youanything 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 toyou—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a stringsomewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similarstring situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if thatboisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us,I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervousnotion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.”

“That I never should, sir: you know—” Impossible to proceed.

“Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!”

In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured nolonger; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acutedistress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I hadnever 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 claimingmastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, toovercome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,—and to speak.

“I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:—I love it, because I havelived in it a full and delightful life,—momentarily at least. I have not beentrampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferiorminds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright andenergetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, withwhat I delight in,—with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have knownyou, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel Iabsolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure;and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”

“Where do you see the necessity?” he asked suddenly.

“Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.”

“In what shape?”

“In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,—your bride.”

“My bride! What bride? I have no bride!”

“But you will have.”

“Yes;—I will!—I will!” He set his teeth.

“Then I must go:—you have said it yourself.”

“No: you must stay! I swear it—and the oath shall be kept.”

“I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion. “Do youthink I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?—amachine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched frommy lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, becauseI am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You thinkwrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart! And if God hadgifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard foryou to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you nowthrough the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;—itis my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through thegrave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!”

“As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester—“so,” he added, enclosing me in his arms,gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: “so, Jane!”

“Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined: “and yet not so; for you are a married man—or asgood as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you—to one with whom you haveno sympathy—whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard yousneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you—let mego!”

“Where, Jane? To Ireland?”

“Yes—to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”

“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rendingits own plumage in its desperation.”

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with anindependent 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, myheart, and a share of all my possessions.”

“You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.”

“I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and bestearthly 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 theboughs of the chestnut: it wandered away—away—to an indefinite distance—itdied. The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour: in listeningto it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently andseriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said—

“Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.”

“I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return.”

“But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry.”

I was silent: I thought he mocked me.

“Come, Jane—come hither.”

“Your bride stands between us.”

He rose, and with a stride reached me.

“My bride is here,” he said, again drawing me to him, “because my equal ishere, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?”

Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I wasstill 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, youshall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that youknow. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I causeda rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, andafter that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from herand her mother. I would not—I could not—marry Miss Ingram. You—you strange, youalmost unearthly thing!—I love as my own flesh. You—poor and obscure, and smalland plain as you are—I entreat to accept me as a husband.”

“What, me!” I ejacul*ted, beginning in his earnestness—and especially in hisincivility—to credit his sincerity: “me who have not a friend in the world butyou—if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?”

“You, Jane, I must have you for my own—entirely my own. Will you be mine? Sayyes, quickly.”

“Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to read your countenance—turn!”

“There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page.Read on: only make haste, for I suffer.”

His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strongworkings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes.

“Oh, Jane, you torture me!” he exclaimed. “With that searching and yet faithfuland generous look, you torture me!”

“How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings toyou must be gratitude and devotion—they cannot torture.”

“Gratitude!” he ejacul*ted; and added wildly—“Jane accept me quickly. Say,Edward—give me my name—Edward—I will marry you.”

“Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be yourwife?”

“I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.”

“Then, sir, I will marry you.”

“Edward—my little wife!”

“Dear Edward!”

“Come to me—come to me entirely now,” said he; and added, in his deepest tone,speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, “Make my happiness—I willmake yours.”

“God pardon me!” he subjoined ere long; “and man meddle not with me: I haveher, and will hold her.”

“There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere.”

“No—that is the best of it,” he said. And if I had loved him less I should havethought his accent and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, rousedfrom the nightmare of parting—called to the paradise of union—I thought only ofthe 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 hemurmured, “It will atone—it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, andcold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is therenot love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God’stribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world’s judgment—I washmy hands thereof. For man’s opinion—I defy it.”

But what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet set, and we were all inshadow: I could scarcely see my master’s face, near as I was. And what ailedthe chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurelwalk, and came sweeping over us.

“We must go in,” said Mr. Rochester: “the weather changes. I could have satwith thee till morning, Jane.”

“And so,” thought I, “could I with you.” I should have said so, perhaps, but alivid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which I was looking, and there was acrack, a crash, and a close rattling peal; and I thought only of hiding mydazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester’s shoulder.

The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds, and intothe house; but we were quite wet before we could pass the threshold. He wastaking 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, nordid Mr. Rochester. The lamp was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve.

“Hasten to take off your wet things,” said he; “and before you go,good-night—good-night, my darling!”

He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms, there stood thewidow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, and ran upstairs.“Explanation will do for another time,” thought I. Still, when I reached mychamber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even temporarily misconstrue whatshe had seen. But joy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the windblew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as thelightning 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 mydoor in the course of it, to ask if I was safe and tranquil: and that wascomfort, that was strength for anything.

Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adèle came running in to tell methat the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard had been struck bylightning 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 itwere 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 nolonger plain: there was hope in its aspect and life in its colour; and my eyesseemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition, and borrowed beams from thelustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling to look at my master, because Ifeared he could not be pleased at my look; but I was sure I might lift my faceto his now, and not cool his affection by its expression. I took a plain butclean and light summer dress from my drawer and put it on: it seemed no attirehad 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 brilliantJune morning had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and to feel, throughthe open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and fragrant breeze. Nature mustbe gladsome when I was so happy. A beggar-woman and her little boy—pale, raggedobjects both—were coming up the walk, and I ran down and gave them all themoney I happened to have in my purse—some three or four shillings: good or bad,they must partake of my jubilee. The rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; butnothing was so merry or so musical as my own rejoicing heart.

Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad countenance,and saying gravely—“Miss Eyre, will you come to breakfast?” During the meal shewas quiet and cool: but I could not undeceive her then. I must wait for mymaster to give explanations; and so must she. I ate what I could, and then Ihastened 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 hestood.

“Come and bid me good-morning,” said he. I gladly advanced; and it was notmerely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that I received, but anembrace and a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, socaressed by him.

“Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty,” said he: “truly pretty thismorning. Is this my pale, little elf? Is this my mustard-seed? This littlesunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazelhair, and the radiant hazel eyes?” (I had green eyes, reader; but you mustexcuse 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, theannouncement sent through me, was something stronger than was consistent withjoy—something that smote and stunned: it was, I think, almost fear.

“You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?”

“Because you gave me a new name—Jane Rochester; and it seems so strange.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rochester,” said he; “young Mrs. Rochester—Fairfax Rochester’sgirl-bride.”

“It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human beings never enjoycomplete happiness in this world. I was not born for a different destiny to therest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale—aday-dream.”

“Which I can and will realise. I shall begin to-day. This morning I wrote to mybanker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his keeping,—heirlooms forthe 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 apeer’s daughter, if about to marry her.”

“Oh, sir!—never rain jewels! I don’t like to hear them spoken of. Jewels forJane 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 yourforehead,—which it will become: for nature, at least, has stamped her patent ofnobility on this brow, Jane; and I will clasp the bracelets on these finewrists, and load these fairy-like fingers with rings.”

“No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and inanother strain. Don’t address me as if I were a beauty; I am your plain,Quakerish governess.”

“You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the desire of myheart,—delicate and aërial.”

“Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are dreaming, sir,—or you are sneering.For God’s sake, don’t be ironical!”

“I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too,” he went on, while Ireally became uneasy at the strain he had adopted, because I felt he was eitherdeluding himself or trying to delude me. “I will attire my Jane in satin andlace, and she shall have roses in her hair; and I will cover the head I lovebest with a priceless veil.”

“And then you won’t know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer,but an ape in a harlequin’s jacket—a jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soonsee you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself clad in acourt-lady’s robe; and I don’t call you handsome, sir, though I love you mostdearly: far too dearly to flatter you. Don’t flatter me.”

He pursued his theme, however, without noticing my deprecation. “This very dayI shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must choose some dressesfor yourself. I told you we shall be married in four weeks. The wedding is totake place quietly, in the church down below yonder; and then I shall waft youaway at once to town. After a brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure toregions nearer the sun: to French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shallsee 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 comparisonwith 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 Istamped my hoof, your sylph’s foot shall step also. Ten years since, I flewthrough Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage as my companions: now Ishall 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 willnot be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must neither expectnor exact anything celestial of me—for you will not get it, any more than Ishall 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 willbe stern, and I shall have much ado to please you: but when you get well usedto me, you will perhaps like me again,—like me, I say, not loveme. I suppose your love will effervesce in six months, or less. I have observedin books written by men, that period assigned as the farthest to which ahusband’s ardour extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hopenever to become quite distasteful to my dear master.”

“Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again, and yetagain: and I will make you confess I do not only like, but loveyou—with truth, fervour, constancy.”

“Yet are you not capricious, sir?”

“To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I findout they have neither souls nor hearts—when they open to me a perspective offlatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper: butto the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and thecharacter that bends but does not break—at once supple and stable, tractableand consistent—I am ever tender and true.”

“Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love such anone?”

“I love it now.”

“But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to your difficultstandard?”

“I never met your likeness. Jane, you please me, and you master me—you seem tosubmit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am twining thesoft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. Iam influenced—conquered; and the influence is sweeter than I can express; andthe conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I can win. Why do yousmile, Jane? What does that inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenancemean?”

“I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I wasthinking of Hercules and Samson with their charmers—”

“You were, you little elfish—”

“Hush, sir! You don’t talk very wisely just now; any more than those gentlemenacted very wisely. However, had they been married, they would no doubt by theirseverity as husbands have made up for their softness as suitors; and so willyou, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a year hence, should I ask afavour it does not suit your convenience or pleasure to grant.”

“Ask me something now, Janet,—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 swearconcession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of me.”

“Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don’t send for the jewels, and don’t crownme with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round that plainpocket handkerchief you have there.”

“I might as well ‘gild refined gold.’ I know it: your request is grantedthen—for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my banker. But youhave not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn: tryagain.”

“Well then, sir, have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is muchpiqued on one point.”

He looked disturbed. “What? what?” he said hastily. “Curiosity is a dangerouspetition: 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, asecret, it was a wish for half my estate.”

“Now, King Ahasuerus! What do I want with half your estate? Do you think I am aJew-usurer, seeking good investment in land? I would much rather have all yourconfidence. You will not exclude me from your confidence if you admit me toyour heart?”

“You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth having, Jane; but for God’ssake, don’t desire a useless burden! Don’t long for poison—don’t turn out adownright Eve on my hands!”

“Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much you liked to beconquered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you. Don’t you think I hadbetter take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax and entreat—evencry and be sulky if necessary—for the sake of a mere essay of my power?”

“I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is up.”

“Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your eyebrows havebecome as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles what, in some veryastonishing poetry, I once saw styled, ‘a blue-piled thunderloft.’ That will beyour married look, sir, I suppose?”

“If that will be your married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give upthe notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander. But what had you toask, thing,—out with it?”

“There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal betterthan flattery. I had rather be a thing than an angel. This is what Ihave to ask,—Why did you take such pains to make me believe you wished to marryMiss 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 adanger averted. “I think I may confess,” he continued, “even although I shouldmake you a little indignant, Jane—and I have seen what a fire-spirit you can bewhen you are indignant. You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when youmutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Janet, by-the-bye, itwas you who made me the offer.”

“Of course I did. But to the point if you please, sir—Miss Ingram?”

“Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render you asmadly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy would be the bestally I could call in for the furtherance of that end.”

“Excellent! Now you are small—not one whit bigger than the end of my littlefinger. It was a burning shame and a scandalous disgrace to act in that way.Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram’s feelings, sir?”

“Her feelings are concentrated in one—pride; and that needs humbling. Were youjealous, 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 yourdishonest coquetry? Won’t she feel forsaken and deserted?”

“Impossible!—when I told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the idea ofmy insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a moment.”

“You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid your principleson some points are eccentric.”

“My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a little awry forwant of attention.”

“Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been vouchsafed tome, without fearing that any one else is suffering the bitter pain I myselffelt a while ago?”

“That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the world hasthe same pure love for me as yourself—for I lay that pleasant unction to mysoul, Jane, a belief in your affection.”

I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him verymuch—more than I could trust myself to say—more than words had power toexpress.

“Ask something more,” he said presently; “it is my delight to be entreated, andto 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 misjudgedby so good a woman.”

“Go to your room, and put on your bonnet,” he replied. “I mean you to accompanyme to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the drive, I willenlighten the old lady’s understanding. Did she think, Janet, you had given theworld 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 whowould insult you, now or hereafter.—Go.”

I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour,I hurried down to it. The old lady had been reading her morning portion ofScripture—the Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open before her, and herspectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended by Mr. Rochester’sannouncement, 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 wordsof congratulation; but the smile expired, and the sentence was abandonedunfinished. She put up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chairback from the table.

“I feel so astonished,” she began, “I hardly know what to say to you, MissEyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half fall asleepwhen I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never happened. It hasseemed 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 Ihave even heard him call me by my name, Alice, as he used to do. Now, can youtell me whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marryhim? Don’t laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago,and said that in a month you would be his wife.”

“He has said the same thing to me,” I replied.

“He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me bewildered.

“I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters wereproud: and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been calledcareful. He means to marry you?”

“He tells me so.”

She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that they had there found nocharm powerful enough to solve the enigma.

“It passes me!” she continued; “but no doubt it is true since you say so. Howit will answer, I cannot tell: I really don’t know. Equality of position andfortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are twenty years ofdifference in your ages. He might almost be your father.”

“No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!” exclaimed I, nettled; “he is nothing like myfather! 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 solittle acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard. It is an oldsaying that ‘all is not gold that glitters;’ and in this case I do fear therewill 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 havea sincere affection for me?”

“No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, Idaresay, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of pet ofhis. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at hismarked preference, and have wished to put you on your guard: but I did not liketo 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 andsensible, I hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself. Last night I cannottell you what I suffered when I sought all over the house, and could find younowhere, nor the master either; and then, at twelve o’clock, saw you come inwith him.”

“Well, never mind that now,” I interrupted impatiently; “it is enough that allwas right.”

“I hope all will be right in the end,” she said: “but believe me, you cannot betoo careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance: distrust yourself aswell as him. Gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to marry theirgovernesses.”

I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adèle ran in.

“Let me go,—let me go to Millcote too!” she cried. “Mr. Rochester won’t: thoughthere 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 gloomymonitress. The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round to the front,and my master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following him backwards andforwards.

“Adèle may accompany us, may she not, sir?”

“I told her no. I’ll have no brats!—I’ll have only you.”

“Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be better.”

“Not it: she will be a restraint.”

He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs. Fairfax’swarnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me: something ofunsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense ofpower over him. I was about mechanically to obey him, without furtherremonstrance; 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 wishthe 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 toAdèle.

She obeyed him with what speed she might.

“After all, a single morning’s interruption will not matter much,” said he,“when I mean shortly to claim you—your thoughts, conversation, and company—forlife.”

Adèle, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her gratitudefor my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a corner on the otherside of him. She then peeped round to where I sat; so stern a neighbour was toorestrictive: to him, in his present fractious mood, she dared whisper noobservations, nor ask of him any information.

“Let her come to me,” I entreated: “she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir: thereis plenty of room on this side.”

He handed her over as if she had been a lapdog. “I’ll send her to school yet,”he said, but now he was smiling.

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 mademoiselleto the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white valleys amongthe 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 inthe 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, I’ll carry her up toa peak, and lay her down on the edge of a crater.”

“Oh, qu’elle y sera mal—peu comfortable! And her clothes, they will wear out:how can she get new ones?”

Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. “Hem!” said he. “What would you do,Adèle? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloudanswer for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out ofa 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 weremademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you.”

“She has consented: she has pledged her word.”

“But you can’t get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all air; andneither you nor she can fly.”

“Adèle, look at that field.” We were now outside Thornfield gates, and bowlinglightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was well laid by thethunderstorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on each sideglistened green and rain-refreshed.

“In that field, Adèle, I was walking late one evening about a fortnightsince—the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows;and, as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on a stile; andthere I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to write about amisfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had for happy days to come: Iwas writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf, whensomething came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It wasa little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come nearme; it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, inwords; but I read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy wasto this effect—

“It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make mehappy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place—such as themoon, for instance—and it nodded its head towards her horn, rising overHay-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 wingsto fly.

“‘Oh,’ returned the fairy, ‘that does not signify! Here is a talisman willremove all difficulties;’ and she held out a pretty gold ring. ‘Put it,’ shesaid, ‘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 atthe moon. The ring, Adèle, is in my breeches-pocket, under the disguise of asovereign: but I mean soon to change it to a ring again.”

“But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don’t care for the fairy: you saidit was mademoiselle you would take to the moon?”

“Mademoiselle is a fairy,” he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon I toldher not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a fund of genuineFrench scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester “un vrai menteur,” and assuringhim that she made no account whatever of his “contes de fée,” and that “dureste, il n’y avait pas de fées, et quand même il y en avait:” she was surethey would never appear to him, nor ever give him rings, or offer to live withhim in the moon.

The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me. Mr. Rochesterobliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was ordered to choosehalf-a-dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no—itshould be gone through with now. By dint of entreaties expressed in energeticwhispers, I reduced the half-dozen to two: these however, he vowed he wouldselect himself. With anxiety I watched his eye rove over the gay stores: hefixed on a rich silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pinksatin. I told him in a new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me agold gown and a silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wearhis choice. With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, Ipersuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin andpearl-grey silk. “It might pass for the present,” he said; “but he would yetsee me glittering like a parterre.”

Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a jeweller’sshop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a sense of annoyanceand degradation. As we re-entered the carriage, and I sat back feverish andfa*gged, I remembered what, in the hurry of events, dark and bright, I hadwholly forgotten—the letter of my uncle, John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intentionto adopt me and make me his legatee. “It would, indeed, be a relief,” Ithought, “if I had ever so small an independency; I never can bear beingdressed like a doll by Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a second Danae with thegolden shower falling daily round me. I will write to Madeira the moment I gethome, and tell my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I hadbut a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an accession of fortune, Icould 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 mymaster’s and lover’s eye, which most pertinaciously sought mine, though Iaverted both face and gaze. He smiled; and I thought his smile was such as asultan might, in a blissful and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold andgems had enriched: I crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously,and thrust it back to him red with the passionate pressure.

“You need not look in that way,” I said; “if you do, I’ll wear nothing but myold Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. I’ll be married in this lilacgingham: 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!” heexclaimed. “Is she original? Is she piquant? I would not exchange this onelittle English girl for the Grand Turk’s whole seraglio, gazelle-eyes, houriforms, and all!”

The Eastern allusion bit me again. “I’ll not stand you an inch in the stead ofa seraglio,” I said; “so don’t consider me an equivalent for one. If you have afancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir, to the bazaars of Stamboulwithout delay, and lay out in extensive slave-purchases some of that spare cashyou seem at a loss to spend satisfactorily here.”

“And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of fleshand such an assortment of black eyes?”

“I’ll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to themthat are enslaved—your harem inmates amongst the rest. I’ll get admitted there,and I’ll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall ina trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will I, for one, consentto cut your bonds till you have signed a charter, the most liberal that despotever 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 eyelike that. While you looked so, I should be certain that whatever charter youmight grant under coercion, your first act, when released, would be to violateits conditions.”

“Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will compel me to go through aprivate marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the altar. You willstipulate, I see, for peculiar terms—what will they be?”

“I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations. Do youremember what you said of Céline Varens?—of the diamonds, the cashmeres yougave her? I will not be your English Céline Varens. I shall continue to act asAdèle’s governess; by that I shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty poundsa year besides. I’ll furnish my own wardrobe out of that money, and you shallgive me nothing but—”

“Well, but what?”

“Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be quit.”

“Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride, you haven’t yourequal,” said he. We were now approaching Thornfield. “Will it please you todine with me to-day?” he asked, as we re-entered the gates.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“And what for, ‘no, thank you?’ if one may inquire.”

“I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should now: till—”

“Till what? You delight in half-phrases.”

“Till I can’t help it.”

“Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being thecompanion of my repast?”

“I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on as usualfor 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 asusual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been accustomed to do:you may send for me in the evening, when you feel disposed to see me, and I’llcome then; but at no other time.”

“I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all this, ‘pourme donner une contenance,’ as Adèle would say; and unfortunately I have neithermy cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But listen—whisper. It is your time now,little tyrant, but it will be mine presently; and when once I have fairlyseized you, to have and to hold, I’ll just—figuratively speaking—attach you toa chain like this” (touching his watch-guard). “Yes, bonny wee thing, I’ll wearyou in my bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne.”

He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage, and while heafterwards lifted out Adèle, I entered the house, and made good my retreatupstairs.

He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I had prepared anoccupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in atête-à-tête conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he likedto sing—good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and, in hisfastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in listening when theperformance was good. No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, began tolower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened thepiano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song. He said Iwas a capricious witch, and that he would rather sing another time; but Iaverred 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; butfor once, and from motives of expediency, I would e’en soothe and stimulate it.

“Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment.”

“Very well, sir, I will try.”

I did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated “a littlebungler.” Being pushed unceremoniously to one side—which was precisely what Iwished—he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany himself: for he couldplay as well as sing. I hied me to the window-recess. And while I sat there andlooked out on the still trees and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellowtones the following strain:—

“The truest love that ever heart
Felt at its kindled core,
Did through each vein, in quickened start,
The tide of being pour.

Her coming was my hope each day,
Her parting was my pain;
The chance that did her steps delay
Was ice in every vein.

I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,
As I loved, loved to be;
And to this object did I press
As blind as eagerly.

But wide as pathless was the space
That lay our lives between,
And dangerous as the foamy race
Of ocean-surges green.

And haunted as a robber-path
Through wilderness or wood;
For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,
Between our spirits stood.

I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;
I omens did defy:
Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,
I passed impetuous by.

On sped my rainbow, fast as light;
I flew as in a dream;
For glorious rose upon my sight
That child of Shower and Gleam.

Still bright on clouds of suffering dim
Shines that soft, solemn joy;
Nor care I now, how dense and grim
Disasters gather nigh.

I care not in this moment sweet,
Though all I have rushed o’er
Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,
Proclaiming vengeance sore:

Though haughty Hate should strike me down,
Right, bar approach to me,
And grinding Might, with furious frown,
Swear endless enmity.

My love has placed her little hand
With noble faith in mine,
And vowed that wedlock’s sacred band
Our nature shall entwine.

My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,
With me to live—to die;
I have at last my nameless bliss.
As I love—loved am I!”

He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his fullfalcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion in every lineament. I quailedmomentarily—then I rallied. Soft scene, daring demonstration, I would not have;and I stood in peril of both: a weapon of defence must be prepared—I whetted mytongue: as he reached me, I asked with asperity, “whom he was going to marrynow?”

“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 hisfuture wife dying with him. What did he mean by such a pagan idea? I hadno intention of dying with him—he might depend on that.”

“Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him! Deathwas not for such as I.”

“Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he had: but Ishould 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 reconcilingkiss?”

“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 stanzascrooned in her praise.”

I assured him I was naturally hard—very flinty, and that he would often find meso; and that, moreover, I was determined to show him divers rugged points in mycharacter before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he should know fully what sortof 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 myselfI was doing that now.”

He fretted, pished, and pshawed. “Very good,” I thought; “you may fume andfidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you, I amcertain. I like you more than I can say; but I’ll not sink into a bathos ofsentiment: and with this needle of repartee I’ll keep you from the edge of thegulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pungent aid that distance between youand myself most conducive to our real mutual advantage.”

From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then, after hehad retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I got up, andsaying, “I wish you good-night, sir,” in my natural and wonted respectfulmanner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.

The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of probation; andwith the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but onthe whole I could see he was excellently entertained, and that a lamb-likesubmission and turtle-dove sensibility, while fostering his despotism more,would have pleased his judgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suitedhis taste less.

In other people’s presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any otherline of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening conferences Ithus thwarted and afflicted him. He continued to send for me punctually themoment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared before him now, he had nosuch honeyed terms as “love” and “darling” on his lips: the best words at myservice were “provoking puppet,” “malicious elf,” “sprite,” “changeling,”&c. For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, apinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It wasall right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anythingmore tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my accountvanished; therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmedI was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful vengeance for mypresent conduct at some period fast coming. I laughed in my sleeve at hismenaces. “I can keep you in reasonable check now,” I reflected; “and I don’tdoubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, anothermust be devised.”

Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have pleasedthan teased him. My future husband was becoming to me my whole world; and morethan the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and every thoughtof religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I couldnot, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.

CHAPTER XXV

The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being numbered.There was no putting off the day that advanced—the bridal day; and allpreparations for its arrival were complete. I, at least, had nothingmore to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in a row alongthe wall of my little chamber; to-morrow, at this time, they would be far ontheir road to London: and so should I (D.V.),—or rather, not I, but one JaneRochester, a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remainedto nail on: they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr. Rochester hadhimself written the direction, “Mrs. Rochester, —— Hotel, London,” on each: Icould 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 timeafter eight o’clock A.M.; and I would wait to be assured she hadcome into the world alive before I assigned to her all that property. It wasenough that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to behers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet: fornot to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the pearl-coloured robe,the vapoury veil pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet toconceal the strange, wraith-like apparel it contained; which, at this eveninghour—nine o’clock—gave out certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadowof my apartment. “I will leave you by yourself, white dream,” I said. “I amfeverish: 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 theanticipation of the great change—the new life which was to commence to-morrow:both these circ*mstances had their share, doubtless, in producing thatrestless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late hour into thedarkening grounds: but a third cause influenced my mind more than they.

I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had happened which Icould not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but myself: it hadtaken 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 orthree farms he possessed thirty miles off—business it was requisite he shouldsettle in person, previous to his meditated departure from England. I waitednow his return; eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution ofthe enigma that perplexed me. Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I disclosemy secret to him, you shall share the confidence.

I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day hadblown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a speck ofrain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush anddeepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing round, andscarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was thestrain bending their branchy heads northward—the clouds drifted from pole topole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visiblethat July day.

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind, delivering mytrouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space.Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood upblack and riven: the trunk, split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The clovenhalves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots keptthem unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed—the sap couldflow no more: their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter’stempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth: as yet, however, theymight be said to form one tree—a ruin, but an entire ruin.

“You did right to hold fast to each other,” I said: as if the monster-splinterswere living things, and could hear me. “I think, scathed as you look, andcharred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, risingout of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have greenleaves more—never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs;the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but you are not desolate: eachof you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his decay.” As I looked up atthem, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled theirfissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on meone bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deepdrift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far awayover 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 whichthe grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I employed myself individing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put themaway in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether thefire was lit, for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochesterwould like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had beenkindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by thechimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down the curtain, and hadthe candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I hadcompleted these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in thehouse: a little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the hallsimultaneously struck ten.

“How late it grows!” I said. “I will run down to the gates: it is moonlight atintervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meethim will save some minutes of suspense.”

The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the roadas far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still andsolitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals as the moonlooked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck.

A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked—a tear of disappointment andimpatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon shut herselfwholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud: the nightgrew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale.

“I wish he would come! I wish he would come!” I exclaimed, seized withhypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his arrival before tea; now it wasdark: what could keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of last nightagain recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I feared myhopes were too bright to be realised; and I had enjoyed so much bliss latelythat 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 myheart; 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 hisside. Away with evil presentiment! It was he: here he was, mounted on Mesrour,followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had opened a blue field in the sky,and rode in it watery bright: he took his hat off, and waved it round his head.I now ran to meet him.

“There!” he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle:“You can’t do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe; give me bothhands: mount!”

I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I got fora welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I swallowed as well as I could. Hechecked 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 housefor you, especially with this rain and wind.”

“Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloakround you: but I think you are feverish, Jane: both your cheek and hand areburning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter?”

“Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy.”

“Then you have been both?”

“Rather: but I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by, sir; and I daresay you willonly laugh at me for my pains.”

“I’ll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then I dare not: myprize is not certain. This is you, who have been as slippery as an eel thislast month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay a finger anywherebut I was pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms.You wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?”

“I wanted you: but don’t boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me getdown.”

He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed me intothe hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on, and then return tohim in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for the staircase, to extort apromise that I would not be long: nor was I long; in five minutes I rejoinedhim. I found him at supper.

“Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal but oneyou 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 thethoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?”

“I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know whatthoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal.”

“Except me: I am substantial enough—touch me.”

“You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream.”

He held out his hand, laughing. “Is that a dream?” said he, placing it close tomy 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 beforemy face. “Sir, have you finished supper?”

“Yes, Jane.”

I rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I stirredthe fire, and then took a low seat at my master’s knee.

“It is near midnight,” I said.

“Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before mywedding.”

“I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least: I have no wishto go to bed.”

“Are all your arrangements complete?”

“All, sir.”

“And on my part likewise,” he returned, “I have settled everything; and weshall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half-an-hour after our return fromchurch.”

“Very well, sir.”

“With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word—‘very well,’ Jane! Whata bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyesglitter! 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 presenthour would never end: who knows with what fate the next may come charged?”

“This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or over-fatigued.”

“Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?”

“Calm?—no: but happy—to the heart’s core.”

I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was ardent andflushed.

“Give me your confidence, Jane,” he said: “relieve your mind of any weight thatoppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear?—that I shall not prove agood husband?”

“It is the idea farthest from my thoughts.”

“Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?—of the new lifeinto which you are passing?”

“No.”

“You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and painme. 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 happenedin my absence:—nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in short, it hasdisturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or youhave overheard the servants talk?—your sensitive self-respect has beenwounded?”

“No, sir.” It struck twelve—I waited till the time-piece had concluded itssilver 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; forI am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting fears about the newsphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to have the hope of living withyou, because I love you. No, sir, don’t caress me now—let me talk undisturbed.Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and believed that events were workingtogether for your good and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect—thecalmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety orcomfort 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 missedyour actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before me—yourlife, sir—an existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much more soas the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of itsown strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a drearywilderness: for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turnedcold and the sky cloudy: I went in, Sophie called me upstairs to look at mywedding-dress, which they had just brought; and under it in the box I foundyour present—the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for fromLondon: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me intoaccepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised how Iwould tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to masque yourplebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I would carry downto you the square of unembroidered blond I had myself prepared as a coveringfor my low-born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who couldbring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly howyou would look; and heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughtydisavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate yourstanding, by marrying either a purse or a coronet.”

“How well you read me, you witch!” interposed Mr. Rochester: “but what did youfind in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, thatyou look so mournful now?”

“No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothingsave Fairfax Rochester’s pride; and that did not scare me, because I am used tothe sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose: it blewyesterday evening, not as it blows now—wild and high—but ‘with a sullen,moaning sound’ far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I came into thisroom, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For sometime after I went to bed, I could not sleep—a sense of anxious excitementdistressed me. The gale still rising seemed to my ear to muffle a mournfulunder-sound; whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but itrecurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it must besome dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On sleeping, Icontinued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued also thewish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of somebarrier dividing us. During all my first sleep, I was following the windings ofan unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdenedwith the charge of a little child: a very small creature, too young and feebleto walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. Ithought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I strainedevery nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name andentreat you to stop—but my movements were fettered, and my voice still diedaway inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther everymoment.”

“And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close to you?Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and think only of real happiness!You say you love me, Janet: yes—I will not forget that; and you cannot deny it.Those words did not die inarticulate on your lips. I heard them clearand soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music—‘I think it is aglorious thing to have the hope of living with you, Edward, because I loveyou.’ Do you love me, Jane?—repeat it.”

“I do, sir—I do, with my whole heart.”

“Well,” he said, after some minutes’ silence, “it is strange; but that sentencehas penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think because you said it with suchan earnest, religious energy, and because your upward gaze at me now is thevery sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is too much as if some spiritwere near me. Look wicked, Jane: as you know well how to look: coin one of yourwild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me—tease me, vex me; do anythingbut move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened.”

“I will tease you and vex you to your heart’s content, when I have finished mytale: but hear me to the end.”

“I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source of yourmelancholy in a dream.”

I shook my head. “What! is there more? But I will not believe it to be anythingimportant. 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, theretreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front nothingremained 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 stumbledover a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped upin a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it downanywhere, however tired were my arms—however much its weight impeded myprogress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on theroad; I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years and for adistant country. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager tocatch 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 ona white track, lessening every moment. The blast blew so strong I could notstand. 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 wallcrumbled; 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 myeyes; I thought—Oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken; it was onlycandlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a light in thedressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I hadhung 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 thecloset; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendentfrom 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, cameover me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this wasnot Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was not—no, I was sureof it, and am still—it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.”

“It must have been one of them,” interrupted my master.

“No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing before mehad never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield Hall before; theheight, the contour were new to me.”

“Describe it, Jane.”

“It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging longdown her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was white and straight; butwhether 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 themirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage and features quitedistinctly in the dark oblong glass.”

“And how were they?”

“Fearful and ghastly to me—oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was adiscoloured face—it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of thered 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: theblack eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of whatit reminded me?”

“You may.”

“Of the foul German spectre—the Vampyre.”

“Ah!—what did it do?”

“Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, andflinging both on the floor, trampled on them.”

“Afterwards?”

“It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawnapproaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at mybedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eyes glared upon me—she thrust up hercandle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware herlurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost consciousness: for the second time inmy life—only the second time—I became insensible from terror.”

“Who was with you when you revived?”

“No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water,drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill, and determinedthat to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and whatthat woman was?”

“The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be carefulof 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: thetransaction actually took place.”

“And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am Isevered from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without atear—without a kiss—without a word?”

“Not yet.”

“Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to bind usindissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence ofthese mental terrors: I guarantee that.”

“Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I wish itmore now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of thatawful 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 lookedround the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of eachfamiliar object in full daylight, there—on the carpet—I saw what gave thedistinct lie to my hypothesis,—the veil, torn from top to bottom in twohalves!”

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 lastnight, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might havehappened!”

He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could scarcelypant. After some minutes’ silence, he continued, cheerily—

“Now, Janet, I’ll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality.A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was—must havebeen—Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from all you know, youhave reason so to call her—what did she do to me? what to Mason? In a statebetween sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions; butfeverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearancedifferent from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, theexaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare: thespiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is like her. I see you would askwhy I keep such a woman in my house: when we have been married a year and aday, I will tell you; but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept mysolution of the mystery?”

I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one: satisfied Iwas not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear so—relieved, I certainly didfeel; so I answered him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long pastone, I prepared to leave him.

“Does not Sophie sleep with Adèle in the nursery?” he asked, as I lit mycandle.

“Yes, sir.”

“And there is room enough in Adèle’s little bed for you. You must share it withher to-night, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident you have related shouldmake you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone: promise me to goto 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 youmust be dressed and have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no moresombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet. Don’t you hear to what softwhispers the wind has fallen? and there is no more beating of rain against thewindow-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 thewind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, silveredcolumns. The moon shone peacefully.

“Well,” said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, “how is my Janetnow?”

“The night is serene, sir; and so am I.”

“And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy loveand blissful union.”

This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of sorrow, butas little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all. With little Adèle in myarms, I watched the slumber of childhood—so tranquil, so passionless, soinnocent—and waited for the coming day: all my life was awake and astir in myframe: and as soon as the sun rose I rose too. I remember Adèle clung to me asI left her: I remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from myneck; and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because Ifeared my sobs would break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of mypast life; and he, I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored,type of my unknown future day.

CHAPTER XXVI

Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in accomplishing hertask; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay, sentup to ask why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil (the plain squareof blond after all) to my hair with a brooch; I hurried from under her hands assoon as I could.

“Stop!” she cried in French. “Look at yourself in the mirror: you have nottaken one peep.”

So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usualself that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. “Jane!” called a voice, andI 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 solong!”

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 hiseyes,” and then telling me he would give me but ten minutes to eat somebreakfast, 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 footmansoon 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 wereturn: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the coachman inhis seat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jane, are you ready?”

I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for ormarshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as wepassed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp ofiron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; and to look at Mr.Rochester’s face was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated forany purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he did—so bent up toa purpose, so grimly resolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, everrevealed such flaming and flashing eyes.

I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I gazedneither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both seemed migratedinto Mr. Rochester’s frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which, as wewent along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feelthe 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 calmbefore 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 readingthe mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, asthey saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted notthey were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the ceremony. ByMr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my face, fromwhich 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 gentlywith me up the path to the porch.

We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white surpliceat the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still: two shadows only movedin a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct: the strangers had slippedin before us, and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backstowards us, viewing through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where akneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moorin the time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife.

Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step behind me,I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers—a gentleman, evidently—wasadvancing up the chancel. The service began. The explanation of the intent ofmatrimony 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 ofjudgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either ofyou know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together inmatrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as arecoupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow, are not joined togetherby God, neither is their matrimony lawful.”

He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever brokenby reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, who had notlifted his eyes from his book, and had held his breath but for a moment, wasproceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lipsunclosed to ask, “Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?”—when adistinct 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 lowintonation. Presently Mr. Wood said—

“I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted, andevidence of its truth or falsehood.”

“The ceremony is quite broken off,” subjoined the voice behind us. “I am in acondition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriageexists.”

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid, making nomovement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had!and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment!How his eye shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath!

Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. “What is the nature of the impediment?” he asked.“Perhaps it may be got over—explained away?”

“Hardly,” was the answer. “I have called it insuperable, and I speakadvisedly.”

The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering eachword distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly—

“It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester hasa wife now living.”

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated tothunder—my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire;but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: Imade him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both sparkand flint. He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things.Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a humanbeing, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.

“Who are you?” he asked of the intruder.

“My name is Briggs, a solicitor of —— Street, London.”

“And you would thrust on me a wife?”

“I would remind you of your lady’s existence, sir, which the law recognises, ifyou do not.”

“Favour me with an account of her—with her name, her parentage, her place ofabode.”

“Certainly.” Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in asort of official, nasal voice:—

“‘I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D. —— (a date of fifteenyears back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of ——,and of Ferndean Manor, in ——shire, England, was married to my sister, BerthaAntoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta hiswife, a Creole, at —— church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriagewill be found in the register of that church—a copy of it is now in mypossession. Signed, Richard Mason.’”

“That—if a genuine document—may prove I have been married, but it does notprove 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 scarcelycontrovert.”

“Produce him—or go to hell.”

“I will produce him first—he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the goodness tostep forward.”

Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too, a sortof strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the spasmodicmovement of fury or despair run through his frame. The second stranger, who hadhitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale face looked over thesolicitor’s shoulder—yes, it was Mason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glaredat him. His eye, as I have often said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny,nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and his face flushed—olive cheek and huelessforehead received a glow as from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and hestirred, lifted his strong arm—he could have struck Mason, dashed him on thechurch-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his body—but Masonshrank away, and cried faintly, “Good God!” Contempt fell cool on Mr.Rochester—his passion died as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he onlyasked—“What have you to say?”

An inaudible reply escaped Mason’s white lips.

“The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what haveyou to say?”

“Sir—sir,” interrupted the clergyman, “do not forget you are in a sacredplace.” Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, “Are you aware, sir, whetheror not this gentleman’s wife is still living?”

“Courage,” urged the lawyer,—“speak out.”

“She is now living at Thornfield Hall,” said Mason, in more articulate tones:“I saw her there last April. I am her brother.”

“At Thornfield Hall!” ejacul*ted the clergyman. “Impossible! I am an oldresident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester atThornfield Hall.”

I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester’s lips, and he muttered—

“No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it—or of her under thatname.” He mused—for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed hisresolve, 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), leavethe church: there will be no wedding to-day.” The man obeyed.

Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: “Bigamy is an ugly word!—Imeant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred me, or Providencehas checked me,—perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at thismoment; and, as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no doubt the sternestjudgments of God, even to the quenchless fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, myplan is broken up:—what this lawyer and his client say is true: I have beenmarried, and the woman to whom I was married lives! You say you never heard ofa Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many atime inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there underwatch 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 Imarried fifteen years ago,—Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolutepersonage, who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing youwhat a stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick!—never fear me!—I’d almost assoon 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 botha madwoman and a drunkard!—as I found out after I had wed the daughter: forthey were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copiedher parent in both points. I had a charming partner—pure, wise, modest: you canfancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has beenheavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs,Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole’spatient, and my wife! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheatedinto 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: shethought all was fair and legal; and never dreamt she was going to be entrappedinto a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, andembruted partner! Come all of you—follow!”

Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came after. Atthe front door of the hall we found the carriage.

“Take it back to the coach-house, John,” said Mr. Rochester coolly; “it willnot be wanted to-day.”

At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adèle, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and greetus.

“To the right-about—every soul!” cried the master; “away with yourcongratulations! Who wants them? Not I!—they are fifteen years too late!”

He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and stillbeckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the firststaircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey: the low, blackdoor, opened by Mr. Rochester’s master-key, admitted us to the tapestried room,with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.

“You know this place, Mason,” said our guide; “she bit and stabbed you here.”

He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door: this, too, heopened. In a room without a window, there burnt a fire guarded by a high andstrong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poolebent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan. In the deepshade, 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 somestrange 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 yourcharge to-day?”

“We’re tolerable, sir, I thank you,” replied Grace, lifting the boiling messcarefully on to the hob: “rather snappish, but not ’rageous.”

A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed hyenarose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.

“Ah! sir, she sees you!” exclaimed Grace: “you’d better not stay.”

“Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments.”

“Take care then, sir!—for God’s sake, take care!”

The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazedwildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face,—those bloatedfeatures. Mrs. Poole advanced.

“Keep out of the way,” said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: “she has noknife now, I suppose, and I’m on my guard.”

“One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortaldiscretion to fathom her craft.”

“We had better leave her,” whispered Mason.

“Go to the devil!” was his brother-in-law’s recommendation.

“’Ware!” cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr.Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throatviciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a bigwoman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent besides: sheshowed virile force in the contest—more than once she almost throttled him,athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted blow; but hewould not strike: he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; GracePoole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her: with more rope, whichwas at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst thefiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned tothe 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 everto know—such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours! Andthis is what I wished to have” (laying his hand on my shoulder): “thisyoung girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, lookingcollectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her just as a change after thatfierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these cleareyes with the red balls yonder—this face with that mask—this form with thatbulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and remember withwhat judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up myprize.”

We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some furtherorder 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 tohear it—if, indeed, he should be still living—when Mr. Mason returns toMadeira.”

“My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?”

“Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his house forsome years. When your uncle received your letter intimating the contemplatedunion between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeirato 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 acquaintedwith a gentleman of the name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressedas you may suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorryto say, is now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of hisdisease—decline—and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise.He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snareinto which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in takingsteps to prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance. Iused all despatch, and am thankful I was not too late: as you, doubtless, mustbe also. Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reachMadeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I thinkyou had better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or ofMr. Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?” he inquired of Mr. Mason.

“No, no—let us be gone,” was the anxious reply; and without waiting to takeleave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The clergymanstayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or reproof, with hishaughty 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 hadnow withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that nonemight intrude, and proceeded—not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm forthat, but—mechanically to take off the wedding dress, and replace it by thestuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought, for the last time. I then satdown: I felt weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head droppedon them. And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved—followed upand down where I was led or dragged—watched event rush on event, disclosureopen beyond disclosure: but now, I thought.

The morning had been a quiet morning enough—all except the brief scene with thelunatic: the transaction in the church had not been noisy; there was noexplosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance orchallenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a calmly pronouncedobjection to the marriage made; some stern, short questions put by Mr.Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence adduced; an open admission ofthe truth had been uttered by my master; then the living proof had been seen;the intruders were gone, and all was over.

I was in my own room as usual—just myself, without obvious change: nothing hadsmitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre ofyesterday?—where was her life?—where were her prospects?

Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman—almost a bride, was a cold,solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate. AChristmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled overJune; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfieldand cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full offlowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelvehours since waved leafy and fragrant as groves between the tropics, now spread,waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were alldead—struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all thefirst-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday soblooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could neverrevive. I looked at my love: that feeling which was my master’s—which he hadcreated; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle;sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester’s arms—itcould not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him;for faith was blighted—confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me whathe had been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice tohim; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless truthwas gone from his idea, and from his presence I must go: that Iperceived well. When—how—whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, Idoubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, hecould not have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; hewould want me no more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view mustbe 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, andreflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, andeffortless, 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: torise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead.One idea only still throbbed life-like within me—a remembrance of God: it begotan unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind,as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to express them—

“Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help.”

It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it—as I hadneither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips—it came: in fullheavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole consciousness of my lifelorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full andmighty above me in one sullen mass. That bitter hour cannot be described: intruth, “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 thewestern sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked, “What am I todo?”

But the answer my mind gave—“Leave Thornfield at once”—was so prompt, so dread,that I stopped my ears. I said I could not bear such words now. “That I am notEdward Rochester’s bride is the least part of my woe,” I alleged: “that I havewakened out of most glorious dreams, and found them all void and vain, is ahorror 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 Ishould do it. I wrestled with my own resolution: I wanted to be weak that Imight avoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw laid out for me; andConscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the throat, told her tauntingly, shehad yet but dipped her dainty foot in the slough, and swore that with that armof 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 yourselfpluck out your right eye; yourself cut off your right hand: your heart shall bethe victim, and you the priest to transfix it.”

I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a judgehaunted,—at the silence which so awful a voice filled. My head swam as I stooderect. I perceived that I was sickening from excitement and inanition; neithermeat 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, nomessage had been sent to ask how I was, or to invite me to come down: not evenlittle Adèle had tapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me.“Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes,” I murmured, as I undrewthe 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. Ifell, but not on to the ground: an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up—Iwas 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, andlistening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more ofthat death-like hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar. So youshun me?—you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come andupbraided me with vehemence. You are passionate: I expected a scene of somekind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shedon my breast: now a senseless floor has received them, or your drenchedhandkerchief. But I err: you have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and afaded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weepingblood?

“Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter—nothing poignant? Nothingto 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 ewelamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his bread and drank of hiscup, 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 youever forgive me?”

Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such deepremorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy in hismanner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole look and mien—Iforgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my heart’s core.

“You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?” ere long he inquired wistfully—wondering, Isuppose, at my continued silence and tameness, the result rather of weaknessthan of will.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then tell me so roundly and sharply—don’t spare me.”

“I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water.” He heaved a sort ofshuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me downstairs. At first Idid 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 hadbecome 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 thelibrary—sitting in his chair—he was quite near. “If I could go out of life now,without too sharp a pang, it would be well for me,” I thought; “then I shouldnot have to make the effort of cracking my heart-strings in rending them fromamong Mr. Rochester’s. I must leave him, it appears. I do not want to leavehim—I cannot leave him.”

“How are you now, Jane?”

“Much better, sir; I shall be well soon.”

“Taste the wine again, Jane.”

I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before me, and lookedat me attentively. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate exclamation,full of passionate emotion of some kind; he walked fast through the room andcame back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me; but I remembered caresseswere now forbidden. I turned my face away and put his aside.

“What!—How is this?” he exclaimed hastily. “Oh, I know! you won’t kiss thehusband of Bertha Mason? You consider my arms filled and my embracesappropriated?”

“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 foryou—Because I have a wife already, you would reply.—I guess rightly?”

“Yes.”

“If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me; you must regard me asa plotting profligate—a base and low rake who has been simulating disinterestedlove in order to draw you into a snare deliberately laid, and strip you ofhonour and rob you of self-respect. What do you say to that? I see you can saynothing: in the first place, you are faint still, and have enough to do to drawyour breath; in the second place, you cannot yet accustom yourself to accuseand revile me, and besides, the flood-gates of tears are opened, and they wouldrush 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 consideris of no use. I know you—I am on my guard.”

“Sir, I do not wish to act against you,” I said; and my unsteady voice warnedme to curtail my sentence.

“Not in your sense of the word, but in mine you are scheming todestroy me. You have as good as said that I am a married man—as a married manyou will shun me, keep out of my way: just now you have refused to kiss me. Youintend to make yourself a complete stranger to me: to live under this roof onlyas Adèle’s governess; if ever I say a friendly word to you, if ever a friendlyfeeling inclines you again to me, you will say,—‘That man had nearly made mehis mistress: I must be ice and rock to him;’ and ice and rock you willaccordingly become.”

I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: “All is changed about me, sir; I mustchange too—there is no doubt of that; and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, andcontinual combats with recollections and associations, there is only oneway—Adèle must have a new governess, sir.”

“Oh, Adèle will go to school—I have settled that already; nor do I mean totorment you with the hideous associations and recollections of ThornfieldHall—this accursed place—this tent of Achan—this insolent vault, offering theghastliness of living death to the light of the open sky—this narrow stonehell, 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 toThornfield Hall, knowing as I did how it was haunted. I charged them to concealfrom 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 knewwith what inmate she was housed, and my plans would not permit me to remove themaniac elsewhere—though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even moreretired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, hadnot 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 wouldsoon have eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice; and mine isnot a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate.

“Concealing the mad-woman’s neighbourhood from you, however, was something likecovering a child with a cloak and laying it down near a upas-tree: that demon’svicinage is poisoned, and always was. But I’ll shut up Thornfield Hall: I’llnail up the front door and board the lower windows: I’ll give Mrs. Poole twohundred 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 GrimsbyRetreat, 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 atnight, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on—”

“Sir,” I interrupted him, “you are inexorable for that unfortunate lady: youspeak of her with hate—with vindictive antipathy. It is cruel—she cannot helpbeing mad.”

“Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don’t knowwhat you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because she is madI 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 thesort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to meas my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is mytreasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you raved,my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat—your grasp, even infury, would have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman didthis morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it wouldbe restrictive. I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: inyour quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I couldhang 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 ofrecognition for me.—But why do I follow that train of ideas? I was talking ofremoving 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 thisroof, Jane; and then, farewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have aplace to repair to, which will be a secure sanctuary from hatefulreminiscences, from unwelcome intrusion—even from falsehood and slander.”

“And take Adèle with you, sir,” I interrupted; “she will be a companion foryou.”

“What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send Adèle to school; and what do Iwant with a child for a companion, and not my own child,—a French dancer’sbastard? Why do you importune me about her! I say, why do you assign Adèle tome for a companion?”

“You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull: too dullfor you.”

“Solitude! solitude!” he reiterated with irritation. “I see I must come to anexplanation. I don’t know what sphynx-like expression is forming in yourcountenance. 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 theroom, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot. He looked at me longand hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed them on the fire, and tried toassume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect.

“Now for the hitch in Jane’s character,” he said at last, speaking more calmlythan from his look I had expected him to speak. “The reel of silk has runsmoothly 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! Ilong to exert a fraction of Samson’s strength, and break the entanglement liketow!”

He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this time just before me.

“Jane! will you hear reason?” (he stooped and approached his lips to my ear);“because, if you won’t, I’ll try violence.” His voice was hoarse; his look thatof a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlonginto wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzymore, I should be able to do nothing with him. The present—the passing secondof time—was all I had in which to control and restrain him: a movement ofrepulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom,—and his. But I was notafraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, whichsupported me. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as theIndian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took holdof his clenched hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him,soothingly—

“Sit down; I’ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to say,whether reasonable or unreasonable.”

He sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly. I had been strugglingwith tears for some time: I had taken great pains to repress them, because Iknew he would not like to see me weep. Now, however, I considered it well tolet them flow as freely and as long as they liked. If the flood annoyed him, somuch the better. So I gave way and cried heartily.

Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed. I said I could notwhile he was in such a passion.

“But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and you had steeled yourlittle 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, becamecalm. Now he made an effort to rest his head on my shoulder, but I would notpermit it. Then he would draw me to him: no.

“Jane! Jane!” he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it thrilled alongevery nerve I had; “you don’t love me, then? It was only my station, and therank of my wife, that you valued? Now that you think me disqualified to becomeyour 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 doneor said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse at thus hurtinghis 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 indulgethe 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 medaily, 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 oneway: but you will be furious if I mention it.”

“Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping.”

“Mr. Rochester, I must leave you.”

“For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth your hair—which issomewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face—which looks feverish?”

“I must leave Adèle and Thornfield. I must part with you for my whole life: Imust begin a new existence among strange faces and strange scenes.”

“Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the madness about parting fromme. You mean you must become a part of me. As to the new existence, it is allright: you shall yet be my wife: I am not married. You shall be Mrs.Rochester—both virtually and nominally. I shall keep only to you so long as youand I live. You shall go to a place I have in the south of France: awhitewashed villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall live ahappy, and guarded, and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure youinto error—to make you my mistress. Why did you shake your head? Jane, you mustbe reasonable, or in truth I shall again become frantic.”

His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye blazed: stillI dared to speak.

“Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning byyourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your mistress: tosay otherwise is sophistical—is false.”

“Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man—you forget that: I am not long-enduring;I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and yourself, put yourfinger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and—beware!”

He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking his cheek andlips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all hands. To agitate himthus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of thequestion. I did what human beings do instinctively when they are driven toutter extremity—looked for aid to one higher than man: the words “God help me!”burst involuntarily from my lips.

“I am a fool!” cried Mr. Rochester suddenly. “I keep telling her I am notmarried, and do not explain to her why. I forget she knows nothing of thecharacter of that woman, or of the circ*mstances attending my infernal unionwith her. Oh, I am certain Jane will agree with me in opinion, when she knowsall that I know! Just put your hand in mine, Janet—that I may have the evidenceof touch as well as sight, to prove you are near me—and I will in a few wordsshow 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 eldestson 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; hecould 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 heendure that a son of his should be a poor man. I must be provided for by awealthy marriage. He sought me a partner betimes. Mr. Mason, a West Indiaplanter and merchant, was his old acquaintance. He was certain his possessionswere real and vast: he made inquiries. Mr. Mason, he found, had a son anddaughter; and he learned from him that he could and would give the latter afortune of thirty thousand pounds: that sufficed. When I left college, I wassent out to Jamaica, to espouse a bride already courted for me. My father saidnothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was the boast of SpanishTown for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in thestyle of Blanche Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic. Her family wished to secureme because I was of a good race; and so did she. They showed her to me inparties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, and had very littleprivate conversation with her. She flattered me, and lavishly displayed for mypleasure her charms and accomplishments. All the men in her circle seemed toadmire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; andbeing ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is nofolly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, therashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its commission. Herrelatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she allured me: a marriage wasachieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no respect for myselfwhen I think of that act!—an agony of inward contempt masters me. I neverloved, I never esteemed, I did not even know her. I was not sure of theexistence of one virtue in her nature: I had marked neither modesty, norbenevolence, nor candour, nor refinement in her mind or manners—and, I marriedher:—gross, grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I was! With less sin I mighthave—But let me remember to whom I am speaking.

“My bride’s mother I had never seen: I understood she was dead. The honeymoonover, I learned my mistake; she was only mad, and shut up in a lunatic asylum.There was a younger brother, too—a complete dumb idiot. The elder one, whom youhave seen (and whom I cannot hate, whilst I abhor all his kindred, because hehas some grains of affection in his feeble mind, shown in the continuedinterest he takes in his wretched sister, and also in a dog-like attachment heonce bore me), will probably be in the same state one day. My father and mybrother Rowland knew all this; but they thought only of the thirty thousandpounds, and joined in the plot against me.

“These were vile discoveries; but except for the treachery of concealment, Ishould have made them no subject of reproach to my wife, even when I found hernature wholly alien to mine, her tastes obnoxious to me, her cast of mindcommon, low, narrow, and singularly incapable of being led to anything higher,expanded to anything larger—when I found that I could not pass a singleevening, nor even a single hour of the day with her in comfort; that kindlyconversation could not be sustained between us, because whatever topic Istarted, immediately received from her a turn at once coarse and trite,perverse and imbecile—when I perceived that I should never have a quiet orsettled household, because no servant would bear the continued outbreaks of herviolent and unreasonable temper, or the vexations of her absurd, contradictory,exacting orders—even then I restrained myself: I eschewed upbraiding, Icurtailed 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 shallexpress what I have to say. I lived with that woman upstairs four years, andbefore that time she had tried me indeed: her character ripened and developedwith frightful rapidity; her vices sprang up fast and rank: they were sostrong, only cruelty could check them, and I would not use cruelty. What apigmy intellect she had, and what giant propensities! How fearful were thecurses those propensities entailed on me! Bertha Mason, the true daughter of aninfamous mother, dragged me through all the hideous and degrading agonies whichmust 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 myfather died too. I was rich enough now—yet poor to hideous indigence: a naturethe most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was associated with mine, andcalled by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not rid myself of itby any legal proceedings: for the doctors now discovered that my wifewas mad—her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of insanity. Jane, youdon’t like my narrative; you look almost sick—shall I defer the rest to anotherday?”

“No, sir, finish it now; I pity you—I do earnestly pity you.”

“Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of tribute, whichone is justified in hurling back in the teeth of those who offer it; but thatis the sort of pity native to callous, selfish hearts; it is a hybrid,egotistical pain at hearing of woes, crossed with ignorant contempt for thosewho have endured them. But that is not your pity, Jane; it is not the feelingof which your whole face is full at this moment—with which your eyes are nowalmost overflowing—with which your heart is heaving—with which your hand istrembling in mine. Your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of love: itsanguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion. I accept it, Jane; letthe daughter have free advent—my arms wait to receive her.”

“Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad?”

“Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect was allthat intervened between me and the gulf. In the eyes of the world, I wasdoubtless covered with grimy dishonour; but I resolved to be clean in my ownsight—and to the last I repudiated the contamination of her crimes, andwrenched myself from connection with her mental defects. Still, societyassociated 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, Iremembered I had once been her husband—that recollection was then, and is now,inexpressibly odious to me; moreover, I knew that while she lived I could neverbe 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 infirmin mind. Thus, at the age of twenty-six, I was hopeless.

“One night I had been awakened by her yells—(since the medical men hadpronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up)—it was a fiery WestIndian night; one of the description that frequently precede the hurricanes ofthose climates. Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up and opened the window.The air was like sulphur-steams—I could find no refreshment anywhere.Mosquitoes came buzzing in and hummed sullenly round the room; the sea, which Icould hear from thence, rumbled dull like an earthquake—black clouds werecasting up over it; the moon was setting in the waves, broad and red, like ahot cannon-ball—she threw her last bloody glance over a world quivering withthe ferment of tempest. I was physically influenced by the atmosphere andscene, 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, withsuch language!—no professed harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary than she:though two rooms off, I heard every word—the thin partitions of the West Indiahouse opposing but slight obstruction to her wolfish cries.

“‘This life,’ said I at last, ‘is hell: this is the air—those are the sounds ofthe bottomless pit! I have a right to deliver myself from it if I can. Thesufferings of this mortal state will leave me with the heavy flesh that nowcumbers my soul. Of the fanatic’s burning eternity I have no fear: there is nota future state worse than this present one—let me break away, and go home toGod!’

“I said this whilst I knelt down at and unlocked a trunk which contained abrace of loaded pistols: I meant to shoot myself. I only entertained theintention for a moment; for, not being insane, the crisis of exquisite andunalloyed despair, which had originated the wish and design ofself-destruction, was past in a second.

“A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the opencasem*nt: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the air grew pure.I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I walked under the drippingorange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its drenched pomegranates andpine-apples, and while the refulgent dawn of the tropics kindled round me—Ireasoned thus, Jane—and now listen; for it was true Wisdom that consoled me inthat hour, and showed me the right path to follow.

“The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed leaves, andthe Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my heart, dried up andscorched for a long time, swelled to the tone, and filled with living blood—mybeing longed for renewal—my soul thirsted for a pure draught. I saw hoperevive—and felt regeneration possible. From a flowery arch at the bottom of mygarden I gazed over the sea—bluer than the sky: the old world was beyond; clearprospects opened thus:—

“‘Go,’ said Hope, ‘and live again in Europe: there it is not known what asullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to you. You may takethe maniac with you to England; confine her with due attendance and precautionsat Thornfield: then travel yourself to what clime you will, and form what newtie you like. That woman, who has so abused your long-suffering, so sulliedyour 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 impartthem to no living being. Place her in safety and comfort: shelter herdegradation with secrecy, and leave her.’

“I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and brother had not made mymarriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the very first letter I wroteto apprise them of the union—having already begun to experience extreme disgustof its consequences, and, from the family character and constitution, seeing ahideous future opening to me—I added an urgent charge to keep it secret: andvery soon the infamous conduct of the wife my father had selected for me wassuch as to make him blush to own her as his daughter-in-law. Far from desiringto 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 monsterin the vessel. Glad was I when I at last got her to Thornfield, and saw hersafely lodged in that third-storey room, of whose secret inner cabinet she hasnow for ten years made a wild beast’s den—a goblin’s cell. I had some troublein finding an attendant for her, as it was necessary to select one on whosefidelity dependence could be placed; for her ravings would inevitably betray mysecret: besides, she had lucid intervals of days—sometimes weeks—which shefilled up with abuse of me. At last I hired Grace Poole from the GrimbsyRetreat. She and the surgeon, Carter (who dressed Mason’s wounds that night hewas stabbed and worried), are the only two I have ever admitted to myconfidence. Mrs. Fairfax may indeed have suspected something, but she couldhave gained no precise knowledge as to facts. Grace has, on the whole, proved agood keeper; though, owing partly to a fault of her own, of which it appearsnothing can cure her, and which is incident to her harassing profession, hervigilance has been more than once lulled and baffled. The lunatic is bothcunning and malignant; she has never failed to take advantage of her guardian’stemporary 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 thenight-time. On the first of these occasions, she perpetrated the attempt toburn me in my bed; on the second, she paid that ghastly visit to you. I thankProvidence, who watched over you, that she then spent her fury on your weddingapparel, 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 ofthe thing which flew at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarletvisage over the nest of my dove, my blood curdles—”

“And what, sir,” I asked, while he paused, “did you do when you had settled herhere? Where did you go?”

“What did I do, Jane? I transformed myself into a will-o’-the-wisp. Where did Igo? I pursued wanderings as wild as those of the March-spirit. I sought theContinent, and went devious through all its lands. My fixed desire was to seekand find a good and intelligent woman, whom I could love: a contrast to thefury I left at Thornfield—”

“But you could not marry, sir.”

“I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought. It was not myoriginal intention to deceive, as I have deceived you. I meant to tell my taleplainly, and make my proposals openly: and it appeared to me so absolutelyrational that I should be considered free to love and be loved, I never doubtedsome 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 eyeslike an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless movement, as ifanswers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted to read thetablet of one’s heart. But before I go on, tell me what you mean by your ‘Well,sir?’ It is a small phrase very frequent with you; and which many a time hasdrawn me on and on through interminable talk: I don’t very well know why.”

“I mean,—What next? How did you proceed? What came of such an event?”

“Precisely! and what do you wish to know now?”

“Whether you found any one you liked: whether you asked her to marry you; andwhat she said.”

“I can tell you whether I found any one I liked, and whether I asked her tomarry me: but what she said is yet to be recorded in the book of Fate. For tenlong years I roved about, living first in one capital, then another: sometimesin St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; occasionally in Rome, Naples, andFlorence. Provided with plenty of money and the passport of an old name, Icould choose my own society: no circles were closed against me. I sought myideal of a woman amongst English ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras,and German gräfinnen. I could not find her. Sometimes, for a fleetingmoment, I thought I caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a form, whichannounced the realisation of my dream: but I was presently undeceived. You arenot to suppose that I desired perfection, either of mind or person. I longedonly for what suited me—for the antipodes of the Creole: and I longed vainly.Amongst them all I found not one whom, had I been ever so free, I—warned as Iwas of the risks, the horrors, the loathings of incongruous unions—would haveasked to marry me. Disappointment made me reckless. I tried dissipation—neverdebauchery: that I hated, and hate. That was my Indian Messalina’s attribute:rooted disgust at it and her restrained me much, even in pleasure. Anyenjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to approach me to her and her vices, andI eschewed it.

“Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship of mistresses. Thefirst I chose was Céline Varens—another of those steps which make a man spurnhimself when he recalls them. You already know what she was, and how my liaisonwith her terminated. She had two successors: an Italian, Giacinta, and aGerman, Clara; both considered singularly handsome. What was their beauty to mein a few weeks? Giacinta was unprincipled and violent: I tired of her in threemonths. Clara was honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, and unimpressible: notone whit to my taste. I was glad to give her a sufficient sum to set her up ina good line of business, and so get decently rid of her. But, Jane, I see byyour face you are not forming a very favourable opinion of me just now. Youthink me an unfeeling, loose-principled rake: don’t you?”

“I don’t like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed, sir. Did it notseem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first with one mistress andthen 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 ofexistence: I should never like to return to it. Hiring a mistress is the nextworse thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature, and always byposition, inferior: and to live familiarly with inferiors is degrading. I nowhate the recollection of the time I passed with Céline, 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 beeninstilled into me, as—under any pretext—with any justification—through anytemptation—to become the successor of these poor girls, he would one day regardme with the same feeling which now in his mind desecrated their memory. I didnot give utterance to this conviction: it was enough to feel it. I impressed iton my heart, that it might remain there to serve me as aid in the time oftrial.

“Now, Jane, why don’t you say ‘Well, sir?’ I have not done. You are lookinggrave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to the point. LastJanuary, rid of all mistresses—in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result ofa useless, roving, lonely life—corroded with disappointment, sourly disposedagainst all men, and especially against all womankind (for I began toregard 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. Abhorredspot! I expected no peace—no pleasure there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw aquiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did thepollard willow opposite to it: I had no presentiment of what it would be to me;no inward warning that the arbitress of my life—my genius for good orevil—waited there in humble guise. I did not know it, even when, on theoccasion of Mesrour’s accident, it came up and gravely offered me help.Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped to my footand proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing would notgo: it stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sortof authority. I must be aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.

“When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new—a fresh sap andsense—stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this elf must returnto me—that it belonged to my house down below—or I could not have felt it passaway from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, withoutsingular regret. I heard you come home that night, Jane, though probably youwere not aware that I thought of you or watched for you. The next day Iobserved you—myself unseen—for half-an-hour, while you played with Adèle in thegallery. It was a snowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out of doors. Iwas in my room; the door was ajar: I could both listen and watch. Adèle claimedyour 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 andamused her a long time. When at last she left you, you lapsed at once into deepreverie: you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, inpassing a casem*nt, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened tothe sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think those dayvisions were not dark: there was a pleasurable illumination in your eyeoccasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter,bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your look revealed rather the sweet musings ofyouth when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on toan 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 wasmuch sense in your smile: it was very shrewd, and seemed to make light of yourown abstraction. It seemed to say—‘My fine visions are all very well, but Imust not forget they are absolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a greenflowery Eden in my brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet arough tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter.’ Youran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation: the weekly houseaccounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think it was. I was vexedwith you for getting out of my sight.

“Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my presence. Anunusual—to me—a perfectly new character I suspected was yours: I desired tosearch it deeper and know it better. You entered the room with a look and airat once shy and independent: you were quaintly dressed—much as you are now. Imade you talk: ere long I found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb andmanner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogetherthat of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a gooddeal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism orblunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye toyour interlocutor’s face: there was penetration and power in each glance yougave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. Verysoon you seemed to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence of sympathybetween you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was astonishing to seehow quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your manner: snarl as Iwould, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at mymoroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yetsagacious grace I cannot describe. I was at once content and stimulated withwhat I saw: I liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a longtime, I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely. I was anintellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of making thisnovel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while troubled with ahaunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade—thesweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not then know that it was notransitory blossom, but rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in anindestructible gem. Moreover, I wished to see whether you would seek me if Ishunned you—but you did not; you kept in the schoolroom as still as your owndesk and easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with aslittle token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitualexpression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for youwere not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actualpleasure. I wondered what you thought of me, or if you ever thought of me, andresolved to find this out.

“I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, andgenial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it wasthe silent schoolroom—it was the tedium of your life—that made you mournful. Ipermitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotionsoon: your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my namepronounced by your lips in a grateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chancemeeting with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in yourmanner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble—a hovering doubt: you did notknow what my caprice might be—whether I was going to play the master and bestern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often tosimulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, suchbloom and light and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had much adooften to avoid straining you then and there to my heart.”

“Don’t talk any more of those days, sir,” I interrupted, furtively dashing awaysome tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew what I mustdo—and do soon—and all these reminiscences, and these revelations of hisfeelings only made my work more difficult.

“No, Jane,” he returned: “what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, whenthe Present is so much surer—the Future so much brighter?”

I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.

“You see now how the case stands—do you not?” he continued. “After a youth andmanhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I havefor the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You aremy sympathy—my better self—my good angel. I am bound to you with a strongattachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion isconceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring oflife, 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 methat I had already a wife is empty mockery: you know now that I had but ahideous demon. I was wrong to attempt to deceive you; but I feared astubbornness that exists in your character. I feared early instilled prejudice:I wanted to have you safe before hazarding confidences. This was cowardly: Ishould have appealed to your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I donow—opened to you plainly my life of agony—described to you my hunger andthirst after a higher and worthier existence—shown to you, not myresolution (that word is weak), but my resistless bent to lovefaithfully and well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return. Then Ishould have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours.Jane—give it me now.”

A pause.

“Why are you silent, Jane?”

I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals. Terriblemoment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a human being that ever livedcould wish to be loved better than I was loved; and him who thus loved me Iabsolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love and idol. One drear wordcomprised my intolerable duty—“Depart!”

“Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise—‘I will be yours,Mr. Rochester.’”

“Mr. Rochester, I will not be yours.”

Another long silence.

“Jane!” recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, andturned me stone-cold with ominous terror—for this still voice was the pant of alion rising—“Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me goanother?”

“I do.”

“Jane” (bending towards and embracing me), “do you mean it now?”

“I do.”

“And now?” softly kissing my forehead and cheek.

“I do,” extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.

“Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This—this is wicked. It would not be wicked to loveme.”

“It would to obey you.”

A wild look raised his brows—crossed his features: he rose; but he foreboreyet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I shook, I feared—but Iresolved.

“One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. Allhappiness will be torn away with you. What then is left? For a wife I have butthe maniac upstairs: as well might you refer me to some corpse in yonderchurchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a companion and for somehope?”

“Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet againthere.”

“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 apassion—vice for an occupation?”

“Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it formyself. We were born to strive and endure—you as well as I: do so. You willforget me before I forget you.”

“You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I declared I couldnot change: you tell me to my face I shall change soon. And what a distortionin 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 merehuman law, no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relativesnor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?”

This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned traitorsagainst me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They spoke almost asloud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. “Oh, comply!” it said. “Think ofhis misery; think of his danger—look at his state when left alone; remember hisheadlong nature; consider the recklessness following on despair—soothe him;save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the worldcares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?”

Still indomitable was the reply—“I care for myself. The more solitary,the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to theprinciples received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now. Laws andprinciples are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for suchmoments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour;stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience Imight break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have alwaysbelieved; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quiteinsane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I cancount its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all Ihave 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 waswrought to the highest: he must yield to it for a moment, whatever followed; hecrossed the floor and seized my arm and grasped my waist. He seemed to devourme with his flaming glance: physically, I felt, at the moment, powerless asstubble exposed to the draught and glow of a furnace: mentally, I stillpossessed my soul, and with it the certainty of ultimate safety. The soul,fortunately, has an interpreter—often an unconscious, but still a truthfulinterpreter—in the eye. My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his fierceface I gave an involuntary sigh; his gripe was painful, and my over-taxedstrength almost exhausted.

“Never,” said he, as he ground his teeth, “never was anything at once so frailand so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!” (And he shook me withthe force of his hold.) “I could bend her with my finger and thumb: and whatgood 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, withmore than courage—with a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannotget at it—the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slightprison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of thehouse; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myselfpossessor of its clay dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit—with will andenergy, and virtue and purity—that I want: not alone your brittle frame. Ofyourself you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart, if youwould: seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence—youwill 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. Thelook 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 hissorrow: 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, mywild 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 upto your own room; think over all I have said, and, Jane, cast a glance on mysufferings—think of me.”

He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa. “Oh, Jane! my hope—mylove—my life!” broke in anguish from his lips. Then came a deep, strong sob.

I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back—walked back asdeterminedly as I had retreated. I knelt down by him; I turned his face fromthe 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 andwrong—direct you, solace you—reward you well for your past kindness to me.”

“Little Jane’s love would have been my best reward,” he answered; “without it,my heart is broken. But Jane will give me her love: yes—nobly, generously.”

Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his eyes; erect hesprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded the embrace, and at once quitted theroom.

“Farewell!” was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added, “Farewell forever!”

That night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as soon as I laydown in bed. I was transported in thought to the scenes of childhood: I dreamtI lay in the red-room at Gateshead; that the night was dark, and my mindimpressed with strange fears. The light that long ago had struck me intosyncope, recalled in this vision, seemed glidingly to mount the wall, andtremblingly to pause in the centre of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up my headto look: the roof resolved to clouds, high and dim; the gleam was such as themoon imparts to vapours she is about to sever. I watched her come—watched withthe strangest anticipation; as though some word of doom were to be written onher disk. She broke forth as never moon yet burst from cloud: a hand firstpenetrated the sable folds and waved them away; then, not a moon, but a whitehuman form shone in the azure, inclining a glorious brow earthward. It gazedand gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit: immeasurably distant was the tone, yetso 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 tooearly 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 drawerssome linen, a locket, a ring. In seeking these articles, I encountered thebeads of a pearl necklace Mr. Rochester had forced me to accept a few days ago.I left that; it was not mine: it was the visionary bride’s who had melted inair. The other articles I made up in a parcel; my purse, containing twentyshillings (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. Nothought could be admitted of entering to embrace her. I had to deceive a fineear: for aught I knew it might now be listening.

I would have got past Mr. Rochester’s chamber without a pause; but my heartmomentarily stopping its beat at that threshold, my foot was forced to stopalso. No sleep was there: the inmate was walking restlessly from wall to wall;and again and again he sighed while I listened. There was a heaven—a temporaryheaven—in this room for me, if I chose: I had but to go in and to say—

“Mr. Rochester, I will love you and live with you through life till death,” anda 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 soughtfor: vainly. He would feel himself forsaken; his love rejected: he wouldsuffer; perhaps grow desperate. I thought of this too. My hand moved towardsthe lock: I caught it back, and glided on.

Drearily I wound my way downstairs: I knew what I had to do, and I did itmechanically. 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, Igot some bread: for perhaps I should have to walk far; and my strength, sorelyshaken of late, must not break down. All this I did without one sound. I openedthe door, passed out, shut it softly. Dim dawn glimmered in the yard. The greatgates 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 contrarydirection to Millcote; a road I had never travelled, but often noticed, andwondered where it led: thither I bent my steps. No reflection was to be allowednow: not one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward. Not one thoughtwas to be given either to the past or the future. The first was a page soheavenly sweet—so deadly sad—that to read one line of it would dissolve mycourage and break down my energy. The last was an awful blank: something likethe world when the deluge was gone by.

I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise. I believe it was alovely summer morning: I know my shoes, which I had put on when I left thehouse, were soon wet with dew. But I looked neither to rising sun, nor smilingsky, nor wakening nature. He who is taken out to pass through a fair scene tothe scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that smile on his road, but of theblock and axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gapingat the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering—and oh! withagony I thought of what I left. I could not help it. I thought of him now—inhis room—watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would staywith him and be his. I longed to be his; I panted to return: it was not toolate; I could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement. As yet my flight, Iwas sure, was undiscovered. I could go back and be his comforter—his pride; hisredeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of hisself-abandonment—far worse than my abandonment—how it goaded me! It was abarbed arrow-head in my breast; it tore me when I tried to extract it; itsickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in. Birds began singing in brakeand copse: birds were faithful to their mates; birds were emblems of love. Whatwas I? In the midst of my pain of heart and frantic effort of principle, Iabhorred myself. I had no solace from self-approbation: none even fromself-respect. I had injured—wounded—left my master. I was hateful in my owneyes. Still I could not turn, nor retrace one step. God must have led me on. Asto my own will or conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one and stifledthe other. I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary way: fast, fast Iwent like one delirious. A weakness, beginning inwardly, extending to thelimbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some minutes, pressing myface to the wet turf. I had some fear—or hope—that here I should die: but I wassoon up; crawling forwards on my hands and knees, and then again raised to myfeet—as eager and as determined as ever to reach the road.

When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge; and while Isat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on. I stood up and lifted my hand; itstopped. 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 hewould 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 theinside, as the vehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on itsway.

Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shedsuch stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you neverappeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in that hour left mylips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to whatyou wholly love.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down at aplace 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 mileoff by this time; I am alone. At this moment I discover that I forgot to takemy 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 wherefour roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at a distance andin darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest town to which thesepoint is, according to the inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, abovetwenty. From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I havelighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: thisI see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves ofmountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The population here must bethin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west,north, and south—white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and theheather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller mightpass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I amdoing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I mightbe questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible andexcite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment—not acharm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are—none that saw me wouldhave a kind thought or a good wish for me. I have no relative but the universalmother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.

I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowingthe brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with itsturnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden angle, I satdown 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 thatwild 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 abull; if a plover whistled, I imagined it a man. Finding my apprehensionsunfounded, however, and calmed by the deep silence that reigned as eveningdeclined at nightfall, I took confidence. As yet I had not thought; I had onlylistened, watched, dreaded; now I regained the faculty of reflection.

What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could donothing and go nowhere!—when a long way must yet be measured by my weary,trembling limbs before I could reach human habitation—when cold charity must beentreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant sympathy importuned, almostcertain repulse incurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of mywants 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 chasmridge. The dew fell, but with propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Natureseemed 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 herwith filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was herchild: my mother would lodge me without money and without price. I had onemorsel of bread yet: the remnant of a roll I had bought in a town we passedthrough at noon with a stray penny—my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaminghere and there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a handful and ate themwith the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased bythis hermit’s meal. I said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chosemy couch.

Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet were buried init; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow space for the night-air toinvade. I folded my shawl double, and spread it over me for a coverlet; a low,mossy swell was my pillow. Thus lodged, I was not, at least at the commencementof the night, cold.

My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It plainedof its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. It trembled forMr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded himwith ceaseless longing; and, impotent as a bird with both wings broken, itstill 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, andher planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the companionshipof fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presencemost when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is inthe unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that weread clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen tomy knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, sawthe mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it was—what countless systems thereswept space like a soft trace of light—I felt the might and strength of God.Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew thatneither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned myprayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr.Rochester was safe: he was God’s, and by God would he be guarded. I againnestled 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 hadleft their nests; long after bees had come in the sweet prime of day to gatherthe heath honey before the dew was dried—when the long morning shadows werecurtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky—I got up, and I looked round me.

What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading moor!Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I saw a lizard runover the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweet bilberries. I would fain at themoment have become bee or lizard, that I might have found fitting nutriment,permanent shelter here. But I was a human being, and had a human being’s wants:I must not linger where there was nothing to supply them. I rose; I looked backat the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this—that my Makerhad that night thought good to require my soul of me while I slept; and thatthis weary frame, absolved by death from further conflict with fate, had nowbut 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; thesuffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out.

Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, now fervent andhigh. By no other circ*mstance had I will to decide my choice. I walked a longtime, and when I thought I had nearly done enough, and might conscientiouslyyield to the fatigue that almost overpowered me—might relax this forced action,and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy thatclogged heart and limb—I heard a bell chime—a church bell.

I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the romantic hills,whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I saw a hamlet and aspire. All the valley at my right hand was full of pasture-fields, andcornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zig-zag through the variedshades of green, the mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunnylea. Recalled by the rumbling of wheels to the road before me, I saw aheavily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and not far beyond were two cowsand their drover. Human life and human labour were near. I must struggle on:strive to live and bend to toil like the rest.

About two o’clock P.M. I entered the village. At the bottom ofits 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 adegree of energy: without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The wish tohave some strength and some vigour returned to me as soon as I was amongst myfellow-beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint with hunger on thecauseway of a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in exchange for oneof these rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchief tied round mythroat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how men and women in extremitiesof destitution proceeded. I did not know whether either of these articles wouldbe accepted: probably they would not; but I must try.

I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed person, alady as she supposed, she came forward with civility. How could she serve me? Iwas seized with shame: my tongue would not utter the request I had prepared. Idared not offer her the half-worn gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides, Ifelt it would be absurd. I only begged permission to sit down a moment, as Iwas tired. Disappointed in the expectation of a customer, she coolly acceded tomy 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 thevillage?”

“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 withNecessity. I stood in the position of one without a resource, without a friend,without a coin. I must do something. What? I must apply somewhere. Where?

“Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servant was wanted?”

“Nay; she couldn’t say.”

“What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of the people do?”

“Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver’s needle-factory,and at the foundry.”

“Did Mr. Oliver employ women?”

“Nay; it was men’s work.”

“And what do the women do?”

“I knawn’t,” was the answer. “Some does one thing, and some another. Poor folkmun get on as they can.”

She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claim had I toimportune her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair was evidently wanted. Itook leave.

I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to the right handand to the left; but I could discover no pretext, nor see an inducement toenter any. I rambled round the hamlet, going sometimes to a little distance andreturning again, for an hour or more. Much exhausted, and suffering greatly nowfor want of food, I turned aside into a lane and sat down under the hedge. Eremany minutes had elapsed, I was again on my feet, however, and again searchingsomething—a resource, or at least an informant. A pretty little house stood atthe top of the lane, with a garden before it, exquisitely neat and brilliantlyblooming. I stopped at it. What business had I to approach the white door ortouch the glittering knocker? In what way could it possibly be the interest ofthe inhabitants of that dwelling to serve me? Yet I drew near and knocked. Amild-looking, cleanly-attired young woman opened the door. In such a voice asmight be expected from a hopeless heart and fainting frame—a voice wretchedlylow and faltering—I asked if a servant was wanted here?

“No,” said she; “we do not keep a servant.”

“Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?” I continued. “I ama stranger, without acquaintance in this place. I want some work: no matterwhat.”

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,” andthe white door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it shut me out. If she hadheld 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 prospectof aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviate to a wood I saw notfar off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer inviting shelter; but I wasso sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature’s cravings, instinct kept me roaminground abodes where there was a chance of food. Solitude would be nosolitude—rest no rest—while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak and talons inmy side.

I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again I wanderedaway: always repelled by the consciousness of having no claim to ask—no rightto expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon advanced, whileI thus wandered about like a lost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I sawthe church spire before me: I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, and inthe middle of a garden, stood a well-built though small house, which I had nodoubt was the parsonage. I remembered that strangers who arrive at a placewhere they have no friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to theclergyman for introduction and aid. It is the clergyman’s function to help—atleast with advice—those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to havesomething like a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my courage, andgathering my feeble remains of strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, andknocked at the kitchen-door. An old woman opened: I asked was this theparsonage?

“Yes.”

“Was the clergyman in?”

“No.”

“Would he be in soon?”

“No, he was gone from home.”

“To a distance?”

“Not so far—happen three mile. He had been called away by the sudden death ofhis father: he was at Marsh End now, and would very likely stay there afortnight longer.”

“Was there any lady of the house?”

“Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper;” and of her, reader, Icould not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was sinking; I could notyet beg; and again I crawled away.

Once more I took off my handkerchief—once more I thought of the cakes of breadin the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but one mouthful to allay the pangof famine! Instinctively I turned my face again to the village; I found theshop again, and I went in; and though others were there besides the woman Iventured the request—“Would she give me a roll for this handkerchief?”

She looked at me with evident suspicion: “Nay, she never sold stuff i’ thatway.”

Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused. “How could shetell 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 isenjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I canscarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral degradation,blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever tobe willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it waswhat was to be expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary beggar isfrequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitably so. To besure, what I begged was employment; but whose business was it to provide mewith employment? Not, certainly, that of persons who saw me then for the firsttime, and who knew nothing about my character. And as to the woman who wouldnot take my handkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if theoffer appeared to her sinister or the exchange unprofitable. Let me condensenow. I am sick of the subject.

A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open door of which thefarmer 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 aglance 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 aneccentric sort of lady, who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as Iwas 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 Ihave before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my rest broken: the groundwas damp, the air cold: besides, intruders passed near me more than once, and Ihad again and again to change my quarters: no sense of safety or tranquillitybefriended me. Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day waswet. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, Isought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved; but once did foodpass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl about to throw amess 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 giveher these porridge.”

“Well lass,” replied a voice within, “give it her if she’s a beggar. T’ pigdoesn’t want it.”

The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured itravenously.

As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path, which I hadbeen pursuing an hour or more.

“My strength is quite failing me,” I said in a soliloquy. “I feel I cannot gomuch farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night? While the rain descendsso, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched ground? I fear I cannot dootherwise: for who will receive me? But it will be very dreadful, with thisfeeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation—this totalprostration 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 struggleto retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester isliving: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannotsubmit 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 strayedfar from the village: it was quite out of sight. The very cultivationsurrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross-ways and by-paths, once moredrawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a few fields, almost as wildand unproductive as the heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, laybetween me and the dusky hill.

“Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequented road,” Ireflected. “And far better that crows and ravens—if any ravens there be inthese regions—should pick my flesh from my bones, than that they should beprisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper’s grave.”

To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only to find ahollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not secure. But allthe 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 boreonly heath. Dark as it was getting, I could still see these changes, though butas mere alternations of light and shade; for colour had faded with thedaylight.

My eye still roved over the sullen swell and along the moor-edge, vanishingamidst the wildest scenery, when at one dim point, far in among the marshes andthe ridges, a light sprang up. “That is an ignis fatuus,” was my firstthought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, quitesteadily, neither receding nor advancing. “Is it, then, a bonfire justkindled?” I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread: but no; as itdid not diminish, so it did not enlarge. “It may be a candle in a house,” Ithen 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 thedoor to have it shut in my face.”

And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground. I lay stilla while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and died moaning inthe distance; the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin. Could I buthave stiffened to the still frost—the friendly numbness of death—it might havepelted on; I should not have felt it; but my yet living flesh shuddered at itschilling influence. I rose ere long.

The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain. I tried towalk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it. It led me aslantover 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 felltwice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties. This light was my forlornhope: I must gain it.

Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. I approachedit; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, which now beamedfrom a sort of knoll, amidst a clump of trees—firs, apparently, from what Icould distinguish of the character of their forms and foliage through thegloom. My star vanished as I drew near: some obstacle had intervened between meand it. I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before me: I discriminated therough stones of a low wall—above it, something like palisades, and within, ahigh and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before me:it was a gate—a wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On each sidestood a sable bush—holly or yew.

Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a house rose toview, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone nowhere. All wasobscurity. Were the inmates retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In seekingthe door, I turned an angle: there shot out the friendly gleam again, from thelozenged 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, whoseleaves 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 beendeemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliageshooting over it, I could see all within. I could see clearly a room with asanded floor, clean scoured; a dresser of walnut, with pewter plates ranged inrows, reflecting the redness and radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see aclock, a white deal table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been mybeacon, burnt on the table; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhatrough-looking, but scrupulously clean, like all about her, was knitting astocking.

I noticed these objects cursorily only—in them there was nothing extraordinary.A group of more interest appeared near the hearth, sitting still amidst therosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two young, graceful women—ladies in everypoint—sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool; both woredeep mourning of crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off veryfair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on theknee of one girl—in the lap of the other was cushioned a black cat.

A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Who were they? Theycould not be the daughters of the elderly person at the table; for she lookedlike a rustic, and they were all delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere seensuch faces as theirs: and yet, as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with everylineament. I cannot call them handsome—they were too pale and grave for theword: 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 whichthey frequently referred, comparing them, seemingly, with the smaller booksthey held in their hands, like people consulting a dictionary to aid them inthe task of translation. This scene was as silent as if all the figures hadbeen shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I couldhear the cinders fall from the grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner; andI even fancied I could distinguish the click-click of the woman’sknitting-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 aretogether in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dream from which he hasawakened in terror—listen!” And in a low voice she read something, of which notone word was intelligible to me; for it was in an unknown tongue—neither Frenchnor Latin. Whether it were Greek or German I could not tell.

“That is strong,” she said, when she had finished: “I relish it.” The othergirl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, while shegazed at the fire, a line of what had been read. At a later day, I knew thelanguage and the book; therefore, I will here quote the line: though, when Ifirst heard it, it was only like a stroke on sounding brass to me—conveying nomeaning:—

“‘Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.’ Good! good!” sheexclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. “There you have a dim andmighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages offustian. ‘Ich wäge die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und die Werkemit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.’ I like it!”

Both were again silent.

“Is there ony country where they talk i’ that way?” asked the old woman,looking up from her knitting.

“Yes, Hannah—a far larger country than England, where they talk in no otherway.”

“Well, for sure case, I knawn’t how they can understand t’ one t’other: and ifeither o’ ye went there, ye could tell what they said, I guess?”

“We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all—for we are notas clever as you think us, Hannah. We don’t speak German, and we cannot read itwithout a dictionary to help us.”

“And what good does it do you?”

“We mean to teach it some time—or at least the elements, as they say; and thenwe shall get more money than we do now.”

“Varry like: but give ower studying; ye’ve done enough for to-night.”

“I think we have: at least I’m tired. Mary, are you?”

“Mortally: after all, it’s tough work fa*gging away at a language with no masterbut a lexicon.”

“It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but glorious Deutsch. Iwonder when St. John will come home.”

“Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a little gold watchshe drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah: will you have the goodness tolook at the fire in the parlour?”

The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a passage: soon Iheard 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: itlooks so lonesome wi’ the chair empty and set back in a corner.”

She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave before, looked sad now.

“But he is in a better place,” continued Hannah: “we shouldn’t wish him hereagain. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death nor he had.”

“You say he never mentioned us?” inquired one of the ladies.

“He hadn’t time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was your father. He had been abit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify; and when Mr. St. Johnasked if he would like either o’ ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. Hebegan again with a bit of a heaviness in his head the next day—that is, afortnight sin’—and he went to sleep and niver wakened: he wor a’most stark whenyour brother went into t’ chamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that’s t’ last o’t’ old stock—for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to them ’at’sgone; for all your mother wor mich i’ your way, and a’most as book-learned. Shewor 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 Inow concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair complexioned andslenderly 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 differencein their style of wearing it; Mary’s pale brown locks were parted and braidedsmooth: Diana’s duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The clockstruck ten.

“Ye’ll want your supper, I am sure,” observed Hannah; “and so will Mr. St. Johnwhen he comes in.”

And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemed about towithdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so intent on watchingthem, 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. Moredesolate, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. And how impossibledid it appear to touch the inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; tomake them believe in the truth of my wants and woes—to induce them to vouchsafea rest for my wanderings! As I groped out the door, and knocked at ithesitatingly, 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 bythe light of the candle she held.

“May I speak to your mistresses?” I said.

“You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do you come from?”

“I am a stranger.”

“What is your business here at this hour?”

“I want a night’s shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of bread toeat.”

Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah’s face. “I’ll give youa piece of bread,” she said, after a pause; “but we can’t take in a vagrant tolodge. It isn’t likely.”

“Do let me speak to your mistresses.”

“No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving about now; itlooks very ill.”

“But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?”

“Oh, I’ll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you don’t do wrong,that’s all. Here is a penny; now go—”

“A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther. Don’t shut thedoor:—oh, don’t, for God’s sake!”

“I must; the rain is driving in—”

“Tell the young ladies. Let me see them—”

“Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn’t makesuch a noise. Move off.”

“But I must die if I am turned away.”

“Not you. I’m fear’d you have some ill plans agate, that bring you about folk’shouses at this time o’ night. If you’ve any followers—housebreakers or suchlike—anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; wehave a gentleman, and dogs, and guns.” Here the honest but inflexible servantclapped the door to and bolted it within.

This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering—a throe of true despair—rentand heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another step could I stir. Isank on the wet doorstep: I groaned—I wrung my hands—I wept in utter anguish.Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror!Alas, this isolation—this banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of hope,but the footing of fortitude was gone—at least for a moment; but the last Isoon endeavoured to regain.

“I can but die,” I said, “and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will insilence.”

These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my miseryinto my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there—dumb and still.

“All men must die,” said a voice quite close at hand; “but all are notcondemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if youperished here of want.”

“Who or what speaks?” I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapablenow of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was near—what form,the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing.With a loud long knock, the new-comer appealed to the door.

“Is it you, Mr. St. John?” cried Hannah.

“Yes—yes; open quickly.”

“Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is! Come in—yoursisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad folks about.There has been a beggar-woman—I declare she is not gone yet!—laid down there.Get up! for shame! Move off, I say!”

“Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done your duty inexcluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was near, and listened toboth you and her. I think this is a peculiar case—I must at least examine intoit. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house.”

With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean, brightkitchen—on the very hearth—trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in thelast 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 possessedmy senses, though just now I could not speak.

“Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But she is wornto 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 thefire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to mylips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathyin her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotionspoke: “Try to eat.”

“Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s hand removed my sodden bonnet andlifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon.

“Not too much at first—restrain her,” said the brother; “she has had enough.”And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.

“A little more, St. John—look at the avidity in her eyes.”

“No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now—ask her her name.”

I felt I could speak, and I answered—“My name is Jane Elliott.” Anxious as everto 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 wasbrought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer outcast, vagrant, anddisowned by the wide world. I dared to put off the mendicant—to resume mynatural manner and character. I began once more to know myself; and when Mr.St. John demanded an account—which at present I was far too weak to render—Isaid 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 tookthe word—

“Do you mean,” she asked, “that we have now given you what aid you require? andthat we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?”

I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance, instinct bothwith power and goodness. I took sudden courage. Answering her compassionategaze with a smile, I said—“I will trust you. If I were a masterless and straydog, I know that you would not turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, Ireally have no fear. Do with me and for me as you like; but excuse me from muchdiscourse—my breath is short—I feel a spasm when I speak.” All three surveyedme, and all three were silent.

“Hannah,” said Mr. St. John, at last, “let her sit there at present, and askher no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that milk andbread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the matter over.”

They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned—I could not tell which. Akind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by the genial fire. In anundertone she gave some directions to Hannah. Ere long, with the servant’s aid,I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon awarm, dry bed received me. I thanked God—experienced amidst unutterableexhaustion a glow of grateful joy—and slept.

CHAPTER XXIX

The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very dim inmy mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but few thoughtsframed, and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small room and in a narrowbed. To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on it motionless as a stone; andto have torn me from it would have been almost to kill me. I took no note ofthe lapse of time—of the change from morning to noon, from noon to evening. Iobserved when any one entered or left the apartment: I could even tell who theywere; I could understand what was said when the speaker stood near to me; but Icould 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. Ihad a feeling that she wished me away: that she did not understand me or mycirc*mstances; that she was prejudiced against me. Diana and Mary appeared inthe chamber once or twice a day. They would whisper sentences of this sort atmy bedside—

“It is very well we took her in.”

“Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning hadshe been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone through?”

“Strange hardships, I imagine—poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer!”

“She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of speaking;her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off, though splashed andwet, were little worn and fine.”

“She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like it; andwhen in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would beagreeable.”

Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at thehospitality 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 wasthe result of reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue. He pronounced itneedless to send for a doctor: nature, he was sure, would manage best, left toherself. He said every nerve had been overstrained in some way, and the wholesystem must sleep torpid a while. There was no disease. He imagined my recoverywould be rapid enough when once commenced. These opinions he delivered in a fewwords, in a quiet, low voice; and added, after a pause, in the tone of a manlittle 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 ratherwarms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit herpermanently.”

“That is hardly likely,” was the reply. “You will find she is some young ladywho has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably injudiciouslyleft them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them, if she is notobstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face which make me sceptical ofher tractability.” He stood considering me some minutes; then added, “She lookssensible, 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 arequite wanting in those features.”

On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise in bed,and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast, about, as I supposed,the dinner-hour. I had eaten with relish: the food was good—void of thefeverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned what I had swallowed. When sheleft me, I felt comparatively strong and revived: ere long satiety of reposeand 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 fallenin the marsh. I felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so clad. I wasspared the humiliation.

On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My black silkfrock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were removed from it; thecreases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite decent. My very shoes andstockings were purified and rendered presentable. There were the means ofwashing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair. After a wearyprocess, and resting every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. Myclothes hung loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencieswith a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable looking—no speck of thedirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me,left—I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the banisters, to a narrowlow 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 toeradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilised byeducation: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones. Hannah had been coldand stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she had begun to relent a little; andwhen 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 downin my chair on the hearthstone, if you will.”

She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about, examining meevery now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to me, as she took someloaves 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 thequestion, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answeredquietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness—

“You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any more thanyourself or your young ladies.”

After a pause she said, “I dunnut understand that: you’ve like no house, nor nobrass, I guess?”

“The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money) does not make abeggar in your sense of the word.”

“Are you book-learned?” she inquired presently.

“Yes, very.”

“But you’ve never been to a boarding-school?”

“I was at a boarding-school eight years.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then?”

“I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What are you goingto do with these gooseberries?” I inquired, as she brought out a basket of thefruit.

“Mak’ ’em into pies.”

“Give them to me and I’ll pick them.”

“Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought.”

“But I must do something. Let me have them.”

She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my dress,“lest,” as she said, “I should mucky it.”

“Ye’ve not been used to sarvant’s wark, I see by your hands,” she remarked.“Happen ye’ve been a dressmaker?”

“No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don’t trouble yourhead further about me; but tell me the name of the house where we are.”

“Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House.”

“And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John?”

“Nay; he doesn’t live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at home, heis 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 hadasked to see the clergyman. “This, then, was his father’s residence?”

“Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather, and gurt(great) grandfather afore him.”

“The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers?”

“Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name.”

“And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?”

“Yes.”

“Their father is dead?”

“Dead three weeks sin’ of a stroke.”

“They have no mother?”

“The mistress has been dead this mony a year.”

“Have you lived with the family long?”

“I’ve lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three.”

“That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I will say somuch 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 wasquite mista’en in my thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats goes about,you mun forgie me.”

“And though,” I continued, rather severely, “you wished to turn me from thedoor, 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 norof mysel: poor things! They’ve like nobody to tak’ care on ’em but me. I’m liketo look sharpish.”

I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.

“You munnut think too hardly of me,” she again remarked.

“But I do think hardly of you,” I said; “and I’ll tell you why—not so muchbecause you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an impostor, asbecause you just now made it a species of reproach that I had no ‘brass’ and nohouse. 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 worwrang—but I’ve clear a different notion on you now to what I had. You look araight down dacent little crater.”

“That will do—I forgive you now. Shake hands.”

She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier smileillumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends.

Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and she madethe paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry details about herdeceased master and mistress, and “the childer,” as she called the youngpeople.

Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but a gentleman, and of asancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had belonged to the Rivers eversince it was a house: and it was, she affirmed, “aboon two hundred year old—forall it looked but a small, humble place, naught to compare wi’ Mr. Oliver’sgrand hall down i’ Morton Vale. But she could remember Bill Oliver’s father ajourneyman needlemaker; and th’ Rivers wor gentry i’ th’ owd days o’ th’Henrys, as onybody might see by looking into th’ registers i’ Morton Churchvestry.” Still, she allowed, “the owd maister was like other folk—naught michout o’ t’ common way: stark mad o’ shooting, and farming, and sich like.” Themistress 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, norever had been; they had liked learning, all three, almost from the time theycould 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 asthey left school, would seek places as governesses: for they had told her theirfather had some years ago lost a great deal of money by a man he had trustedturning bankrupt; and as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, theymust provide for themselves. They had lived very little at home for a longwhile, and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of their father’sdeath; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and all these moors and hillsabout. They had been in London, and many other grand towns; but they alwayssaid there was no place like home; and then they were so agreeable with eachother—never fell out nor “threaped.” She did not know where there was such afamily for being united.

Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked where the two ladies andtheir brother were now.

“Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back in half-an-hour totea.”

They returned within the time Hannah had allotted them: they entered by thekitchen 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 thepleasure she felt in seeing me well enough to be able to come down; Diana tookmy hand: she shook her head at me.

“You should have waited for my leave to descend,” she said. “You still lookvery pale—and so thin! Poor child!—poor girl!”

Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove. She possessedeyes whose gaze I delighted to encounter. Her whole face seemed to me full ofcharm. Mary’s countenance was equally intelligent—her features equally pretty;but her expression was more reserved, and her manners, though gentle, moredistant. Diana looked and spoke with a certain authority: she had a will,evidently. It was my nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an authoritysupported like hers, and to bend, where my conscience and self-respectpermitted, to an active will.

“And what business have you here?” she continued. “It is not your place. Maryand I sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home we like to be free, even tolicense—but you are a visitor, and must go into the parlour.”

“I am very well here.”

“Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you with flour.”

“Besides, the fire is too hot for you,” interposed Mary.

“To be sure,” added her sister. “Come, you must be obedient.” And still holdingmy 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 offand get the tea ready; it is another privilege we exercise in our littlemoorland home—to prepare our own meals when we are so inclined, or when Hannahis baking, brewing, washing, or ironing.”

She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. St. John, who sat opposite, abook or newspaper in his hand. I examined, first, the parlour, and then itsoccupant.

The parlour was rather a small room, very plainly furnished, yet comfortable,because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were very bright, and thewalnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A few strange, antique portraits ofthe men and women of other days decorated the stained walls; a cupboard withglass doors contained some books and an ancient set of china. There was nosuperfluous ornament in the room—not one modern piece of furniture, save abrace of workboxes and a lady’s desk in rosewood, which stood on a side-table:everything—including the carpet and curtains—looked at once well worn and wellsaved.

Mr. St. John—sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the walls,keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips mutely sealed—waseasy enough to examine. Had he been a statue instead of a man, he could nothave been easier. He was young—perhaps from twenty-eight to thirty—tall,slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure inoutline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. Itis 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 ownbeing so harmonious. His eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his highforehead, colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless locks offair hair.

This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader? Yet he whom it describesscarcely 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 abouthis nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to my perceptions, indicated elementswithin either restless, or hard, or eager. He did not speak to me one word, noreven direct to me one glance, till his sisters returned. Diana, as she passedin and out, in the course of preparing tea, brought me a little cake, baked onthe top of the oven.

“Eat that now,” she said: “you must be hungry. Hannah says you have had nothingbut some gruel since breakfast.”

I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened and keen. Mr. Rivers nowclosed his book, approached the table, and, as he took a seat, fixed his bluepictorial-looking eyes full on me. There was an unceremonious directness, asearching, decided steadfastness in his gaze now, which told that intention,and not diffidence, had hitherto kept it averted from the stranger.

“You are very hungry,” he said.

“I am, sir.” It is my way—it always was my way, by instinct—ever to meet thebrief with brevity, the direct with plainness.

“It is well for you that a low fever has forced you to abstain for the lastthree days: there would have been danger in yielding to the cravings of yourappetite at first. Now you may eat, though still not immoderately.”

“I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir,” was my veryclumsily-contrived, unpolished answer.

“No,” he said coolly: “when you have indicated to us the residence of yourfriends, 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 absolutelywithout home and friends.”

The three looked at me, but not distrustfully; I felt there was no suspicion intheir glances: there was more of curiosity. I speak particularly of the youngladies. St. John’s eyes, though clear enough in a literal sense, in afigurative one were difficult to fathom. He seemed to use them rather asinstruments to search other people’s thoughts, than as agents to reveal hisown: the which combination of keenness and reserve was considerably morecalculated to embarrass than to encourage.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that you are completely isolated from everyconnection?”

“I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do I possess toadmittance 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 tablebefore me. I wondered what he sought there: his words soon explained the quest.

“You have never been married? You are a spinster?”

Diana laughed. “Why, she can’t be above seventeen or eighteen years old, St.John,” said she.

“I am near nineteen: but I am not married. No.”

I felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and agitating recollectionswere awakened by the allusion to marriage. They all saw the embarrassment andthe emotion. Diana and Mary relieved me by turning their eyes elsewhere than tomy crimsoned visage; but the colder and sterner brother continued to gaze, tillthe 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 heleaned over the table and required an answer by a second firm and piercinglook.

“The name of the place where, and of the person with whom I lived, is mysecret,” 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 putme in the way of getting work which I can do, and the remuneration for whichwill 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 tothe utmost of my power in a purpose so honest. First, then, tell me what youhave been accustomed to do, and what you can do.”

I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily refreshed by the beverage; as muchso as a giant with wine: it gave new tone to my unstrung nerves, and enabled meto 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 greatservice—the greatest man can do his fellow-being; you have rescued me, by yournoble hospitality, from death. This benefit conferred gives you an unlimitedclaim on my gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent, on my confidence. Iwill tell you as much of the history of the wanderer you have harboured, as Ican tell without compromising my own peace of mind—my own security, moral andphysical, and that of others.

“I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died before I couldknow them. I was brought up a dependent; educated in a charitable institution.I will even tell you the name of the establishment, where I passed six years asa pupil, and two as a teacher—Lowood Orphan Asylum, ——shire: you will haveheard 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 agood situation, and was happy. This place I was obliged to leave four daysbefore I came here. The reason of my departure I cannot and ought not toexplain: it would be useless, dangerous, and would sound incredible. No blameattached 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 froma house I had found a paradise was of a strange and direful nature. I observedbut two points in planning my departure—speed, secrecy: to secure these, I hadto leave behind me everything I possessed except a small parcel; which, in myhurry and trouble of mind, I forgot to take out of the coach that brought me toWhitcross. To this neighbourhood, then, I came, quite destitute. I slept twonights in the open air, and wandered about two days without crossing athreshold: but twice in that space of time did I taste food; and it was whenbrought 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 theshelter of your roof. I know all your sisters have done for me since—for I havenot been insensible during my seeming torpor—and I owe to their spontaneous,genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to your evangelical charity.”

“Don’t make her talk any more now, St. John,” said Diana, as I paused; “she isevidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa and sit down now, MissElliott.”

I gave an involuntary half start at hearing the alias: I had forgottenmy 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 atpresent, but it is not my real name, and when I hear it, it sounds strange tome.”

“Your real name you will not give?”

“No: I fear discovery above all things; and whatever disclosure would lead toit, I avoid.”

“You are quite right, I am sure,” said Diana. “Now do, brother, let her be atpeace a while.”

But when St. John had mused a few moments he recommenced as imperturbably andwith as much acumen as ever.

“You would not like to be long dependent on our hospitality—you would wish, Isee, 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 Iresent it—it is just): you desire to be independent of us?”

“I do: I have already said so. Show me how to work, or how to seek work: thatis all I now ask; then let me go, if it be but to the meanest cottage; but tillthen, allow me to stay here: I dread another essay of the horrors of homelessdestitution.”

“Indeed you shall stay here,” said Diana, putting her white hand on myhead. “You shall,” repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrativesincerity which seemed natural to her.

“My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you,” said Mr. St. John, “asthey would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen bird somewintry wind might have driven through their casem*nt. I feel moreinclination to put you in the way of keeping yourself, and shall endeavour todo so; but observe, my sphere is narrow. I am but the incumbent of a poorcountry parish: my aid must be of the humblest sort. And if you are inclined todespise the day of small things, seek some more efficient succour than such asI can offer.”

“She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she cando,” answered Diana for me; “and you know, St. John, she has no choice ofhelpers: 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, anurse-girl, if I can be no better,” I answered.

“Right,” said Mr. St. John, quite coolly. “If such is your spirit, I promise toaid you, in my own time and way.”

He now resumed the book with which he had been occupied before tea. I soonwithdrew, for I had talked as much, and sat up as long, as my present strengthwould permit.

CHAPTER XXX

The more I knew of the inmates of Moor House, the better I liked them. In a fewdays I had so far recovered my health that I could sit up all day, and walk outsometimes. I could join with Diana and Mary in all their occupations; conversewith them as much as they wished, and aid them when and where they would allowme. There was a reviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted byme for the first time—the pleasure arising from perfect congeniality of tastes,sentiments, and principles.

I liked to read what they liked to read: what they enjoyed, delighted me; whatthey approved, I reverenced. They loved their sequestered home. I, too, in thegrey, small, antique structure, with its low roof, its latticed casem*nts, itsmouldering walls, its avenue of aged firs—all grown aslant under the stress ofmountain winds; its garden, dark with yew and holly—and where no flowers but ofthe hardiest species would bloom—found a charm both potent and permanent. Theyclung to the purple moors behind and around their dwelling—to the hollow valeinto which the pebbly bridle-path leading from their gate descended, and whichwound between fern-banks first, and then amongst a few of the wildest littlepasture-fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance toa flock of grey moorland sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs:—they clungto this scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment. I couldcomprehend the feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I saw thefascination of the locality. I felt the consecration of its loneliness: my eyefeasted on the outline of swell and sweep—on the wild colouring communicated toridge and dell by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliantbracken, and mellow granite crag. These details were just to me what they wereto them—so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast and thesoft 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, thesame attraction as for them—wound round my faculties the same spell thatentranced theirs.

Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both more accomplished and betterread than I was; but with eagerness I followed in the path of knowledge theyhad trodden before me. I devoured the books they lent me: then it was fullsatisfaction to discuss with them in the evening what I had perused during theday. 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, shefar excelled me: she was handsome; she was vigorous. In her animal spiritsthere was an affluence of life and certainty of flow, such as excited mywonder, while it baffled my comprehension. I could talk a while when theevening commenced, but the first gush of vivacity and fluency gone, I was fainto sit on a stool at Diana’s feet, to rest my head on her knee, and listenalternately to her and Mary, while they sounded thoroughly the topic on which Ihad but touched. Diana offered to teach me German. I liked to learn of her: Isaw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; that of scholar pleasedand suited me no less. Our natures dovetailed: mutual affection—of thestrongest kind—was the result. They discovered I could draw: their pencils andcolour-boxes were immediately at my service. My skill, greater in this onepoint than theirs, surprised and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch me bythe hour together: then she would take lessons; and a docile, intelligent,assiduous pupil she made. Thus occupied, and mutually entertained, days passedlike hours, and weeks like days.

As to Mr. St John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally and rapidlybetween me and his sisters did not extend to him. One reason of the distanceyet observed between us was, that he was comparatively seldom at home: a largeproportion of his time appeared devoted to visiting the sick and poor among thescattered population of his parish.

No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions: rain or fair, hewould, when his hours of morning study were over, take his hat, and, followedby his father’s old pointer, Carlo, go out on his mission of love or duty—Iscarcely know in which light he regarded it. Sometimes, when the day was veryunfavourable, his sisters would expostulate. He would then say, with a peculiarsmile, more solemn than cheerful—

“And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me aside from theseeasy tasks, what preparation would such sloth be for the future I propose tomyself?”

Diana and Mary’s general answer to this question was a sigh, and some minutesof apparently mournful meditation.

But besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier to friendship withhim: 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 yetdid not appear to enjoy that mental serenity, that inward content, which shouldbe 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, hewould cease reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, and deliver himselfup to I know not what course of thought; but that it was perturbed and excitingmight 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 wasto his sisters. He expressed once, and but once in my hearing, a strong senseof the rugged charm of the hills, and an inborn affection for the dark roof andhoary walls he called his home; but there was more of gloom than pleasure inthe tone and words in which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seemto roam the moors for the sake of their soothing silence—never seek out ordwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they could yield.

Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an opportunity ofgauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibre when I heard him preach inhis own church at Morton. I wish I could describe that sermon: but it is pastmy power. I cannot even render faithfully the effect it produced on me.

It began calm—and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voice went, it wascalm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictly restrained zeal breathed soonin the distinct accents, and prompted the nervous language. This grew toforce—compressed, condensed, controlled. The heart was thrilled, the mindastonished, by the power of the preacher: neither were softened. Throughoutthere was a strange bitterness; an absence of consolatory gentleness; sternallusions to Calvinistic doctrines—election, predestination, reprobation—werefrequent; and each reference to these points sounded like a sentence pronouncedfor doom. When he had done, instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightenedby his discourse, I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for it seemed to me—Iknow not whether equally so to others—that the eloquence to which I had beenlistening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs ofdisappointment—where moved troubling impulses of insatiate yearnings anddisquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Rivers—pure-lived, conscientious,zealous as he was—had not yet found that peace of God which passeth allunderstanding: he had no more found it, I thought, than had I with my concealedand racking regrets for my broken idol and lost elysium—regrets to which I havelatterly avoided referring, but which possessed me and tyrannised over meruthlessly.

Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave Moor House, andreturn to the far different life and scene which awaited them, as governessesin a large, fashionable, south-of-England city, where each held a situation infamilies by whose wealthy and haughty members they were regarded only as humbledependents, and who neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, andappreciated only their acquired accomplishments as they appreciated the skillof their cook or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr. St. John had saidnothing to me yet about the employment he had promised to obtain for me; yet itbecame urgent that I should have a vocation of some kind. One morning, beingleft alone with him a few minutes in the parlour, I ventured to approach thewindow-recess—which his table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind ofstudy—and I was going to speak, though not very well knowing in what words toframe my inquiry—for it is at all times difficult to break the ice of reserveglassing over such natures as his—when he saved me the trouble by being thefirst to commence a dialogue.

Looking up as I drew near—“You have a question to ask of me?” he said.

“Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can offer myselfto undertake?”

“I found or devised something for you three weeks ago; but as you seemed bothuseful and happy here—as my sisters had evidently become attached to you, andyour society gave them unusual pleasure—I deemed it inexpedient to break in onyour mutual comfort till their approaching departure from Marsh End shouldrender 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 willaccompany me; and this old house will be shut up.”

I waited a few moments, expecting he would go on with the subject firstbroached: but he seemed to have entered another train of reflection: his lookdenoted abstraction from me and my business. I was obliged to recall him to atheme 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 nothave increased the difficulty of securing it.”

“Oh, no; since it is an employment which depends only on me to give, and you toaccept.”

He again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue. I grew impatient: arestless movement or two, and an eager and exacting glance fastened on hisface, conveyed the feeling to him as effectually as words could have done, andwith less trouble.

“You need be in no hurry to hear,” he said: “let me frankly tell you, I havenothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I explain, recall, if youplease, my notice, clearly given, that if I helped you, it must be as the blindman would help the lame. I am poor; for I find that, when I have paid myfather’s debts, all the patrimony remaining to me will be this crumblinggrange, the row of scathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, with theyew-trees and holly-bushes in front. I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; butof the three sole descendants of the race, two earn the dependent’s crust amongstrangers, and the third considers himself an alien from his native country—notonly for life, but in death. Yes, and deems, and is bound to deem, himselfhonoured by the lot, and aspires but after the day when the cross of separationfrom fleshly ties shall be laid on his shoulders, and when the Head of thatchurch-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, deepvoice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance of glance. Heresumed—

“And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a service ofpoverty and obscurity. You may even think it degrading—for I see nowyour habits have been what the world calls refined: your tastes lean to theideal, and your society has at least been amongst the educated; but Iconsider that no service degrades which can better our race. I hold that themore arid and unreclaimed the soil where the Christian labourer’s task oftillage is appointed him—the scantier the meed his toil brings—the higher thehonour. His, under such circ*mstances, is the destiny of the pioneer; and thefirst pioneers of the Gospel were the Apostles—their captain was Jesus, theRedeemer, Himself.”

“Well?” I said, as he again paused—“proceed.”

He looked at me before he proceeded: indeed, he seemed leisurely to read myface, as if its features and lines were characters on a page. The conclusionsdrawn 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 awhile: not permanently, though: any more than I could permanently keep thenarrow and narrowing—the tranquil, hidden office of English country incumbent;for in your nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as that in mine, thoughof a different kind.”

“Do explain,” I urged, when he halted once more.

“I will; and you shall hear how poor the proposal is,—how trivial—how cramping.I shall not stay long at Morton, now that my father is dead, and that I am myown 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 thepoor were excluded from every hope of progress. I established one for boys: Imean now to open a second school for girls. I have hired a building for thepurpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to it for the mistress’s house.Her salary will be thirty pounds a year: her house is already furnished, verysimply, but sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the onlydaughter of the sole rich man in my parish—Mr. Oliver, the proprietor of aneedle-factory and iron-foundry in the valley. The same lady pays for theeducation and clothing of an orphan from the workhouse, on condition that sheshall aid the mistress in such menial offices connected with her own house andthe school as her occupation of teaching will prevent her having time todischarge in person. Will you be this mistress?”

He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect an indignant, orat least a disdainful rejection of the offer: not knowing all my thoughts andfeelings, though guessing some, he could not tell in what light the lot wouldappear to me. In truth it was humble—but then it was sheltered, and I wanted asafe asylum: it was plodding—but then, compared with that of a governess in arich house, it was independent; and the fear of servitude with strangersentered my soul like iron: it was not ignoble—not unworthy—not mentallydegrading, 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 willbe only poor girls—cottagers’ children—at the best, farmers’ daughters.Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering, will be all you will have toteach. What will you do with your accomplishments? What, with the largestportion of your mind—sentiments—tastes?”

“Save them till they are wanted. They will keep.”

“You know what you undertake, then?”

“I do.”

He now smiled: and not a bitter or a sad smile, but one well pleased and deeplygratified.

“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. Heshook 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 themaintenance of an even tenor in life.”

“I am not ambitious.”

He started at the word “ambitious.” He repeated, “No. What made you think ofambition? 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 theword, and been displeased. I mean, that human affections and sympathies have amost powerful hold on you. I am sure you cannot long be content to pass yourleisure in solitude, and to devote your working hours to a monotonous labourwholly void of stimulus: any more than I can be content,” he added, withemphasis, “to live here buried in morass, pent in with mountains—my nature,that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed, paralysed—madeuseless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I, who preached contentment witha humble lot, and justified the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers ofwater in God’s service—I, His ordained minister, almost rave in myrestlessness. Well, propensities and principles must be reconciled by somemeans.”

He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him than in the wholeprevious month: yet still he puzzled me.

Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day approached forleaving their brother and their home. They both tried to appear as usual; butthe sorrow they had to struggle against was one that could not be entirelyconquered or concealed. Diana intimated that this would be a different partingfrom any they had ever yet known. It would probably, as far as St. John wasconcerned, be a parting for years: it might be a parting for life.

“He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves,” she said: “naturalaffection and feelings more potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane; but hehides a fever in his vitals. You would think him gentle, yet in some things heis inexorable as death; and the worst of it is, my conscience will hardlypermit me to dissuade him from his severe decision: certainly, I cannot for amoment blame him for it. It is right, noble, Christian: yet it breaks myheart!” And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over herwork.

“We are now without father: we shall soon be without home and brother,” shemurmured.

At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed by fatepurposely to prove the truth of the adage, that “misfortunes never comesingly,” and to add to their distresses the vexing one of the slip between thecup 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 appearedin their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.

“Dead?” repeated Diana.

“Yes.”

She riveted a searching gaze on her brother’s face. “And what then?” shedemanded, in a low voice.

“What then, Die?” he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of feature. “Whatthen? Why—nothing. Read.”

He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed it to Mary.Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her brother. All three looked ateach other, and all three smiled—a dreary, pensive smile enough.

“Amen! We can yet live,” said Diana at last.

“At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before,” remarked Mary.

“Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what might havebeen,” said Mr. Rivers, “and contrasts it somewhat too vividly with whatis.”

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 ushard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so near a relation asan uncle; but we have never seen him or known him. He was my mother’s brother.My father and he quarrelled long ago. It was by his advice that my fatherrisked most of his property in the speculation that ruined him. Mutualrecrimination passed between them: they parted in anger, and were neverreconciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperous undertakings: itappears 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 closelyrelated than we. My father always cherished the idea that he would atone forhis error by leaving his possessions to us; that letter informs us that he hasbequeathed every penny to the other relation, with the exception of thirtyguineas, to be divided between St. John, Diana, and Mary Rivers, for thepurchase of three mourning rings. He had a right, of course, to do as hepleased: and yet a momentary damp is cast on the spirits by the receipt of suchnews. Mary and I would have esteemed ourselves rich with a thousand poundseach; and to St. John such a sum would have been valuable, for the good itwould have enabled him to do.”

This explanation given, the subject was dropped, and no further reference madeto it by either Mr. Rivers or his sisters. The next day I left Marsh End forMorton. 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 wasabandoned.

CHAPTER XXXI

My home, then, when I at last find a home,—is a cottage; a little room withwhitewashed walls and a sanded floor, containing four painted chairs and atable, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three plates and dishes, and a set oftea-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 filledwith my scanty wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and generous friendshas 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 orphanwho 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 canread: none write or cipher. Several knit, and a few sew a little. They speakwith the broadest accent of the district. At present, they and I have adifficulty in understanding each other’s language. Some of them are unmannered,rough, intractable, as well as ignorant; but others are docile, have a wish tolearn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. I must not forget that thesecoarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and blood as good as the scions ofgentlest genealogy; and that the germs of native excellence, refinement,intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to exist in their hearts as in thoseof the best-born. My duty will be to develop these germs: surely I shall findsome happiness in discharging that office. Much enjoyment I do not expect inthe life opening before me: yet it will, doubtless, if I regulate my mind, andexert 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 mustreply—No: I felt desolate to a degree. I felt—yes, idiot that I am—I feltdegraded. I doubted I had taken a step which sank instead of raising me in thescale 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 despisemyself too much for these feelings; I know them to be wrong—that is a greatstep gained; I shall strive to overcome them. To-morrow, I trust, I shall getthe better of them partially; and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quitesubdued. In a few months, it is possible, the happiness of seeing progress, anda change for the better in my scholars may substitute gratification fordisgust.

Meantime, let me ask myself one question—Which is better?—To have surrenderedto temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort—no struggle;—but tohave 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 havebeen now living in France, Mr. Rochester’s mistress; delirious with his lovehalf my time—for he would—oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. Hedid love me—no one will ever love me so again. I shall never more knowthe sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace—for never to any one elseshall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of me—it is what noman besides will ever be.—But where am I wandering, and what am I saying, andabove all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool’sparadise at Marseilles—fevered with delusive bliss one hour—suffocating withthe bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next—or to be avillage-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in thehealthy heart of England?

Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and law, andscorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment. God directed meto a correct choice: I thank His providence for the guidance!

Having brought my eventide musings to this point, I rose, went to my door, andlooked at the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet fields before mycottage, which, with the school, was distant half a mile from the village. Thebirds 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 erelong weeping—and why? For the doom which had reft me from adhesion to mymaster: for him I was no more to see; for the desperate grief and fatalfury—consequences of my departure—which might now, perhaps, be dragging himfrom 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 lonelyvale of Morton—I say lonely, for in that bend of it visible to me therewas 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. Oliverand his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head against the stoneframe of my door; but soon a slight noise near the wicket which shut in my tinygarden from the meadow beyond it made me look up. A dog—old Carlo, Mr. Rivers’pointer, as I saw in a moment—was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. Johnhimself leant upon it with folded arms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave almostto 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 foryou. 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 visibleupon it.

“Have you found your first day’s work harder than you expected?” he asked.

“Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with my scholars verywell.”

“But perhaps your accommodations—your cottage—your furniture—have disappointedyour 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 fooland sensualist as to regret the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and silver plate;besides, five weeks ago I had nothing—I was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant;now I have acquaintance, a home, a business. I wonder at the goodness of God;the generosity of my friends; the bounty of my lot. I do not repine.”

“But you feel solitude an oppression? The little house there behind you is darkand empty.”

“I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, much less to growimpatient under one of loneliness.”

“Very well; I hope you feel the content you express: at any rate, your goodsense will tell you that it is too soon yet to yield to the vacillating fearsof Lot’s wife. What you had left before I saw you, of course I do not know; butI counsel you to resist firmly every temptation which would incline you to lookback: 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 ofnature; but that it may be done, I know from experience. God has given us, in ameasure, the power to make our own fate; and when our energies seem to demand asustenance they cannot get—when our will strains after a path we may notfollow—we need neither starve from inanition, nor stand still in despair: wehave but to seek another nourishment for the mind, as strong as the forbiddenfood it longed to taste—and perhaps purer; and to hew out for the adventurousfoot 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 amistake in entering the ministry: its uniform duties wearied me to death. Iburnt for the more active life of the world—for the more exciting toils of aliterary career—for the destiny of an artist, author, orator; anything ratherthan that of a priest: yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of avotary of glory, a lover of renown, a luster after power, beat under mycurate’s surplice. I considered; my life was so wretched, it must be changed,or I must die. After a season of darkness and struggling, light broke andrelief fell: my cramped existence all at once spread out to a plain withoutbounds—my powers heard a call from heaven to rise, gather their full strength,spread their wings, and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bearwhich afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence, thebest qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, were all needed: forthese all centre in the good missionary.

“A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind changed; thefetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving nothing of bondagebut its galling soreness—which time only can heal. My father, indeed, imposedthe determination, but since his death, I have not a legitimate obstacle tocontend with; some affairs settled, a successor for Morton provided, anentanglement or two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder—a lastconflict with human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome, because I havevowed that I will overcome—and I leave Europe for the East.”

He said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet emphatic voice; looking, when hehad 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 thewicket. We had heard no step on that grass-grown track; the water running inthe vale was the one lulling sound of the hour and scene; we might well thenstart when a gay voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed—

“Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker torecognise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged histail when I was at the bottom of the field, and you have your back towards menow.”

It was true. Though Mr. Rivers had started at the first of those musicalaccents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head, he stood yet, atthe close of the sentence, in the same attitude in which the speaker hadsurprised him—his arm resting on the gate, his face directed towards the west.He turned at last, with measured deliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me,had risen at his side. There appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad inpure white—a youthful, graceful form: full, yet fine in contour; and when,after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back a longveil, there bloomed under his glance a face of perfect beauty. Perfect beautyis a strong expression; but I do not retrace or qualify it: as sweet featuresas ever the temperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily asever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and screened, justified, inthis instance, the term. No charm was wanting, no defect was perceptible; theyoung girl had regular and delicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as wesee them in lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowyeyelash which encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilledbrow which gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds suchrepose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh, andsmooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the even andgleaming teeth without flaw; the small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich,plenteous tresses—all advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the idealof beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: Iadmired her with my whole heart. Nature had surely formed her in a partialmood; and, forgetting her usual stinted step-mother dole of gifts, had endowedthis, her darling, with a grand-dame’s bounty.

What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? I naturally asked myselfthat question as I saw him turn to her and look at her; and, as naturally, Isought the answer to the inquiry in his countenance. He had already withdrawnhis eye from the Peri, and was looking at a humble tuft of daisies which grewby the wicket.

“A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone,” he said, as he crushedthe snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot.

“Oh, I only came home from S——” (she mentioned the name of a large town sometwenty 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, andran 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 naïvesimplicity 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 MissOliver, the heiress; favoured, it seems, in the gifts of fortune, as well as inthose 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 achange for me to visit you now and then; and I like a change. Mr. Rivers, Ihave been so gay during my stay at S——. Last night, or rather thismorning, I was dancing till two o’clock. The ——th regiment are stationed theresince the riots; and the officers are the most agreeable men in the world: theyput all our young knife-grinders and scissor merchants to shame.”

It seemed to me that Mr. St. John’s under lip protruded, and his upper lipcurled a moment. His mouth certainly looked a good deal compressed, and thelower part of his face unusually stern and square, as the laughing girl gavehim this information. He lifted his gaze, too, from the daisies, and turned iton her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning gaze it was. She answered it witha second laugh, and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples, herbright eyes.

As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing Carlo. “Poor Carloloves me,” said she. “He is not stern and distant to his friends; and ifhe could speak, he would not be silent.”

As she patted the dog’s head, bending with native grace before his young andaustere master, I saw a glow rise to that master’s face. I saw his solemn eyemelt with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless emotion. Flushed and kindledthus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chestheaved once, as if his large heart, weary of despotic constriction, hadexpanded, despite the will, and made a vigorous bound for the attainment ofliberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curb a rearingsteed. He responded neither by word nor movement to the gentle advances madehim.

“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 verywell: 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 mostwants 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 atherself. “I am so giddy and thoughtless! Do excuse me. It had slipped mymemory 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 itcost him thus to refuse.

“Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay anylonger: the dew begins to fall. Good evening!”

She held out her hand. He just touched it. “Good evening!” he repeated, in avoice 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 wasblanched as her gown.

“Quite well,” he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went oneway; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him as she tripped fairy-likedown the field; he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at all.

This spectacle of another’s suffering and sacrifice rapt my thoughts fromexclusive 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 Icould. It was truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed before, with all myefforts, I could comprehend my scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, withfaculties 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 amongstthem as amongst the educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, thisdifference rapidly developed itself. Their amazement at me, my language, myrules, and ways, once subsided, I found some of these heavy-looking, gapingrustics wake up into sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselvesobliging, and amiable too; and I discovered amongst them not a few examples ofnatural politeness, and innate self-respect, as well as of excellent capacity,that won both my goodwill and my admiration. These soon took a pleasure indoing their work well, in keeping their persons neat, in learning their tasksregularly, in acquiring quiet and orderly manners. The rapidity of theirprogress, in some instances, was even surprising; and an honest and happy prideI took in it: besides, I began personally to like some of the best girls; andthey liked me. I had amongst my scholars several farmers’ daughters: youngwomen grown, almost. These could already read, write, and sew; and to them Itaught the elements of grammar, geography, history, and the finer kinds ofneedlework. I found estimable characters amongst them—characters desirous ofinformation and disposed for improvement—with whom I passed many a pleasantevening hour in their own homes. Their parents then (the farmer and his wife)loaded me with attentions. There was an enjoyment in accepting their simplekindness, and in repaying it by a consideration—a scrupulous regard to theirfeelings—to which they were not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, and whichboth charmed and benefited them; because, while it elevated them in their owneyes, 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 heardon all sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed with friendly smiles. Tolive amidst general regard, though it be but the regard of working people, islike “sitting in sunshine, calm and sweet;” serene inward feelings bud andbloom under the ray. At this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelledwith thankfulness than sank with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all,in the midst of this calm, this useful existence—after a day passed inhonourable exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or readingcontentedly alone—I used to rush into strange dreams at night: dreamsmany-coloured, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy—dreamswhere, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk andromantic chance, I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at someexciting 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 byhim—the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all itsfirst force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and howsituated. Then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; andthen the still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard theburst of passion. By nine o’clock the next morning I was punctually opening theschool; 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 wasgenerally made in the course of her morning ride. She would canter up to thedoor on her pony, followed by a mounted livery servant. Anything more exquisitethan her appearance, in her purple habit, with her Amazon’s cap of black velvetplaced gracefully above the long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to hershoulders, can scarcely be imagined: and it was thus she would enter the rusticbuilding, and glide through the dazzled ranks of the village children. Shegenerally came at the hour when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his dailycatechising lesson. Keenly, I fear, did the eye of the visitress pierce theyoung pastor’s heart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance,even when he did not see it; and when he was looking quite away from the door,if she appeared at it, his cheek would glow, and his marble-seeming features,though they refused to relax, changed indescribably, and in their veryquiescence became expressive of a repressed fervour, stronger than workingmuscle 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 andaddressed him, and smiled gaily, encouragingly, even fondly in his face, hishand would tremble and his eye burn. He seemed to say, with his sad andresolute look, if he did not say it with his lips, “I love you, and I know youprefer me. It is not despair of success that keeps me dumb. If I offered myheart, I believe you would accept it. But that heart is already laid on asacred altar: the fire is arranged round it. It will soon be no more than asacrifice consumed.”

And then she would pout like a disappointed child; a pensive cloud would softenher radiant vivacity; she would withdraw her hand hastily from his, and turn intransient 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, whenshe thus left him; but he would not give one chance of heaven, nor relinquish,for the elysium of her love, one hope of the true, eternal Paradise. Besides,he could not bind all that he had in his nature—the rover, the aspirant, thepoet, the priest—in the limits of a single passion. He could not—he wouldnot—renounce his wild field of mission warfare for the parlours and the peaceof Vale Hall. I learnt so much from himself in an inroad I once, despite hisreserve, had the daring to make on his confidence.

Miss Oliver already honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage. I hadlearnt her whole character, which was without mystery or disguise: she wascoquettish but not heartless; exacting, but not worthlessly selfish. She hadbeen indulged from her birth, but was not absolutely spoilt. She was hasty, butgood-humoured; vain (she could not help it, when every glance in the glassshowed 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 coolobserver of her own sex like me; but she was not profoundly interesting orthoroughly impressive. A very different sort of mind was hers from that, forinstance, of the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked her almost as I liked mypupil Adèle; except that, for a child whom we have watched over and taught, acloser affection is engendered than we can give an equally attractive adultacquaintance.

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 neatlittle soul enough, but he was an angel.” I was, however, good, clever,composed, and firm, like him. I was a lusus naturæ, she affirmed,as a village schoolmistress: she was sure my previous history, if known, wouldmake a delightful romance.

One evening, while, with her usual child-like activity, and thoughtless yet notoffensive inquisitiveness, she was rummaging the cupboard and the table-drawerof my little kitchen, she discovered first two French books, a volume ofSchiller, a German grammar and dictionary, and then my drawing-materials andsome sketches, including a pencil-head of a pretty little cherub-like girl, oneof my scholars, and sundry views from nature, taken in the Vale of Morton andon the surrounding moors. She was first transfixed with surprise, and thenelectrified with delight.

“Had I done these pictures? Did I know French and German? What a love—what amiracle I was! I drew better than her master in the first school in S——. WouldI sketch a portrait of her, to show to papa?”

“With pleasure,” I replied; and I felt a thrill of artist-delight at the ideaof copying from so perfect and radiant a model. She had then on a dark-bluesilk dress; her arms and her neck were bare; her only ornament was her chestnuttresses, which waved over her shoulders with all the wild grace of naturalcurls. I took a sheet of fine card-board, and drew a careful outline. Ipromised 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 accompaniedher next evening—a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and grey-headed man, atwhose 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 tome. The sketch of Rosamond’s portrait pleased him highly: he said I must make afinished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spendthe evening at Vale Hall.

I went. I found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundant evidences ofwealth in the proprietor. Rosamond was full of glee and pleasure all the time Istayed. Her father was affable; and when he entered into conversation with meafter tea, he expressed in strong terms his approbation of what I had done inMorton school, and said he only feared, from what he saw and heard, I was toogood 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 highfamily, papa.”

I thought I would far rather be where I am than in any high family in the land.Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers—of the Rivers family—with great respect. He saidit was a very old name in that neighbourhood; that the ancestors of the housewere wealthy; that all Morton had once belonged to them; that even now heconsidered the representative of that house might, if he liked, make analliance with the best. He accounted it a pity that so fine and talented ayoung man should have formed the design of going out as a missionary; it wasquite throwing a valuable life away. It appeared, then, that her father wouldthrow no obstacle in the way of Rosamond’s union with St. John. Mr. Oliverevidently regarded the young clergyman’s good birth, old name, and sacredprofession as sufficient compensation for the want of fortune.

It was the 5th of November, and a holiday. My little servant, after helping meto clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of a penny for heraid. All about me was spotless and bright—scoured floor, polished grate, andwell-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself neat, and had now the afternoonbefore me to spend as I would.

The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour; then I got mypalette and pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because easier occupation,of completing Rosamond Oliver’s miniature. The head was finished already: therewas but the background to tint and the drapery to shade off; a touch ofcarmine, too, to add to the ripe lips—a soft curl here and there to thetresses—a deeper tinge to the shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid. I wasabsorbed in the execution of these nice details, when, after one rapid tap, mydoor unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers.

“I am come to see how you are spending your holiday,” he said. “Not, I hope, inthought? No, that is well: while you draw you will not feel lonely. You see, Imistrust you still, though you have borne up wonderfully so far. I have broughtyou a book for evening solace,” and he laid on the table a new publication—apoem: one of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunatepublic of those days—the golden age of modern literature. Alas! the readers ofour era are less favoured. But courage! I will not pause either to accuse orrepine. I know poetry is not dead, nor genius lost; nor has Mammon gained powerover either, to bind or slay: they will both assert their existence, theirpresence, their liberty and strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe inheaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones weep over theirdestruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not letenvy prompt you to the thought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem:and without their divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell—thehell of your own meanness.

While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of “Marmion” (for “Marmion” itwas), St. John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall figure sprang erectagain with a start: he said nothing. I looked up at him: he shunned my eye. Iknew his thoughts well, and could read his heart plainly; at the moment I feltcalmer and cooler than he: I had then temporarily the advantage of him, and Iconceived an inclination to do him some good, if I could.

“With all his firmness and self-control,” thought I, “he tasks himself too far:locks every feeling and pang within—expresses, confesses, imparts nothing. I amsure it would benefit him to talk a little about this sweet Rosamond, whom hethinks 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 foryou as it is for me. I’ll try if I cannot discover the secret spring of yourconfidence, and find an aperture in that marble breast through which I can shedone 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 meastonished. “Oh, that is nothing yet,” I muttered within. “I don’t mean to bebaffled by a little stiffness on your part; I’m prepared to go to considerablelengths.” I continued, “You observed it closely and distinctly; but I have noobjection 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 gracefuland 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 promiseto paint you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very picture, providedyou admit that the gift would be acceptable to you. I don’t wish to throw awaymy time and trouble on an offering you would deem worthless.”

He continued to gaze at the picture: the longer he looked, the firmer he heldit, the more he seemed to covet it. “It is like!” he murmured; “the eye is wellmanaged: the colour, light, expression, are perfect. It smiles!”

“Would it comfort, or would it wound you to have a similar painting? Tell methat. When you are at Madagascar, or at the Cape, or in India, would it be aconsolation to have that memento in your possession? or would the sight of itbring recollections calculated to enervate and distress?”

He now furtively raised his eyes: he glanced at me, irresolute, disturbed: heagain surveyed the picture.

“That I should like to have it is certain: whether it would be judicious orwise is another question.”

Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred him, and that her fatherwas not likely to oppose the match, I—less exalted in my views than St.John—had been strongly disposed in my own heart to advocate their union. Itseemed to me that, should he become the possessor of Mr. Oliver’s largefortune, he might do as much good with it as if he went and laid his genius outto wither, and his strength to waste, under a tropical sun. With thispersuasion I now answered—

“As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you were to taketo 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 hewas now neither angry nor shocked at my audacity. I saw even that to be thusfrankly addressed on a subject he had deemed unapproachable—to hear it thusfreely handled—was beginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure—an unhoped-forrelief. Reserved people often really need the frank discussion of theirsentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The sternest-seeming stoic ishuman after all; and to “burst” with boldness and good-will into “the silentsea” 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 herfather respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet girl—rather thoughtless; but youwould have sufficient thought for both yourself and her. You ought to marryher.”

Does she like me?” he asked.

“Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of you continually:there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so often.”

“It is very pleasant to hear this,” he said—“very: go on for another quarter ofan hour.” And he actually took out his watch and laid it upon the table tomeasure the time.

“But where is the use of going on,” I asked, “when you are probably preparingsome iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to fetter yourheart?”

“Don’t imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting, as I am doing:human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my mind and overflowingwith sweet inundation all the field I have so carefully and with such labourprepared—so assiduously sown with the seeds of good intentions, of self-denyingplans. And now it is deluged with a nectarous flood—the young germsswamped—delicious poison cankering them: now I see myself stretched on anottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall at my bride Rosamond Oliver’s feet:she is talking to me with her sweet voice—gazing down on me with those eyesyour skilful hand has copied so well—smiling at me with these coral lips. Sheis mine—I am hers—this present life and passing world suffice to me. Hush! saynothing—my heart is full of delight—my senses are entranced—let the time Imarked 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 picturedown, rose, and stood on the hearth.

“Now,” said he, “that little space was given to delirium and delusion. I restedmy temples on the breast of temptation, and put my neck voluntarily under heryoke of flowers; I tasted her cup. The pillow was burning: there is an asp inthe garland: the wine has a bitter taste: her promises are hollow—her offersfalse: I see and know all this.”

I gazed at him in wonder.

“It is strange,” pursued he, “that while I love Rosamond Oliver so wildly—withall the intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the object of which isexquisitely beautiful, graceful, fascinating—I experience at the same time acalm, unwarped consciousness that she would not make me a good wife; that sheis not the partner suited to me; that I should discover this within a yearafter marriage; and that to twelve months’ rapture would succeed a lifetime ofregret. This I know.”

“Strange indeed!” I could not help ejacul*ting.

“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 shecould sympathise in nothing I aspired to—co-operate in nothing I undertook.Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female apostle? Rosamond a missionary’swife? 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 fora mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered in the band who have merged allambitions in the glorious one of bettering their race—of carrying knowledgeinto the realms of ignorance—of substituting peace for war—freedom forbondage—religion for superstition—the hope of heaven for the fear of hell? MustI relinquish that? It is dearer than the blood in my veins. It is what I haveto look forward to, and to live for.”

After a considerable pause, I said—“And Miss Oliver? Are her disappointment andsorrow of no interest to you?”

“Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers: in less than amonth, my image will be effaced from her heart. She will forget me; and willmarry, 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 wastingaway.”

“No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxiety about my prospects, yetunsettled—my departure, continually procrastinated. Only this morning, Ireceived intelligence that the successor, whose arrival I have been so longexpecting, cannot be ready to replace me for three months to come yet; andperhaps 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 awoman would dare to speak so to a man. For me, I felt at home in this sort ofdiscourse. I could never rest in communication with strong, discreet, andrefined minds, whether male or female, till I had passed the outworks ofconventional reserve, and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a placeby their heart’s very hearthstone.

“You are original,” said he, “and not timid. There is something brave inyour spirit, as well as penetrating in your eye; but allow me to assure youthat you partially misinterpret my emotions. You think them more profound andpotent than they are. You give me a larger allowance of sympathy than I have ajust claim to. When I colour, and when I shake before Miss Oliver, I do notpity myself. I scorn the weakness. I know it is ignoble: a mere fever of theflesh: not, I declare, the convulsion of the soul. That is just as fixedas a rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know me to be what I am—acold hard man.”

I smiled incredulously.

“You have taken my confidence by storm,” he continued, “and now it is much atyour service. I am simply, in my original state—stripped of that blood-bleachedrobe with which Christianity covers human deformity—a cold, hard, ambitiousman. Natural affection only, of all the sentiments, has permanent power overme. Reason, and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desireto rise higher, to do more than others, insatiable. I honour endurance,perseverance, industry, talent; because these are the means by which menachieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence. I watch your career withinterest, because I consider you a specimen of a diligent, orderly, energeticwoman: not because I deeply compassionate what you have gone through, or whatyou 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 aChristian philosopher—a follower of the sect of Jesus. As His disciple I adoptHis pure, His merciful, His benignant doctrines. I advocate them: I am sworn tospread them. Won in youth to religion, she has cultivated my original qualitiesthus:—From the minute germ, natural affection, she has developed theovershadowing tree, philanthropy. From the wild stringy root of humanuprightness, she has reared a due sense of the Divine justice. Of the ambitionto win power and renown for my wretched self, she has formed the ambition tospread my Master’s kingdom; to achieve victories for the standard of the cross.So much has religion done for me; turning the original materials to the bestaccount; pruning and training nature. But she could not eradicate nature: norwill 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 torest my hand in painting, to prevent the cardboard from being sullied. What hesuddenly saw on this blank paper, it was impossible for me to tell; butsomething had caught his eye. He took it up with a snatch; he looked at theedge; then shot a glance at me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quiteincomprehensible: a glance that seemed to take and make note of every point inmy shape, face, and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. Hislips parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence, whatever itwas.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing in the world,” was the reply; and, replacing the paper, I saw himdexterously 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 dingystains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I pondered the mysterya minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and being certain it could not beof much moment, I dismissed, and soon forgot it.

CHAPTER XXXIII

When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm continuedall night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; bytwilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had closed myshutter, 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 tothe muffled fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down “Marmion,” andbeginning—

“Day set on Norham’s castled steep,
And Tweed’s fair river broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone;
The massive towers, the donjon keep,
The flanking walls that round them sweep,
In yellow lustre shone”—

I soon forgot storm in music.

I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St. JohnRivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane—the howlingdarkness—and stood before me: the cloak that covered his tall figure all whiteas a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had I expected any guestfrom 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 andhanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly pushed the matwhich 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 foronce.” Then he approached the fire. “I have had hard work to get here, I assureyou,” he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. “One drift took me upto 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, Ianswer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute books andempty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced the excitement of aperson to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear thesequel.”

He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I beganto fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cooland collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured face of hislook more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside hissnow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his palebrow and cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace ofcare or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would saysomething I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, hisfinger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wastedlike his face. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I wasmoved to say—

“I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad that youshould 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. Whatdo you see amiss in me?”

This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showed that mysolicitude 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 dweltdreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say something, I asked himpresently if he felt any cold draught from the door, which was behind him.

“No, no!” he responded shortly and somewhat testily.

“Well,” I reflected, “if you won’t talk, you may be still; I’ll let you alonenow, 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 moroccopocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, folded it, putit back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to read with such aninscrutable 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 notbe summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?”

“I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me.” Baffled so far, Ichanged my ground. I bethought myself to talk about the school and my scholars.

“Mary Garrett’s mother is better, and Mary came back to the school thismorning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry Close—theywould have come to-day but for the snow.”

“Indeed!”

“Mr. Oliver pays for two.”

“Does he?”

“He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas.”

“I know.”

“Was it your suggestion?”

“No.”

“Whose, then?”

“His daughter’s, I think.”

“It is like her: she is so good-natured.”

“Yes.”

Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes. It arousedhim; 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 ofa tale: on reflection, I find the matter will be better managed by my assumingthe narrator’s part, and converting you into a listener. Before commencing, itis but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in yourears; but stale details often regain a degree of freshness when they passthrough new lips. For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short.

“Twenty years ago, a poor curate—never mind his name at this moment—fell inlove with a rich man’s daughter; she fell in love with him, and married him,against the advice of all her friends, who consequently disowned herimmediately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the rash pair were bothdead, 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.) Theyleft a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity received in her lap—cold asthat of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried thefriendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared byan aunt-in-law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. Youstart—did you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along therafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired andaltered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.—To proceed. Mrs. Reed keptthe orphan ten years: whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot say, neverhaving been told; but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place youknow—being no other than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. Itseems her career there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher,like yourself—really it strikes me there are parallel points in her history andyours—she left it to be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous;she undertook the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester.”

“Mr. Rivers!” I interrupted.

“I can guess your feelings,” he said, “but restrain them for a while: I havenearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester’s character I knownothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable marriage tothis young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered he had a wife yetalive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is amatter of pure conjecture; but when an event transpired which rendered inquiryafter the governess necessary, it was discovered she was gone—no one could tellwhen, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hall in the night; every researchafter her course had been vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; novestige of information could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should befound is become a matter of serious urgency: advertisem*nts have been put inall the papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr. Briggs, asolicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted. Is it not an oddtale?”

“Just tell me this,” said I, “and since you know so much, you surely cantell it me—what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is hewell?”

“I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never mentions himbut to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have adverted to. Youshould rather ask the name of the governess—the nature of the event whichrequires 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 allprobability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some formerhaunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings—what objectfor his strong passions—had he sought there? I dared not answer the question.Oh, my poor master—once almost my husband—whom I had often called “my dearEdward!”

“He must have been a bad man,” observed Mr. Rivers.

“You don’t know him—don’t pronounce an opinion upon him,” I said, with warmth.

“Very well,” he answered quietly: “and indeed my head is otherwise occupiedthan with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won’t ask the governess’sname, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I have it here—it is always moresatisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to blackand 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 tornoff: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, andvermillion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it closeto my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words“JANE EYRE”—the work doubtless of some moment ofabstraction.

“Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:” he said, “the advertisem*nts demanded aJane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.—I confess I had my suspicions, but it wasonly yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own thename and renounce the alias?”

“Yes—yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester thanyou 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 forgetessential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs soughtafter you—what he wanted with you.”

“Well, what did he want?”

“Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that he hasleft you all his property, and that you are now rich—merely that—nothing more.”

“I!—rich?”

“Yes, you, rich—quite an heiress.”

Silence succeeded.

“You must prove your identity of course,” resumed St. John presently: “a stepwhich will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession.Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and thenecessary documents.”

Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in amoment from indigence to wealth—a very fine thing; but not a matter one cancomprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once. And then there are otherchances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: this is solid, anaffair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations aresolid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, andspring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins toconsider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steadysatisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood overour bliss with a solemn brow.

Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words, Death,Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead—my only relative; ever since being madeaware of his existence, I had cherished the hope of one day seeing him: now, Inever should. And then this money came only to me: not to me and a rejoicingfamily, but to my isolated self. It was a grand boon doubtless; andindependence would be glorious—yes, I felt that—that thought swelled myheart.

“You unbend your forehead at last,” said Mr. Rivers. “I thought Medusa hadlooked at you, and that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you will ask howmuch you are worth?”

“How much am I worth?”

“Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of—twenty thousand pounds, I thinkthey say—but what is that?”

“Twenty thousand pounds?”

Here was a new stunner—I had been calculating on four or five thousand. Thisnews actually took my breath for a moment: Mr. St. John, whom I had never heardlaugh before, laughed now.

“Well,” said he, “if you had committed a murder, and I had told you your crimewas discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast.”

“It is a large sum—don’t you think there is a mistake?”

“No mistake at all.”

“Perhaps you have read the figures wrong—it may be two thousand!”

“It is written in letters, not figures,—twenty thousand.”

I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powerssitting 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 tokeep you company: you look too desperately miserable to be left alone. ButHannah, poor woman! could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are notquite so long: so I must e’en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night.”

He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me.

“Stop one minute!” I cried.

“Well?”

“It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he knewyou, or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-way place, had thepower to aid in my discovery.”

“Oh! I am a clergyman,” he said; “and the clergy are often appealed to aboutodd matters.” Again the latch rattled.

“No; that does not satisfy me!” I exclaimed: and indeed there was something inthe hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead of allaying, piqued mycuriosity 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 myselfbetween 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 mustbe, 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 thesnow from your cloak; by the same token, it has streamed on to my floor, andmade 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 Iwish to know.”

“Well, then,” he said, “I yield; if not to your earnestness, to yourperseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, you must knowsome 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 initialswritten in books you have at different times lent me; but I never asked forwhat name it stood. But what then? Surely—”

I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less to express, thethought that rushed upon me—that embodied itself,—that, in a second, stood outa strong, solid probability. Circ*mstances knit themselves, fitted themselves,shot into order: the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump oflinks was drawn out straight,—every ring was perfect, the connection complete.I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before St. John had said anotherword; but I cannot expect the reader to have the same intuitive perception, soI must repeat his explanation.

“My mother’s name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman, who marriedMiss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late ofFunchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre’s solicitor, wrote to us lastAugust to inform us of our uncle’s death, and to say that he had left hisproperty to his brother the clergyman’s orphan daughter, overlooking us, inconsequence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. He wroteagain a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, and asking ifwe knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip of paper has enabledme to find her out. You know the rest.” Again he was going, but I set my backagainst the door.

“Do let me speak,” I said; “let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect.”I paused—he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed—

“Your mother was my father’s sister?”

“Yes.”

“My aunt, consequently?”

He bowed.

“My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are his sister’schildren, as I am his brother’s child?”

“Undeniably.”

“You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flows from thesame source?”

“We are cousins; yes.”

I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of,—one Icould love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that, when I knew thembut as mere strangers, they had inspired me with genuine affection andadmiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, andlooking through the low, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazedwith so bitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen; andthe young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dying at his thresholdwas my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealthindeed!—wealth to the heart!—a mine of pure, genial affections. This was ablessing, 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 clappedmy hands in sudden joy—my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.

“Oh, I am glad!—I am glad!” I exclaimed.

St. John smiled. “Did I not say you neglected essential points to pursuetrifles?” 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 anddon’t care for a cousin; but I had nobody; and now three relations,—or two, ifyou don’t choose to be counted,—are born into my world full-grown. I say again,I am glad!”

I walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffocated with the thoughtsthat rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle them:—thoughts ofwhat might, could, would, and should be, and that ere long. I looked at theblank wall: it seemed a sky thick with ascending stars,—every one lit me to apurpose or delight. Those who had saved my life, whom, till this hour, I hadloved barrenly, I could now benefit. They were under a yoke,—I could free them:they were scattered,—I could reunite them: the independence, the affluencewhich was mine, might be theirs too. Were we not four? Twenty thousand poundsshared equally would be five thousand each, justice—enough and to spare:justice would be done,—mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weighon 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 wasgently 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 homedirectly. Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with a thousandpounds, 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 reallymake an effort to tranquillise your feelings.”

“Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you? Will itkeep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, and settle down like anordinary mortal?”

“You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt incommunicating the news; it has excited you beyond your strength.”

“Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am rational enough; it is youwho misunderstand, or rather who affect to misunderstand.”

“Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should comprehendbetter.”

“Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty thousandpounds, the sum in question, divided equally between the nephew and threenieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each? What I want is, that youshould write to your sisters and tell them of the fortune that has accrued tothem.”

“To you, you mean.”

“I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking any other. I amnot brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. Besides, I amresolved I will have a home and connections. I like Moor House, and I will liveat Moor House; I like Diana and Mary, and I will attach myself for life toDiana and Mary. It would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds; itwould torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover, couldnever be mine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon to you, then, whatis absolutely superfluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and no discussionabout 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 amatter, ere your word can be regarded as valid.”

“Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice of thecase?”

“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 wasfree to leave it to whom he would: he left it to you. After all, justicepermits you to keep it: you may, with a clear conscience, consider itabsolutely your own.”

“With me,” said I, “it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience: Imust indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Wereyou to argue, object, and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the deliciouspleasure of which I have caught a glimpse—that of repaying, in part, a mightyobligation, and winning to myself lifelong friends.”

“You think so now,” rejoined St. John, “because you do not know what it is topossess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a notion of theimportance twenty thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would enableyou 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 forfraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had brothers orsisters; I must and will have them now: you are not reluctant to admit me andown me, are you?”

“Jane, I will be your brother—my sisters will be your sisters—withoutstipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights.”

“Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slavingamongst strangers! I, wealthy—gorged with gold I never earned and do not merit!You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! Intimateattachment!”

“But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may berealised otherwise than by the means you contemplate: you may marry.”

“Nonsense, again! Marry! I don’t want to marry, and never shall marry.”

“That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proof of theexcitement under which you labour.”

“It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how averse are myinclinations 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 donot want a stranger—unsympathising, alien, different from me; I want mykindred: those with whom I have full fellow-feeling. Say again you will be mybrother: when you uttered the words I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if youcan, repeat them sincerely.”

“I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters; and I know on whatmy affection for them is grounded,—respect for their worth and admiration oftheir talents. You too have principle and mind: your tastes and habits resembleDiana’s and Mary’s; your presence is always agreeable to me; in yourconversation I have already for some time found a salutary solace. I feel I caneasily and naturally make room in my heart for you, as my third and youngestsister.”

“Thank you: that contents me for to-night. Now you had better go; for if youstay 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 veryhard one; but, as I was absolutely resolved—as my cousins saw at length that mymind was really and immutably fixed on making a just division of theproperty—as they must in their own hearts have felt the equity of theintention; and must, besides, have been innately conscious that in my placethey would have done precisely what I wished to do—they yielded at length sofar 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, eachbecame possessed of a competency.

CHAPTER XXXIV

It was near Christmas by the time all was settled: the season of generalholiday approached. I now closed Morton school, taking care that the partingshould not be barren on my side. Good fortune opens the hand as well as theheart wonderfully; and to give somewhat when we have largely received, is butto afford a vent to the unusual ebullition of the sensations. I had long feltwith pleasure that many of my rustic scholars liked me, and when we parted,that consciousness was confirmed: they manifested their affection plainly andstrongly. Deep was my gratification to find I had really a place in theirunsophisticated hearts: I promised them that never a week should pass in futurethat I did not visit them, and give them an hour’s teaching in their school.

Mr. Rivers came up as, having seen the classes, now numbering sixty girls, fileout before me, and locked the door, I stood with the key in my hand, exchanginga few words of special farewell with some half-dozen of my best scholars: asdecent, respectable, modest, and well-informed young women as could be found inthe ranks of the British peasantry. And that is saying a great deal; for afterall, the British peasantry are the best taught, best mannered, mostself-respecting of any in Europe: since those days I have seen paysannes andBäuerinnen; and the best of them seemed to me ignorant, coarse, andbesotted, 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 somereal 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 ofregenerating your race be well spent?”

“Yes,” I said; “but I could not go on for ever so: I want to enjoy my ownfaculties as well as to cultivate those of other people. I must enjoy them now;don’t recall either my mind or body to the school; I am out of it and disposedfor full holiday.”

He looked grave. “What now? What sudden eagerness is this you evince? What areyou going to do?”

“To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to set Hannah atliberty, 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 isbetter so: Hannah shall go with you.”

“Tell her to be ready by to-morrow then; and here is the schoolroom key: I willgive you the key of my cottage in the morning.”

He took it. “You give it up very gleefully,” said he; “I don’t quite understandyour light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what employment you propose toyourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing. What aim, whatpurpose, what ambition in life have you now?”

“My first aim will be to clean down (do you comprehend the full force ofthe expression?)—to clean down Moor House from chamber to cellar; mynext to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, tillit glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed, carpet, withmathematical precision; afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals andpeat to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, the two days precedingthat on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me tosuch a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding ofChristmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising ofother culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to theuninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, is to have all things in anabsolutely 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 thatwhen the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little higher thandomestic 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 makeit 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 fullenjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing yourself with this late-foundcharm of relationship; but then, I hope you will begin to look beyondMoor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and the selfish calm and sensualcomfort of civilised affluence. I hope your energies will then once moretrouble you with their strength.”

I looked at him with surprise. “St. John,” I said, “I think you are almostwicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try tostir me up to restlessness! To what end?”

“To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to yourkeeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account. Jane, Ishall watch you closely and anxiously—I warn you of that. And try to restrainthe disproportionate fervour with which you throw yourself into commonplacehome pleasures. Don’t cling so tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save yourconstancy and ardour for an adequate cause; forbear to waste them on tritetransient objects. Do you hear, Jane?”

“Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate cause to behappy, and I will be happy. Goodbye!”

Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah: she wascharmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house turnedtopsy-turvy—how I could brush, and dust, and clean, and cook. And really, aftera day or two of confusion worse confounded, it was delightful by degrees toinvoke order from the chaos ourselves had made. I had previously taken ajourney to S—— to purchase some new furniture: my cousins having given mecarte blanche to effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum havingbeen set aside for that purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I leftmuch as they were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure fromseeing again the old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than from thespectacle of the smartest innovations. Still some novelty was necessary, togive to their return the piquancy with which I wished it to be invested. Darkhandsome new carpets and curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selectedantique ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings, and mirrors, anddressing-cases, for the toilet tables, answered the end: they looked freshwithout being glaring. A spare parlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely, withold mahogany and crimson upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpetson the stairs. When all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a modelof bright modest snugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen ofwintry waste and desert dreariness without.

The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected about dark, and eredusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchen was in perfect trim; Hannahand I were dressed, and all was in readiness.

St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the housetill everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare idea of the commotion, atonce sordid and trivial, going on within its walls sufficed to scare him toestrangement. He found me in the kitchen, watching the progress of certaincakes for tea, then baking. Approaching the hearth, he asked, “If I was at lastsatisfied with housemaid’s work?” I answered by inviting him to accompany me ona general inspection of the result of my labours. With some difficulty, I gothim to make the tour of the house. He just looked in at the doors I opened; andwhen he had wandered upstairs and downstairs, he said I must have gone througha great deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerable changesin so short a time: but not a syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in theimproved aspect of his abode.

This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had disturbed someold associations he valued. I inquired whether this was the case: no doubt in asomewhat crest-fallen tone.

“Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had scrupulouslyrespected every association: he feared, indeed, I must have bestowed morethought on the matter than it was worth. How many minutes, for instance, had Idevoted to studying the arrangement of this very room?—By-the-bye, could I tellhim where such a book was?”

I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and withdrawing to hisaccustomed window recess, he began to read it.

Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but I began to feelhe had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard and cold. Thehumanities and amenities of life had no attraction for him—its peacefulenjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived only to aspire—after what was good andgreat, certainly; but still he would never rest, nor approve of others restinground him. As I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a whitestone—at his fine lineaments fixed in study—I comprehended all at once that hewould hardly make a good husband: that it would be a trying thing to be hiswife. 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 heshould despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised over him; how heshould wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should mistrust its everconducting permanently to his happiness or hers. I saw he was of the materialfrom which nature hews her heroes—Christian and Pagan—her lawgivers, herstatesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark for great interests to restupon; but, at the fireside, too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out ofplace.

“This parlour is not his sphere,” I reflected: “the Himalayan ridge or Caffrebush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit him better. Well mayhe eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not his element: there his facultiesstagnate—they cannot develop or appear to advantage. It is in scenes of strifeand danger—where courage is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitudetasked—that he will speak and move, the leader and superior. A merry childwould have the advantage of him on this hearth. He is right to choose amissionary’s career—I see it now.”

“They are coming! they are coming!” cried Hannah, throwing open the parlourdoor. 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. Thevehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver opened the door: first onewell-known form, then another, stepped out. In a minute I had my face undertheir bonnets, in contact first with Mary’s soft cheek, then with Diana’sflowing curls. They laughed—kissed me—then Hannah: patted Carlo, who was halfwild with delight; asked eagerly if all was well; and being assured in theaffirmative, hastened into the house.

They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross, and chilledwith the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances expanded to thecheerful firelight. While the driver and Hannah brought in the boxes, theydemanded St. John. At this moment he advanced from the parlour. They both threwtheir arms round his neck at once. He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a lowtone 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, withdrewthere as to a place of refuge.

I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give hospitableorders respecting the driver; this done, both followed me. They were delightedwith the renovation and decorations of their rooms; with the new drapery, andfresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases: they expressed their gratificationungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of feeling that my arrangements met theirwishes exactly, and that what I had done added a vivid charm to their joyousreturn home.

Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so eloquent innarrative and comment, that their fluency covered St. John’s taciturnity: hewas sincerely glad to see his sisters; but in their glow of fervour and flow ofjoy he could not sympathise. The event of the day—that is, the return of Dianaand Mary—pleased him; but the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult,the garrulous glee of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrowwas come. In the very meridian of the night’s enjoyment, about an hour aftertea, a rap was heard at the door. Hannah entered with the intimation that “apoor lad was come, at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see hismother, who was drawing away.”

“Where does she live, Hannah?”

“Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor and moss all theway.”

“Tell him I will go.”

“I’m sure, sir, you had better not. It’s the worst road to travel after darkthat can be: there’s no track at all over the bog. And then it is such a bitternight—the keenest wind you ever felt. You had better send word, sir, that youwill be there in the morning.”

But he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak; and without oneobjection, one murmur, he departed. It was then nine o’clock: he did not returntill midnight. Starved and tired enough he was: but he looked happier than whenhe set out. He had performed an act of duty; made an exertion; felt his ownstrength 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 Christmasweek: we took to no settled employment, but spent it in a sort of merrydomestic dissipation. The air of the moors, the freedom of home, the dawn ofprosperity, acted on Diana and Mary’s spirits like some life-giving elixir:they were gay from morning till noon, and from noon till night. They couldalways talk; and their discourse, witty, pithy, original, had such charms forme, 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 inthe house; his parish was large, the population scattered, and he found dailybusiness in visiting the sick and poor in its different districts.

One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive for someminutes, asked him, “If his plans were yet unchanged.”

“Unchanged and unchangeable,” was the reply. And he proceeded to inform us thathis departure from England was now definitively fixed for the ensuing year.

“And Rosamond Oliver?” suggested Mary, the words seeming to escape her lipsinvoluntarily: for no sooner had she uttered them, than she made a gesture asif wishing to recall them. St. John had a book in his hand—it was his unsocialcustom to read at meals—he closed it, and looked up.

“Rosamond Oliver,” said he, “is about to be married to Mr. Granby, one of thebest connected and most estimable residents in S——, grandson and heir to SirFrederic 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 wasserene as glass.

“The match must have been got up hastily,” said Diana: “they cannot have knowneach other long.”

“But two months: they met in October at the county ball at S——. But where thereare no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, where the connection is inevery point desirable, delays are unnecessary: they will be married as soon asS—— Place, which Sir Frederic gives up to them, can be refitted for theirreception.”

The first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I felt temptedto inquire if the event distressed him: but he seemed so little to needsympathy, that, so far from venturing to offer him more, I experienced someshame at the recollection of what I had already hazarded. Besides, I was out ofpractice in talking to him: his reserve was again frozen over, and my franknesswas congealed beneath it. He had not kept his promise of treating me like hissisters; he continually made little chilling differences between us, which didnot at all tend to the development of cordiality: in short, now that I wasacknowledged his kinswoman, and lived under the same roof with him, I felt thedistance between us to be far greater than when he had known me only as thevillage schoolmistress. When I remembered how far I had once been admitted tohis confidence, I could hardly comprehend his present frigidity.

Such being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he raised his headsuddenly from the desk over which he was stooping, and said—

“You see, Jane, the battle is fought and the victory won.”

Startled at being thus addressed, I did not immediately reply: after a moment’shesitation I answered—

“But are you sure you are not in the position of those conquerors whosetriumphs 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 calledupon to contend for such another. The event of the conflict is decisive: my wayis now clear; I thank God for it!” So saying, he returned to his papers and hissilence.

As our mutual happiness (i.e., Diana’s, Mary’s, and mine) settled into aquieter 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 hourstogether. While Mary drew, Diana pursued a course of encyclopædic readingshe had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken, and I fa*gged away at German, hepondered a mystic lore of his own: that of some Eastern tongue, the acquisitionof which he thought necessary to his plans.

Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his own recess, quiet and absorbedenough; but that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving the outlandish-lookinggrammar, and wandering over, and sometimes fixing upon us, his fellow-students,with a curious intensity of observation: if caught, it would be instantlywithdrawn; yet ever and anon, it returned searchingly to our table. I wonderedwhat it meant: I wondered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he never failed toexhibit on an occasion that seemed to me of small moment, namely, my weeklyvisit to Morton school; and still more was I puzzled when, if the day wasunfavourable, if there was snow, or rain, or high wind, and his sisters urgedme not to go, he would invariably make light of their solicitude, and encourageme to accomplish the task without regard to the elements.

“Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her,” he would say: “she canbear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of snow, as well as any ofus. Her constitution is both sound and elastic;—better calculated to endurevariations of climate than many more robust.”

And when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and not a littleweather-beaten, I never dared complain, because I saw that to murmur would beto vex him: on all occasions fortitude pleased him; the reverse was a specialannoyance.

One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay at home, because I really had acold. 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 anexercise, I happened to look his way: there I found myself under the influenceof the ever-watchful blue eye. How long it had been searching me through andthrough, and over and over, I cannot tell: so keen was it, and yet so cold, Ifelt for the moment superstitious—as if I were sitting in the room withsomething 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 atpresent 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 andagain go over the elements, and so fix them thoroughly in his mind; that hischoice had hovered for some time between me and his sisters; but that he hadfixed 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 sacrificelong, as it wanted now barely three months to his departure.

St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that every impressionmade on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved and permanent. Iconsented. When Diana and Mary returned, the former found her scholartransferred from her to her brother: she laughed, and both she and Mary agreedthat St. John should never have persuaded them to such a step. He answeredquietly—

“I know it.”

I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting master: heexpected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his expectations, he, inhis own way, fully testified his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a certaininfluence over me that took away my liberty of mind: his praise and notice weremore restraining than his indifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freelywhen he was by, because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me thatvivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so fully aware thatonly serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his presence everyeffort to sustain or follow any other became vain: I fell under a freezingspell. When he said “go,” I went; “come,” I came; “do this,” I did it. But Idid not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he had continued to neglectme.

One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood round him, bidding himgood-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom; and, as was equally hiscustom, he gave me his hand. Diana, who chanced to be in a frolicsome humour(she was not painfully controlled by his will; for hers, in another way,was as strong), exclaimed—

“St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you don’t treat her assuch: you should kiss her too.”

She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and feltuncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St. Johnbent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine, his eyesquestioned my eyes piercingly—he kissed me. There are no such things as marblekisses or ice kisses, or I should say my ecclesiastical cousin’s salutebelonged to one of these classes; but there may be experiment kisses, and hiswas an experiment kiss. When given, he viewed me to learn the result; it wasnot striking: I am sure I did not blush; perhaps I might have turned a littlepale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. He neveromitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with which Iunderwent 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 moreand more that I must disown half my nature, stifle half my faculties, wrest mytastes from their original bent, force myself to the adoption of pursuits forwhich I had no natural vocation. He wanted to train me to an elevation I couldnever reach; it racked me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. Thething was as impossible as to mould my irregular features to his correct andclassic pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint andsolemn lustre of his own.

Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of late it hadbeen easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil sat at my heart anddrained my happiness at its source—the evil of suspense.

Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst these changesof place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was still with me, because itwas not a vapour sunshine could disperse, nor a sand-traced effigy storms couldwash away; it was a name graven on a tablet, fated to last as long as themarble it inscribed. The craving to know what had become of him followed meeverywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage every evening tothink of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom each night to broodover it.

In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the will, Ihad inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester’s present residence and stateof health; but, as St. John had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of allconcerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on thesubject. I had calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: I feltsure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passedwithout reply; but when two months wore away, and day after day the postarrived 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. Renewedhope 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 ayear 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; Dianatried to cheer me: she said I looked ill, and wished to accompany me to thesea-side. This St. John opposed; he said I did not want dissipation, I wantedemployment; my present life was too purposeless, I required an aim; and, Isuppose, by way of supplying deficiencies, he prolonged still further mylessons in Hindostanee, and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment:and I, like a fool, never thought of resisting him—I could not resist him.

One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the ebb wasoccasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment. Hannah had told me in themorning there was a letter for me, and when I went down to take it, almostcertain that the long-looked for tidings were vouchsafed me at last, I foundonly an unimportant note from Mr. Briggs on business. The bitter check hadwrung from me some tears; and now, as I sat poring over the crabbed charactersand 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 voicefailed me: words were lost in sobs. He and I were the only occupants of theparlour: Diana was practising her music in the drawing-room, Mary wasgardening—it was a very fine May day, clear, sunny, and breezy. My companionexpressed 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 Ismothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and patient, leaning on hisdesk, and looking like a physician watching with the eye of science an expectedand fully understood crisis in a patient’s malady. Having stifled my sobs,wiped my eyes, and muttered something about not being very well that morning, Iresumed my task, and succeeded in completing it. St. John put away my books andhis, 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 yourthings; go out by the kitchen-door: take the road towards the head of MarshGlen: I will join you in a moment.”

I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my dealings withpositive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own, between absolute submissionand determined revolt. I have always faithfully observed the one, up to thevery moment of bursting, sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; andas neither present circ*mstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me tomutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John’s directions; and in tenminutes 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 ofheath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream descending theravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along plentiful and clear,catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire tints from the firmament. Aswe advanced and left the track, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine and emeraldgreen, minutely enamelled with a tiny white flower, and spangled with astar-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 abattalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which the beck rushed downa waterfall; and where, still a little farther, the mountain shook off turf andflower, had only heath for raiment and crag for gem—where it exaggerated thewild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh for the frowning—where it guardedthe 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 thehollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, and returned to traverse theunclouded heaven which coloured it: he removed his hat, let the breeze stir hishair 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 theGanges: and again in a more remote hour—when another slumber overcomes me—onthe shore of a darker stream!”

Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot’s passion for hisfatherland! He sat down; for half-an-hour we never spoke; neither he to me norI to him: that interval past, he recommenced—

“Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman which sailson 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 infallibleMaster. I am not going out under human guidance, subject to the defective lawsand 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 toenlist 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 tomarch with the strong.”

“I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as areworthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it.”

“Those are few in number, and difficult to discover.”

“You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up—to urge and exhortthem to the effort—to show them what their gifts are, and why they weregiven—to speak Heaven’s message in their ear,—to offer them, direct from God, aplace in the ranks of His chosen.”

“If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts be thefirst to inform them of it?”

I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over me: I trembledto 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, comewith 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 asummons from Heaven—as if a visionary messenger, like him of Macedonia, hadenounced, “Come over and help us!” But I was no apostle,—I could not behold theherald,—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, knewneither mercy nor remorse. He continued—

“God and nature intended you for a missionary’s wife. It is not personal, butmental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not for love.A missionary’s wife you must—shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you—not formy pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service.”

“I am not fit for it: I have no vocation,” I said.

He had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritated by them.Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him, folded his arms on hischest, and fixed his countenance, I saw he was prepared for a long and tryingopposition, and had taken in a stock of patience to last him to itsclose—resolved, however, that that close should be conquest for him.

“Humility, Jane,” said he, “is the groundwork of Christian virtues: you sayright that you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or who, that everwas truly called, believed himself worthy of the summons? I, for instance, ambut dust and ashes. With St. Paul, I acknowledge myself the chiefest ofsinners; but I do not suffer this sense of my personal vileness to daunt me. Iknow my Leader: that He is just as well as mighty; and while He has chosen afeeble instrument to perform a great task, He will, from the boundless storesof His providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to the end. Think likeme, Jane—trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean on: do notdoubt but it will bear the weight of your human weakness.”

“I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied missionarylabours.”

“There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can set you yourtask 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 asstrong and apt as myself, and would not require my help.”

“But my powers—where are they for this undertaking? I do not feel them. Nothingspeaks or stirs in me while you talk. I am sensible of no light kindling—nolife quickening—no voice counselling or cheering. Oh, I wish I could make yousee how much my mind is at this moment like a rayless dungeon, with oneshrinking fear fettered in its depths—the fear of being persuaded by you toattempt what I cannot accomplish!”

“I have an answer for you—hear it. I have watched you ever since we first met:I have made you my study for ten months. I have proved you in that time bysundry tests: and what have I seen and elicited? In the village school I foundyou could perform well, punctually, uprightly, labour uncongenial to yourhabits and inclinations; I saw you could perform it with capacity and tact: youcould win while you controlled. In the calm with which you learnt you hadbecome suddenly rich, I read a mind clear of the vice of Demas:—lucre had noundue power over you. In the resolute readiness with which you cut your wealthinto four shares, keeping but one to yourself, and relinquishing the threeothers to the claim of abstract justice, I recognised a soul that revelled inthe flame and excitement of sacrifice. In the tractability with which, at mywish, you forsook a study in which you were interested, and adopted anotherbecause it interested me; in the untiring assiduity with which you have sincepersevered in it—in the unflagging energy and unshaken temper with which youhave met its difficulties—I acknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek.Jane, you are docile, diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant, andcourageous; very gentle, and very heroic: cease to mistrust yourself—I cantrust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian schools, and a helperamongst 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 appearedso vague, so hopelessly diffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and assumeda definite form under his shaping hand. He waited for an answer. I demanded aquarter of an hour to think, before I again hazarded a reply.

“Very willingly,” he rejoined; and rising, he strode a little distance up thepass, 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 acknowledgethat,” I meditated,—“that is, if life be spared me. But I feel mine is not theexistence to be long protracted under an Indian sun. What then? He does notcare for that: when my time came to die, he would resign me, in all serenityand sanctity, to the God who gave me. The case is very plain before me. Inleaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land—Mr. Rochester is notthere; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is tolive 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 circ*mstances, which mightreunite me to him. Of course (as St. John once said) I must seek anotherinterest in life to replace the one lost: is not the occupation he now offersme truly the most glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noblecares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill the void left byuptorn affections and demolished hopes? I believe I must say, Yes—and yet Ishudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon half myself: if I go to India, Igo to premature death. And how will the interval between leaving England forIndia, and India for the grave, be filled? Oh, I know well! That, too, is veryclear to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews ache, Ishall satisfy him—to the finest central point and farthest outwardcircle of his expectations. If I do go with him—if I do make thesacrifice he urges, I will make it absolutely: I will throw all on thealtar—heart, vitals, the entire victim. He will never love me; but he shallapprove me; I will show him energies he has not yet seen, resources he hasnever suspected. Yes, I can work as hard as he can, and with as littlegrudging.

“Consent, then, to his demand is possible: but for one item—one dreadful item.It is—that he asks me to be his wife, and has no more of a husband’s heart forme than that frowning giant of a rock, down which the stream is foaming inyonder 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 hiscalculations—coolly put into practice his plans—go through the weddingceremony? 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 wasquite absent? Can I bear the consciousness that every endearment he bestows isa sacrifice made on principle? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I willnever undergo it. As his sister, I might accompany him—not as his wife: I willtell him so.”

I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate column; his faceturned to me: his eye beaming watchful and keen. He started to his feet andapproached me.

“I am ready to go to India, if I may go free.”

“Your answer requires a commentary,” he said; “it is not clear.”

“You have hitherto been my adopted brother—I, your adopted sister: let uscontinue as such: you and I had better not marry.”

He shook his head. “Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. If you were myreal sister it would be different: I should take you, and seek no wife. But asit is, either our union must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or itcannot exist: practical obstacles oppose themselves to any other plan. Do younot see it, Jane? Consider a moment—your strong sense will guide you.”

I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me only to thefact that we did not love each other as man and wife should: and therefore itinferred we ought not to marry. I said so. “St. John,” I returned, “I regardyou as a brother—you, me as a sister: so let us continue.”

“We cannot—we cannot,” he answered, with short, sharp determination: “it wouldnot do. You have said you will go with me to India: remember—you have saidthat.”

“Conditionally.”

“Well—well. To the main point—the departure with me from England, theco-operation with me in my future labours—you do not object. You have alreadyas good as put your hand to the plough: you are too consistent to withdraw it.You have but one end to keep in view—how the work you have undertaken can bestbe done. Simplify your complicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims;merge all considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect—withpower—the mission of your great Master. To do so, you must have a coadjutor:not a brother—that is a loose tie—but a husband. I, too, do not want a sister:a sister might any day be taken from me. I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I caninfluence efficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death.”

I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow—his hold on mylimbs.

“Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one fitted to you.”

“One fitted to my purpose, you mean—fitted to my vocation. Again I tell you itis not the insignificant private individual—the mere man, with the man’sselfish senses—I wish to mate: it is the missionary.”

“And I will give the missionary my energies—it is all he wants—but not myself:that would be only adding the husk and shell to the kernel. For them he has nouse: I retain them.”

“You cannot—you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied with half anoblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is the cause of God Iadvocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on His behalfa 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 sarcasmboth in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the feeling thataccompanied it. I had silently feared St. John till now, because I had notunderstood him. He had held me in awe, because he had held me in doubt. Howmuch of him was saint, how much mortal, I could not heretofore tell: butrevelations were being made in this conference: the analysis of his nature wasproceeding before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended them. Iunderstood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, and with thathandsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, erring as I. The veil fellfrom his hardness and despotism. Having felt in him the presence of thesequalities, I felt his imperfection and took courage. I was with an equal—onewith whom I might argue—one whom, if I saw good, I might resist.

He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I presently risked anupward glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on me, expressed at once sternsurprise and keen inquiry. “Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to me!” itseemed to say. “What does this signify?”

“Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter,” he said ere long; “one ofwhich we may neither think nor talk lightly without sin. I trust, Jane, you arein 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 ofthat Maker’s spiritual kingdom on earth will be your chief delight andendeavour; you will be ready to do at once whatever furthers that end. You willsee what impetus would be given to your efforts and mine by our physical andmental union in marriage: the only union that gives a character of permanentconformity to the destinies and designs of human beings; and, passing over allminor caprices—all trivial difficulties and delicacies of feeling—all scrupleabout the degree, kind, strength or tenderness of mere personal inclination—youwill hasten to enter into that union at once.”

“Shall I?” I said briefly; and I looked at his features, beautiful in theirharmony, but strangely formidable in their still severity; at his brow,commanding but not open; at his eyes, bright and deep and searching, but neversoft; 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 wouldcross oceans with him in that capacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asiandeserts with him in that office; admire and emulate his courage and devotionand vigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed at hisineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the man: profoundlyesteem 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 astringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be free. I should still have myunblighted self to turn to: my natural unenslaved feelings with which tocommunicate in moments of loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind whichwould be only mine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing there freshand sheltered which his austerity could never blight, nor his measuredwarrior-march trample down: but as his wife—at his side always, and alwaysrestrained, and always checked—forced to keep the fire of my nature continuallylow, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisonedflame consumed vital after vital—this would be unendurable.

“St. John!” I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation.

“Well?” he answered icily.

“I repeat I freely consent to go with you as your fellow-missionary, but not asyour wife; I cannot marry you and become part of you.”

“A part of me you must become,” he answered steadily; “otherwise the wholebargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take out with me to India agirl of nineteen, unless she be married to me? How can we be for evertogether—sometimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst savage tribes—and unwed?”

“Very well,” I said shortly; “under the circ*mstances, quite as well as if Iwere 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: toattempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both. And for therest, though you have a man’s vigorous brain, you have a woman’s heart and—itwould not do.”

“It would do,” I affirmed with some disdain, “perfectly well. I have a woman’sheart, but not where you are concerned; for you I have only a comrade’sconstancy; a fellow-soldier’s frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if you like; aneophyte’s respect and submission to his hierophant: nothing more—don’t fear.”

“It is what I want,” he said, speaking to himself; “it is just what I want. Andthere are obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down. Jane, you would notrepent marrying me—be certain of that; we must be married. I repeat it:there is no other way; and undoubtedly enough of love would follow uponmarriage 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 stoodbefore him, leaning my back against the rock. “I scorn the counterfeitsentiment 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. Whetherhe was incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easy to tell: he couldcommand his countenance thoroughly.

“I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you,” he said: “I think Ihave 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 beenroused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced a topic on which ournatures are at variance—a topic we should never discuss: the very name of loveis an apple of discord between us. If the reality were required, what should wedo? How should we feel? My dear cousin, abandon your scheme of marriage—forgetit.”

“No,” said he; “it is a long-cherished scheme, and the only one which cansecure my great end: but I shall urge you no further at present. To-morrow, Ileave home for Cambridge: I have many friends there to whom I should wish tosay farewell. I shall be absent a fortnight—take that space of time to considermy offer: and do not forget that if you reject it, it is not me you deny, butGod. Through my means, He opens to you a noble career; as my wife only can youenter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit yourself for ever to a trackof selfish ease and barren obscurity. Tremble lest in that case you should benumbered 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 hearthem uttered. As I walked by his side homeward, I read well in his iron silenceall he felt towards me: the disappointment of an austere and despotic nature,which has met resistance where it expected submission—the disapprobation of acool, inflexible judgment, which has detected in another feelings and views inwhich it has no power to sympathise: in short, as a man, he would have wishedto coerce me into obedience: it was only as a sincere Christian he bore sopatiently with my perversity, and allowed so long a space for reflection andrepentance.

That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to forget evento shake hands with me, but left the room in silence. I—who, though I had nolove, had much friendship for him—was hurt by the marked omission: so much hurtthat tears started to my eyes.

“I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,” said Diana, “during yourwalk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering in the passageexpecting you—he will make it up.”

I have not much pride under such circ*mstances: I would always rather be happythan dignified; and I ran after him—he stood at the foot of the stairs.

“Good-night, St. John,” said I.

“Good-night, Jane,” he replied calmly.

“Then shake hands,” I added.

What a cold, loose touch, he impressed on my fingers! He was deeply displeasedby what had occurred that day; cordiality would not warm, nor tears move him.No happy reconciliation was to be had with him—no cheering smile or generousword: but still the Christian was patient and placid; and when I asked him ifhe forgave me, he answered that he was not in the habit of cherishing theremembrance of vexation; that he had nothing to forgive, not having beenoffended.

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. Hedeferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me feel whatsevere punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man caninflict on one who has offended him. Without one overt act of hostility, oneupbraiding word, he contrived to impress me momently with the conviction that Iwas put beyond the pale of his favour.

Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness—not that hewould have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully in his power to doso. Both by nature and principle, he was superior to the mean gratification ofvengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned him and his love, but he hadnot forgotten the words; and as long as he and I lived he never would forgetthem. I saw by his look, when he turned to me, that they were always written onthe air between me and him; whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice to hisear, and their echo toned every answer he gave me.

He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as usual eachmorning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man within him had apleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evincing withwhat skill he could, while acting and speaking apparently just as usual,extract from every deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and approvalwhich had formerly communicated a certain austere charm to his language andmanner. To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eyewas a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument—nothing more.

All this was torture to me—refined, lingering torture. It kept up a slow fireof indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed and crushed mealtogether. I felt how—if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deepsunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from my veins a single dropof blood, or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain ofcrime. Especially I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate him. Noruth met my ruth. He experienced no suffering from estrangement—noyearning after reconciliation; and though, more than once, my fast fallingtears blistered the page over which we both bent, they produced no more effecton him than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or metal. To hissisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder than usual: as if afraid that merecoldness would not sufficiently convince me how completely I was banished andbanned, he added the force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not bymalice, but on principle.

The night before he left home, happening to see him walking in the garden aboutsunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that this man, alienated as he nowwas, had once saved my life, and that we were near relations, I was moved tomake a last attempt to regain his friendship. I went out and approached him ashe 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 befriends.”

“I hope we are friends,” was the unmoved reply; while he still watched therising 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 oneill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat more of affectionthan that sort of general philanthropy you extend to mere strangers.”

“Of course,” he said. “Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from regarding youas a stranger.”

This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and baffling enough. HadI attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I should immediately have lefthim; but something worked within me more strongly than those feelings could. Ideeply venerated my cousin’s talent and principle. His friendship was of valueto me: to lose it tried me severely. I would not so soon relinquish the attemptto reconquer it.

“Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will you leaveme 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 theice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche is in theiranger? 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 crashdown.

“Once more, why this refusal?” he asked.

“Formerly,” I answered, “because you did not love me; now, I reply, because youalmost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me. You are killing menow.”

His lips and cheeks turned white—quite white.

I should kill youI am killing you? Your words are such as oughtnot to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunatestate of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but thatit is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seventimes.”

I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase from his mindthe trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that tenacious surface anotherand far deeper impression: I had burnt it in.

“Now you will indeed hate me,” I said. “It is useless to attempt to conciliateyou: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you.”

A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched on thetruth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I knew the steely ireI had whetted. I was heart-wrung.

“You utterly misinterpret my words,” I said, at once seizing his hand: “I haveno intention to grieve or pain you—indeed, I have not.”

Most bitterly he smiled—most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. “And nowyou 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 Natureand Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only singular gleams scintillated inhis 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 proposingto 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 theplan. That you have done so, I regret—for your sake.”

I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me courage at once.“Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging on nonsense. You pretend to beshocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked: for, with yoursuperior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so conceited as to misunderstandmy meaning. I say again, I will be your curate, if you like, but never yourwife.”

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, itseems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I will, while intown, speak to a married missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your ownfortune will make you independent of the Society’s aid; and thus you may stillbe spared the dishonour of breaking your promise and deserting the band youengaged to join.”

Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal promise orentered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard and muchtoo despotic for the occasion. I replied—

“There is no dishonour, no breach of promise, no desertion in the case. I amnot 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 asister, I love you; but I am convinced that, go when and with whom I would, Ishould 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 mewould, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover,before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I will know for certainwhether 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 Ihave long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means thatdoubt is removed.”

“I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherishis lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it: now youshould 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 toentreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become acastaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees notas man sees: His will be done—”

He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen. He wassoon out of sight.

On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at the window, looking verythoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I: she put her hand on myshoulder, and, stooping, examined my face.

“Jane,” she said, “you are always agitated and pale now. I am sure there issomething the matter. Tell me what business St. John and you have on hands. Ihave watched you this half hour from the window; you must forgive my being sucha spy, but for a long time I have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is astrange being—”

She paused—I did not speak: soon she resumed—

“That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some sort respecting you, Iam sure: he has long distinguished you by a notice and interest he never showedto any one else—to what end? I wish he loved you—does he, Jane?”

I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; “No, Die, not one whit.”

“Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so frequently alonewith him, and keep you so continually at his side? Mary and I had bothconcluded he wished you to marry him.”

“He does—he has asked me to be his wife.”

Diana clapped her hands. “That is just what we hoped and thought! And you willmarry him, Jane, won’t you? And then he will stay in England.”

“Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to procure a fittingfellow-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 ashis sister.”

“It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you undertook—one ofincessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the strong, and you are weak. St.John—you know him—would urge you to impossibilities: with him there would be nopermission to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed,whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you foundcourage 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 begrilled alive in Calcutta.” And again she earnestly conjured me to give up allthoughts of going out with her brother.

“I must indeed,” I said; “for when just now I repeated the offer of serving himfor a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of decency. He seemed tothink 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 habituallyregarded 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 thatit is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He has told me I am formedfor labour—not for love: which is true, no doubt. But, in my opinion, if I amnot formed for love, it follows that I am not formed for marriage. Would it notbe strange, Die, to be chained for life to a man who regarded one but as auseful tool?”

“Insupportable—unnatural—out of the question!”

“And then,” I continued, “though I have only sisterly affection for him now,yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possibility of conceiving aninevitable, strange, torturing kind of love for him, because he is so talented;and there is often a certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, andconversation. In that case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. He wouldnot want me to love him; and if I showed the feeling, he would make me sensiblethat it was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know hewould.”

“And yet St. John is a good man,” said Diana.

“He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings andclaims 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 Ihastened upstairs as I saw him entering the garden.

But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he appeared justas composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly speak to me, and I wascertain he had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the sequelshowed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed me precisely in his ordinarymanner, or what had, of late, been his ordinary manner—one scrupulously polite.No doubt he had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I hadroused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more.

For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first chapter ofRevelation. It was at all times pleasant to listen while from his lips fell thewords of the Bible: never did his fine voice sound at once so sweet andfull—never did his manner become so impressive in its noble simplicity, as whenhe delivered the oracles of God: and to-night that voice took a more solemntone—that manner a more thrilling meaning—as he sat in the midst of hishousehold circle (the May moon shining in through the uncurtained window, andrendering almost unnecessary the light of the candle on the table): as he satthere, bending over the great old Bible, and described from its page the visionof the new heaven and the new earth—told how God would come to dwell with men,how He would wipe away all tears from their eyes, and promised that thereshould be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, becausethe former things were passed away.

The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them: especially as Ifelt, 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 heshall be my son. But,” was slowly, distinctly read, “the fearful, theunbelieving, &c., shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fireand 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 hisenunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The reader believedhis name was already written in the Lamb’s book of life, and he yearned afterthe hour which should admit him to the city to which the kings of the earthbring their glory and honour; which has no need of sun or moon to shine in it,because the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.

In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered—all his stern zealwoke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and resolved on a conquest.He supplicated strength for the weak-hearted; guidance for wanderers from thefold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations ofthe 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 everdeeply 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 thegreatness and goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard him pleadfor 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 themorning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the room—in compliance, Ithink, with a whispered hint from him: I tendered my hand, and wished him apleasant journey.

“Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a fortnight: thatspace, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listened to human pride, Ishould say no more to you of marriage with me; but I listen to my duty, andkeep steadily in view my first aim—to do all things to the glory of God. MyMaster was long-suffering: so will I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as avessel of wrath: repent—resolve, while there is yet time. Remember, we are bidto work while it is day—warned that ‘the night cometh when no man shall work.’Remember the fate of Dives, who had his good things in this life. God give youstrength 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 spokenearnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover beholding hismistress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his wandering sheep—or better,of a guardian angel watching the soul for which he is responsible. All men oftalent, whether they be men of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, oraspirants, or despots—provided only they be sincere—have their sublime moments,when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. John—veneration so strongthat its impetus thrust me at once to the point I had so long shunned. I wastempted to cease struggling with him—to rush down the torrent of his will intothe gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset byhim now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a foolboth times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to haveyielded now would have been an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, whenI look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconsciousof folly at the instant.

I stood motionless under my hierophant’s touch. My refusals were forgotten—myfears overcome—my wrestlings paralysed. The Impossible—i.e., my marriagewith St. John—was fast becoming the Possible. All was changing utterly with asudden sweep. Religion called—Angels beckoned—God commanded—life rolledtogether like a scroll—death’s gates opening, showed eternity beyond: itseemed, that for safety and bliss there, all here might be sacrificed in asecond. The dim room was full of visions.

“Could you decide now?” asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in gentletones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent isit than force! I could resist St. John’s wrath: I grew pliant as a reed underhis kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the lessbe made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changedby one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated.

“I could decide if I were but certain,” I answered: “were I but convinced thatit is God’s will I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and now—comeafterwards what would!”

“My prayers are heard!” ejacul*ted St. John. He pressed his hand firmer on myhead, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, almost as ifhe loved me (I say almost—I knew the difference—for I had felt what itwas to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, andthought only of duty). I contended with my inward dimness of vision, beforewhich clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what wasright; and only that. “Show me, show me the path!” I entreated of Heaven. I wasexcited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect ofexcitement the reader shall judge.

All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, werenow retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full ofmoonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stoodstill to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at onceto my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but itwas quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if theirutmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summonedand forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the fleshquivered on my bones.

“What have you heard? What do you see?” asked St. John. I saw nothing, but Iheard a voice somewhere cry—

“Jane! Jane! Jane!”—nothing more.

“O God! what is it?” I gasped.

I might have said, “Where is it?” for it did not seem in the room—nor in thehouse—nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air—nor from under theearth—nor from overhead. I had heard it—where, or whence, for ever impossibleto know! And it was the voice of a human being—a known, loved, well-rememberedvoice—that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly,eerily, urgently.

“I am coming!” I cried. “Wait for me! Oh, I will come!” I flew to the door andlooked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.

“Where are you?” I exclaimed.

The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back—“Where are you?” Ilistened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness andmidnight hush.

“Down superstition!” I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the blackyew at the gate. “This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the workof nature. She was roused, and did—no miracle—but her best.”

I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It wasmy time to assume ascendency. My powers were in play and inforce. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: Imust and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to commandwell enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my chamber; locked myself in;fell on my knees; and prayed in my way—a different way to St. John’s, buteffective 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 thethanksgiving—took a resolve—and lay down, unscared, enlightened—eager but forthe daylight.

CHAPTER XXXVI

The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two witharranging my things in my chamber, drawers, and wardrobe, in the order whereinI should wish to leave them during a brief absence. Meantime, I heard St. Johnquit his room. He stopped at my door: I feared he would knock—no, but a slip ofpaper 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, youwould have laid your hand on the Christian’s cross and the angel’s crown. Ishall expect your clear decision when I return this day fortnight. Meantime,watch and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit, I trust, iswilling, 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 myflesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when oncethat will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough tosearch—inquire—to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find the openday of certainty.”

It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain beatfast on my casem*nt. 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 overthe misty moors in the direction of Whitcross—there he would meet the coach.

“In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin,” thought I: “Itoo have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and ask after inEngland, before I depart for ever.”

It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the interval in walkingsoftly about my room, and pondering the visitation which had given my planstheir present bent. I recalled that inward sensation I had experienced: for Icould recall it, with all its unspeakable strangeness. I recalled the voice Ihad heard; again I questioned whence it came, as vainly as before: it seemed inme—not in the external world. I asked was it a mere nervous impression—adelusion? I could not conceive or believe: it was more like an inspiration. Thewondrous shock of feeling had come like the earthquake which shook thefoundations of Paul and Silas’s prison; it had opened the doors of the soul’scell and loosed its bands—it had wakened it out of its sleep, whence it sprangtrembling, 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 privilegedto make, independent of the cumbrous body.

“Ere many days,” I said, as I terminated my musings, “I will know something ofhim whose voice seemed last night to summon me. Letters have proved of noavail—personal inquiry shall replace them.”

At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a journey, andshould 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 timebeen uneasy.”

They might have said, as I have no doubt they thought, that they had believedme 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 thatDiana 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 Ihoped soon to alleviate.

It was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was troubled with noinquiries—no surmises. Having once explained to them that I could not now beexplicit about my plans, they kindly and wisely acquiesced in the silence withwhich I pursued them, according to me the privilege of free action I shouldunder similar circ*mstances have accorded them.

I left Moor House at three o’clock P.M., and soon after four Istood at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of thecoach which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst the silence of thosesolitary roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from a great distance. Itwas the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer evening onthis very spot—how desolate, and hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as Ibeckoned. I entered—not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as the priceof its accommodation. Once more on the road to Thornfield, I felt like themessenger-pigeon flying home.

It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from Whitcross on aTuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the coachstopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of scenerywhose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral hills (how mild of featureand verdant of hue compared with the stern North-Midland moors of Morton!) metmy eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face. Yes, I knew the characterof this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne.

“How far is Thornfield Hall from here?” I asked of the ostler.

“Just two miles, ma’am, across the fields.”

“My journey is closed,” I thought to myself. I got out of the coach, gave a boxI had into the ostler’s charge, to be kept till I called for it; paid my fare;satisfied the coachman, and was going: the brightening day gleamed on the signof the inn, and I read in gilt letters, “The Rochester Arms.” My heart leaptup: I was already on my master’s very lands. It fell again: the thought struckit:—

“Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you know: andthen, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten, who besides him isthere? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with him: you dare notspeak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your labour—you had better gono farther,” urged the monitor. “Ask information of the people at the inn; theycan give you all you seek: they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to thatman, and inquire if Mr. Rochester be at home.”

The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force myself to act on it. Iso dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong doubt was toprolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her star.There was the stile before me—the very fields through which I had hurried,blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury tracking and scourging me, onthe morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I well knew what course I had resolvedto 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 whatfeelings I welcomed single trees I knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow andhill between them!

At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke themorning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened. Another fieldcrossed—a lane threaded—and there were the courtyard walls—the back offices:the house itself, the rookery still hid. “My first view of it shall be infront,” I determined, “where its bold battlements will strike the eye nobly atonce, and where I can single out my master’s very window: perhaps he will bestanding at it—he rises early: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or onthe pavement in front. Could I but see him!—but a moment! Surely, in that case,I should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell—I am not certain. And ifI did—what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once moretasting the life his glance can give me? I rave: perhaps at this moment he iswatching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, or on the tideless sea of the south.”

I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard—turned its angle: there was agate just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone pillars crowned bystone balls. From behind one pillar I could peep round quietly at the fullfront of the mansion. I advanced my head with precaution, desirous to ascertainif any bedroom window-blinds were yet drawn up: battlements, windows, longfront—all from this sheltered station were at my command.

The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey. Iwonder what they thought. They must have considered I was very careful andtimid at first, and that gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A peep, andthen a long stare; and then a departure from my niche and a straying out intothe meadow; and a sudden stop full in front of the great mansion, and aprotracted, hardy gaze towards it. “What affectation of diffidence was this atfirst?” 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 glimpseof her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the grass, carefulto make no sound; he pauses—fancying she has stirred: he withdraws: not forworlds would he be seen. All is still: he again advances: he bends above her; alight veil rests on her features: he lifts it, bends lower; now his eyesanticipate the vision of beauty—warm, and blooming, and lovely, in rest. Howhurried was their first glance! But how they fix! How he starts! How hesuddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms the form he dared not, a momentsince, 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 nolonger fears to waken by any sound he can utter—by any movement he can make. Hethought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone dead.

I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened ruin.

No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed!—to peep up at chamber lattices,fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for doors opening—tofancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The lawn, the grounds weretrodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The front was, as I had once seen itin a dream, but a shell-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking,perforated with paneless windows: no roof, no battlements, no chimneys—all hadcrashed 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 ofthe stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen—by conflagration: but howkindled? What story belonged to this disaster? What loss, besides mortar andmarble and wood-work had followed upon it? Had life been wrecked as well asproperty? If so, whose? Dreadful question: there was no one here to answerit—not even dumb sign, mute token.

In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated interior, Igathered evidence that the calamity was not of late occurrence. Winter snows, Ithought, had drifted through that void arch, winter rains beaten in at thosehollow casem*nts; for, amidst the drenched piles of rubbish, spring hadcherished vegetation: grass and weed grew here and there between the stones andfallen rafters. And oh! where meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck? Inwhat land? Under what auspices? My eye involuntarily wandered to the greychurch 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 theinn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought my breakfastinto the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit down: I had somequestions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely knew how to begin; suchhorror had I of the possible answers. And yet the spectacle of desolation I hadjust left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery. The host was arespectable-looking, middle-aged man.

“You know Thornfield Hall, of course?” I managed to say at last.

“Yes, ma’am; I lived there once.”

“Did you?” Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me.

“I was the late Mr. Rochester’s butler,” he added.

The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been tryingto evade.

“The late!” I gasped. “Is he dead?”

“I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward’s father,” he explained. I breathedagain: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words that Mr.Edward—my Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!)—was at leastalive: was, in short, “the present gentleman.” Gladdening words! It seemed Icould hear all that was to come—whatever the disclosures might be—withcomparative tranquillity. Since he was not in the grave, I could bear, Ithought, 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 asto where he really was.

“No, ma’am—oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger inthese parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn,—Thornfield Hallis quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest-time. A dreadfulcalamity! such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed: hardly anyof the furniture could be saved. The fire broke out at dead of night, andbefore 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 atThornfield. “Was it known how it originated?” I demanded.

“They guessed, ma’am: they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was ascertainedbeyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware,” he continued, edging his chair alittle nearer the table, and speaking low, “that there was a lady—a—a lunatic,kept in the house?”

“I have heard something of it.”

“She was kept in very close confinement, ma’am; people even for some years wasnot absolutely certain of her existence. No one saw her: they only knew byrumour that such a person was at the Hall; and who or what she was it wasdifficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had brought her from abroad, andsome believed she had been his mistress. But a queer thing happened a yearsince—a very queer thing.”

I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the mainfact.

“And this lady?”

“This lady, ma’am,” he answered, “turned out to be Mr. Rochester’s wife! Thediscovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young lady, agoverness at the Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in—”

“But the fire,” I suggested.

“I’m coming to that, ma’am—that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The servants saythey never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was after her continually.They used to watch him—servants will, you know, ma’am—and he set store on herpast everything: for all, nobody but him thought her so very handsome. She wasa little small thing, they say, almost like a child. I never saw her myself;but I’ve heard Leah, the house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough.Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, whengentlemen of his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if theywere bewitched. Well, he would marry her.”

“You shall tell me this part of the story another time,” I said; “but now Ihave a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. Was itsuspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in it?”

“You’ve hit it, ma’am: it’s quite certain that it was her, and nobody but her,that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole—anable woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one fault—a fault commonto a deal of them nurses and matrons—she kept a private bottle of gin byher, and now and then took a drop over-much. It is excusable, for she had ahard life of it: but still it was dangerous; for when Mrs. Poole was fastasleep 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 goroaming about the house, doing any wild mischief that came into her head. Theysay she had nearly burnt her husband in his bed once: but I don’t know aboutthat. However, on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the roomnext her own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made her way to thechamber that had been the governess’s—(she was like as if she knew somehow howmatters had gone on, and had a spite at her)—and she kindled the bed there; butthere was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The governess had run away twomonths before; and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the mostprecious thing he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and hegrew savage—quite savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but hegot dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs. Fairfax,the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but he did it handsomely,for he settled an annuity on her for life: and she deserved it—she was a verygood woman. Miss Adèle, a ward he had, was put to school. He broke offacquaintance with all the gentry, and shut himself up like a hermit at theHall.”

“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 theorchard as if he had lost his senses—which it is my opinion he had; for a morespirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was before that midge of a governesscrossed him, you never saw, ma’am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards, orracing, as some are, and he was not so very handsome; but he had a courage anda will of his own, if ever man had. I knew him from a boy, you see: and for mypart, I have often wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before shecame 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 aboveand 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 tohim that she was on the roof, where she was standing, waving her arms, abovethe battlements, and shouting out till they could hear her a mile off: I sawher and heard her with my own eyes. She was a big woman, and had long blackhair: 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 tothe roof; we heard him call ‘Bertha!’ We saw him approach her; and then, ma’am,she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on thepavement.”

“Dead?”

“Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were scattered.”

“Good God!”

“You may well say so, ma’am: it was frightful!”

He shuddered.

“And afterwards?” I urged.

“Well, ma’am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are only somebits of walls standing now.”

“Were any other lives lost?”

“No—perhaps it would have been better if there had.”

“What do you mean?”

“Poor Mr. Edward!” he ejacul*ted, “I little thought ever to have seen it! Somesay it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage secret, andwanting to take another wife while he had one living: but I pity him, for mypart.”

“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 hein England?”

“Ay—ay—he’s in England; he can’t get out of England, I fancy—he’s a fixturenow.”

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 whathad caused this calamity.

“It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kindness, in a way, ma’am:he wouldn’t leave the house till every one else was out before him. As he camedown the great staircase at last, after Mrs. Rochester had flung herself fromthe battlements, there was a great crash—all fell. He was taken out from underthe ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: a beam had fallen in such a way as to protecthim 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: helost the sight of that also. He is now helpless, indeed—blind and a cripple.”

“Where is he? Where does he now live?”

“At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off: quite adesolate spot.”

“Who is with him?”

“Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is quite broken down, theysay.”

“Have you any sort of conveyance?”

“We have a chaise, ma’am, a very handsome chaise.”

“Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to Ferndeanbefore dark this day, I’ll pay both you and him twice the hire you usuallydemand.”

CHAPTER XXXVII

The manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity, moderatesize, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I had heard ofit before. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes went there. Hisfather had purchased the estate for the sake of the game covers. He would havelet the house, but could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible andinsalubrious site. Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with theexception of some two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of thesquire when he went there in the season to shoot.

To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the characteristicsof sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating rain. The last mile Iperformed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and driver with the doubleremuneration I had promised. Even when within a very short distance of themanor-house, you could see nothing of it, so thick and dark grew the timber ofthe gloomy wood about it. Iron gates between granite pillars showed me where toenter, and passing through them, I found myself at once in the twilight ofclose-ranked trees. There was a grass-grown track descending the forest aislebetween hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it,expecting soon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it wound farand farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was visible.

I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness ofnatural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked round in search ofanother road. There was none: all was interwoven stem, columnar trunk, densesummer foliage—no opening anywhere.

I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently Ibeheld a railing, then the house—scarce, by this dim light, distinguishablefrom 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 whichthe 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 frameof the forest. The house presented two pointed gables in its front; the windowswere 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 desolatespot.” It was as still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on theforest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage.

“Can there be life here?” I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement—that narrow front-doorwas 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; aman without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained.Dusk as it was, I had recognised him—it was my master, Edward FairfaxRochester, and no other.

I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him—to examine him,myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was a sudden meeting, and one inwhich rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had no difficulty inrestraining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty advance.

His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his port wasstill erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his features altered orsunk: not in one year’s space, by any sorrow, could his athletic strength bequelled or his vigorous prime blighted. But in his countenance I saw a change:that looked desperate and brooding—that reminded me of some wronged andfettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approach in his sullen woe. The cagedeagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has extinguished, might look as lookedthat sightless Samson.

And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity?—if you do, youlittle know me. A soft hope blent with my sorrow that soon I should dare todrop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly sealed beneathit: but not yet. I would not accost him yet.

He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards thegrass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew notwhich way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed blank, andwith a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees: onesaw that all to him was void darkness. He stretched his right hand (the leftarm, the mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish bytouch to gain an idea of what lay around him: he met but vacancy still; for thetrees were some yards off where he stood. He relinquished the endeavour, foldedhis arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on hisuncovered 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: hadyou not better go in?”

“Let me alone,” was the answer.

John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried to walkabout: vainly,—all was too uncertain. He groped his way back to the house, and,re-entering it, closed the door.

I now drew near and knocked: John’s wife opened for me. “Mary,” I said, “howare you?”

She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To her hurried “Is itreally you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely place?” I answered bytaking her hand; and then I followed her into the kitchen, where John now satby a good fire. I explained to them, in few words, that I had heard all whichhad 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 thechaise, and bring my trunk, which I had left there: and then, while I removedmy bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated atthe Manor House for the night; and finding that arrangements to that effect,though difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay. Justat this moment the parlour-bell rang.

“When you go in,” said I, “tell your master that a person wishes to speak tohim, but do not give my name.”

“I don’t think he will see you,” she answered; “he refuses everybody.”

When she returned, I inquired what he had said.

“You are to send in your name and your business,” she replied. She thenproceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, together withcandles.

“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 asI held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my ribs loud andfast. 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-fashionedmantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay onone side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid of beinginadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then hejumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knockedthe tray from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted him, and saidsoftly, “Lie down!” Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to see what thecommotion 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, stillexcited.

“What is the matter?” he inquired.

“Down, Pilot!” I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, andseemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. “This is you, Mary, is itnot?”

“Mary is in the kitchen,” I answered.

He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he didnot touch me. “Who is this? Who is this?” he demanded, trying, as it seemed, tosee with those sightless eyes—unavailing and distressing attempt!“Answer me—speak again!” he ordered, imperiously and aloud.

“Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in theglass,” 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,” Ianswered.

“Great God!—what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?”

“No delusion—no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, yourhealth too sound for frenzy.”

“And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see, but Imust feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever—whoever youare—be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!”

He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.

“Her very fingers!” he cried; “her small, slight fingers! If so there must bemore of her.”

The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, myshoulder—neck—waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.

“Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape—this is her size—”

“And this her voice,” I added. “She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you,sir! I am glad to be so near you again.”

“Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre,” was all he said.

“My dear master,” I answered, “I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out—I am comeback 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; butI cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams as I havehad at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; andkissed her, as thus—and felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would notleave me.”

“Which I never will, sir, from this day.”

“Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty mockery;and I was desolate and abandoned—my life dark, lonely, hopeless—my soul athirstand forbidden to drink—my heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, softdream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have allfled before you: but kiss me before you go—embrace me, Jane.”

“There, sir—and there!”’

I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes—I swept his hairfrom his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seemed to arouse himself: theconviction of the reality of all this seized him.

“It is you—is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?”

“I am.”

“And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not apining outcast amongst strangers?”

“No, sir! I am an independent woman now.”

“Independent! What do you mean, Jane?”

“My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds.”

“Ah! this is practical—this is real!” he cried: “I should never dream that.Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, aswell as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it.—What, Janet!Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?”

“Quite rich, sir. If you won’t let me live with you, I can build a house of myown close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you wantcompany of an evening.”

“But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look afteryou, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like me?”

“I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own mistress.”

“And you will stay with me?”

“Certainly—unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse, yourhousekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your companion—to read to you, towalk 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, solong as I live.”

He replied not: he seemed serious—abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened hislips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a little embarrassed. PerhapsI had too rashly over-leaped conventionalities; and he, like St. John, sawimpropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had indeed made my proposal from theidea that he wished and would ask me to be his wife: an expectation, not theless certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me atonce as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his countenancebecoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong,and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdrawmyself from his arms—but he eagerly snatched me closer.

“No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I have touched you, heard you, felt thecomfort of your presence—the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give upthese joys. I have little left in myself—I must have you. The world maylaugh—may call me absurd, selfish—but it does not signify. My very soul demandsyou: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.”

“Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so.”

“Yes—but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand another.You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair—to wait onme as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate heart and a generousspirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that oughtto suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherlyfeelings for you: do you think so? Come—tell me.”

“I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if youthink it better.”

“But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young—you must marry oneday.”

“I don’t care about being married.”

“You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make youcare—but—a sightless block!”

He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, andtook fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where thedifficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved frommy previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

“It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,” said I, parting his thickand long uncut locks; “for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, orsomething of that sort. You have a ‘faux air’ of Nebuchadnezzar in the fieldsabout you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles’ feathers; whetheryour 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 mutilatedlimb from his breast, and showing it to me. “It is a mere stump—a ghastlysight! Don’t you think so, Jane?”

“It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire onyour forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too wellfor all this; and making too much of you.”

“I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrisedvisage.”

“Did you? Don’t tell me so—lest I should say something disparaging to yourjudgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have thehearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?”

“Yes; with the right eye I see a glow—a ruddy haze.”

“And you see the candles?”

“Very dimly—each is a luminous cloud.”

“Can you see me?”

“No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.”

“When do you take supper?”

“I never take supper.”

“But you shall have some to-night. I am hungry: so are you, I daresay, only youforget.”

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 andease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time after. There was noharassing restraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity with him; for with himI was at perfect ease, because I knew I suited him; all I said or did seemedeither to console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! It brought to lifeand light my whole nature: in his presence I thoroughly lived; and he lived inmine. 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 Ihad been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave him only very partialreplies: it was too late to enter into particulars that night. Besides, Iwished to touch no deep-thrilling chord—to open no fresh well of emotion in hisheart: my sole present aim was to cheer him. Cheered, as I have said, he was:and yet but by fits. If a moment’s silence broke the conversation, he wouldturn 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 mylone hearth? I stretched my hand to take a glass of water from a hireling, andit was given me by you: I asked a question, expecting John’s wife to answer me,and your voice spoke at my ear.”

“Because I had come in, in Mary’s stead, with the tray.”

“And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you. Who cantell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for months past?Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day; feeling but thesensation 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 beholdmy Jane again. Yes: for her restoration I longed, far more than for that of mylost sight. How can it be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will shenot depart as suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I fear I shall find her nomore.”

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. Ipassed my finger over his eyebrows, and remarked that they were scorched, andthat I would apply something which would make them grow as broad and black asever.

“Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit, when, at somefatal moment, you will again desert me—passing like a shadow, whither and howto 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 Iexamine you close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but I am sure, you aremore 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 havesojourned.”

“Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundred times betterpeople; possessed of ideas and views you never entertained in your life: quitemore 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; andthen 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; toleave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of security that I shallappear at your breakfast table to finish it. By the bye, I must mind not torise on your hearth with only a glass of water then: I must bring an egg at theleast, to say nothing of fried ham.”

“You mocking changeling—fairy-born and human-bred! You make me feel as I havenot felt these twelve months. If Saul could have had you for his David, theevil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of the harp.”

“There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I’ll leave you: I have beentravelling 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 hismelancholy for some time to come.”

Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering from one roomto another. As soon as Mary came down I heard the question: “Is Miss Eyrehere?” Then: “Which room did you put her into? Was it dry? Is she up? Go andask if she wants anything; and when she will come down.”

I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast. Enteringthe room very softly, I had a view of him before he discovered my presence. Itwas mournful, indeed, to witness the subjugation of that vigorous spirit to acorporeal infirmity. He sat in his chair—still, but not at rest: expectantevidently; the lines of now habitual sadness marking his strong features. Hiscountenance reminded one of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit—and alas! itwas not himself that could now kindle the lustre of animated expression: he wasdependent on another for that office! I had meant to be gay and careless, butthe powerlessness of the strong man touched my heart to the quick: still Iaccosted him with what vivacity I could.

“It is a bright, sunny morning, sir,” I said. “The rain is over and gone, andthere 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: notvanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over the wood: butit* song had no music for me, any more than the rising sun had rays. All themelody on earth is concentrated in my Jane’s tongue to my ear (I am glad it isnot 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 aroyal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to entreat a sparrow tobecome its purveyor. But I would not be lachrymose: I dashed off the saltdrops, and busied myself with preparing breakfast.

Most of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him out of the wet andwild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him how brilliantly greenthey were; how the flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how sparklingly bluewas the sky. I sought a seat for him in a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stumpof a tree; nor did I refuse to let him, when seated, place me on his knee. Whyshould 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 hadfled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you; and, after examiningyour apartment, ascertained that you had taken no money, nor anything whichcould serve as an equivalent! A pearl necklace I had given you lay untouched inits little casket; your trunks were left corded and locked as they had beenprepared for the bridal tour. What could my darling do, I asked, left destituteand penniless? And what did she do? Let me hear now.”

Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last year. Isoftened considerably what related to the three days of wandering andstarvation, because to have told him all would have been to inflict unnecessarypain: 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: Ishould have told him my intention. I should have confided in him: he wouldnever have forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he had seemed in hisdespair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too tenderly to constitutehimself my tyrant: he would have given me half his fortune, without demandingso much as a kiss in return, rather than I should have flung myself friendlesson the wide world. I had endured, he was certain, more than I had confessed tohim.

“Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short,” I answered: andthen I proceeded to tell him how I had been received at Moor House; how I hadobtained the office of schoolmistress, &c. The accession of fortune, thediscovery 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 namewas 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 whatdoes 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 hisguiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue.”

“He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives toperform.”

“But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but you shrug yourshoulders to hear him talk?”

“He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His brain isfirst-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 mustsuit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike.”

“His appearance,—I forget what description you gave of his appearance;—a sortof raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on histhick-soled high-lows, eh?”

“St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes, and aGrecian 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 ofhim: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him respite from thegnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore, immediately charm thesnake.

“Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?” was thenext somewhat unexpected observation.

“Why not, Mr. Rochester?”

“The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelmingcontrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo: he ispresent to your imagination,—tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile.Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,—a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: andblind and lame into the bargain.”

“I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir.”

“Well, you can leave me, ma’am: but before you go” (and he retained me by afirmer grasp than ever), “you will be pleased just to answer me a question ortwo.” He paused.

“What questions, Mr. Rochester?”

Then followed this cross-examination.

“St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were hiscousin?”

“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 area talented creature!”

“He approved of them—yes.”

“He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find? Someof your accomplishments are not ordinary.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come there tosee 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 wasdiscovered?”

“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, andwe by the table.”

“Did he study much?”

“A good deal.”

“What?”

“Hindostanee.”

“And what did you do meantime?”

“I learnt German, at first.”

“Did he teach you?”

“He did not understand German.”

“Did he teach you nothing?”

“A little Hindostanee.”

“Rivers taught you Hindostanee?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And his sisters also?”

“No.”

“Only you?”

“Only me.”

“Did you ask to learn?”

“No.”

“He wished to teach you?”

“Yes.”

A second pause.

“Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?”

“He intended me to go with him to India.”

“Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him?”

“He asked me to marry him.”

“That is a fiction—an impudent invention to vex me.”

“I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than once, andwas 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 samething? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I have givenyou notice to quit?”

“Because I am comfortable there.”

“No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not with me: itis with this cousin—this St. John. Oh, till this moment, I thought my littleJane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even when she left me: that wasan atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as Ihave 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 andmarry Rivers.”

“Shake me off, then, sir,—push me away, for I’ll not leave you of my ownaccord.”

“Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds sotruthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget that you haveformed a new tie. But I am not a fool—go—”

“Where must I go, sir?”

“Your own way—with the husband you have chosen.”

“Who is that?”

“You know—this St. John Rivers.”

“He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do not lovehim. He loves (as he can love, and that is not as you love) a beautifulyoung lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only because he thought Ishould make a suitable missionary’s wife, which she would not have done. He isgood and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not likeyou, sir: I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has noindulgence for me—no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not evenyouth—only a few useful mental points.—Then I must leave you, sir, to go tohim?”

I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind butbeloved master. He smiled.

“What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between you andRivers?”

“Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a littleto make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than grief. But if youwish me to love you, could you but see how much I do love you, you wouldbe proud and content. All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and withyou it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.”

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 wantedto speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a minute, I saw atear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down the manly cheek. Myheart swelled.

“I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfieldorchard,” he remarked ere long. “And what right would that ruin have to bid abudding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?”

“You are no ruin, sir—no lightning-struck tree: you are green and vigorous.Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or not, because theytake delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean towardsyou, 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 thanfriends, 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 circ*mstances, sir—on your choice.”

“Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision.”

“Choose then, sir—her who loves you best.”

“I will at least choose—her I love best. Jane, will you marry me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to wait on?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Truly, Jane?”

“Most truly, sir.”

“Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!”

“Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life—if ever I thought a goodthought—if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer—if ever I wished arighteous wish,—I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happyas I can be on earth.”

“Because you delight in sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. Tobe privileged to put my arms round what I value—to press my lips to what Ilove—to repose on what I trust: is that to make a sacrifice? If so, thencertainly 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 usefulto you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you disdainedevery part but that of the giver and protector.”

“Hitherto I have hated to be helped—to be led: henceforth, I feel I shall hateit no more. I did not like to put my hand into a hireling’s, but it is pleasantto feel it circled by Jane’s little fingers. I preferred utter loneliness tothe constant attendance of servants; but Jane’s soft ministry will be aperpetual 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 bemarried 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 toget—then we marry.”

“Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from itsmeridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me look at yourwatch.”

“Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no use forit.”

“It is nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, sir. Don’t you feel hungry?”

“The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine clothesand 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 quitehot.”

“Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment fastenedround my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it since the day I lost myonly 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 withgratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as mansees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I didwrong: I would have sullied my innocent flower—breathed guilt on its purity:the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almostcursed the dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divinejustice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to passthrough the valley of the shadow of death. His chastisem*nts are mighty;and one smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was proud of mystrength: but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, asa child does its weakness? Of late, Jane—only—only of late—I began to see andacknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse,repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray:very brief prayers they were, but very sincere.

“Some days since: nay, I can number them—four; it was last Monday night, asingular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced frenzy—sorrow,sullenness. I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere find you,you must be dead. Late that night—perhaps it might be between eleven and twelveo’clock—ere I retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemedgood to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to that worldto 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 meto 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, Ilonged for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguishand humility, if I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; andmight not soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all I endured, Iacknowledged—that I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha andomega of my heart’s wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words—‘Jane!Jane! Jane!’”

“Did you speak these words aloud?”

“I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought me mad: Ipronounced 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, andalways had: nevertheless, this is true—true at least it is that I heard what Inow relate.

“As I exclaimed ‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’ a voice—I cannot tell whence the voicecame, but I know whose voice it was—replied, ‘I am coming: wait for me;’ and amoment after, went whispering on the wind the words—‘Where are you?’

“I’ll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to my mind:yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, asyou 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 echorepeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit mybrow: I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane weremeeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were, at thathour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell tocomfort mine; for those were your accents—as certain as I live—they wereyours!”

Reader, it was on Monday night—near midnight—that I too had received themysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to it. Ilistened to Mr. Rochester’s narrative, but made no disclosure in return. Thecoincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be communicated ordiscussed. If I told anything, my tale would be such as must necessarily make aprofound impression on the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet from itssufferings 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 sounexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any other than amere 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, andbending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute devotion. Only thelast words of the worship were audible.

“I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered mercy. Ihumbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer lifethan I have done hitherto!”

Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held it amoment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so much lower ofstature than he, I served both for his prop and guide. We entered the wood, andwended homeward.

CHAPTER XXXVIII—CONCLUSION

Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk,were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen ofthe manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning theknives, and I said—

“Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning.” The housekeeper andher husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom onemay at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurringthe danger of having one’s ears pierced by some shrill ejacul*tion, andsubsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, andshe did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickensroasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and forthe same space of time John’s knives also had rest from the polishing process:but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only—

“Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!”

A short time after she pursued—“I seed you go out with the master, but I didn’tknow you were gone to church to be wed;” and she basted away. John, when Iturned to him, was grinning from ear to ear.

“I telled Mary how it would be,” he said: “I knew what Mr. Edward” (John was anold 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 woulddo; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he’s done right, foraught 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 intohis hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen.In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words—

“She’ll happen do better for him nor ony o’ t’ grand ladies.” And again, “Ifshe ben’t one o’ th’ handsomest, she’s noan faâl and varry good-natured; and i’his een she’s fair beautiful, onybody may see that.”

I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done:fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the stepunreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get over thehoneymoon, and then she would come and see me.

“She had better not wait till then, Jane,” said Mr. Rochester, when I read herletter to him; “if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shineour life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine.”

How St. John received the news, I don’t know: he never answered the letter inwhich I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me, without, however,mentioning Mr. Rochester’s name or alluding to my marriage. His letter was thencalm, and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though notfrequent, correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am notof 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 soonasked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the schoolwhere 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 theestablishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child ofher 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 byanother—my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on amore indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, andbringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anythingthat could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, becamevery happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, asound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; andwhen 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 tooffer 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 frequentlyrecurred in this narrative, and I have done.

I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for andwith what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest—blest beyond whatlanguage can express; because I am my husband’s life as fully as he is mine. Nowoman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of hisbone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward’s society: heknows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart thatbeats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To betogether 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 animatedand an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all hisconfidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character—perfectconcord is the result.

Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it wasthat circ*mstance that drew us so very near—that knit us so very close: for Iwas then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what heoften called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature—he saw books through me;and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words theeffect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam—of the landscape before us;of the weather round us—and impressing by sound on his ear what light could nolonger stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I wearyof conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to bedone. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, eventhough sad—because he claimed these services without painful shame or dampinghumiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting bymy attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance wasto indulge my sweetest wishes.

One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to hisdictation, he came and bent over me, and said—“Jane, have you a glitteringornament 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 obscurityclouding 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 heeventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see verydistinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without beingled by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him—the earth no longer avoid. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy hadinherited his own eyes, as they once were—large, brilliant, and black. On thatoccasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had temperedjudgment with mercy.

My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most loveare happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, onceevery year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana’s husband is acaptain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary’s is a clergyman, acollege friend of her brother’s, and, from his attainments and principles,worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love theirwives, and are loved by them.

As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on thepath 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; heclears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant theprejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may beexacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warriorGreatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. Hisis the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when hesays—“Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his crossand follow me.” His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims tofill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth—whostand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mightyvictories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.

St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficedto the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to itssetting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, andyet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, hisincorruptible crown. I know that a stranger’s hand will write to me next, tosay that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joyof his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John’slast hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hopewill be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this—

“My Master,” he says, “has forewarned me. Daily He announces moredistinctly,—‘Surely I come quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond,—‘Amen;even so come, Lord Jesus!’”

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë (2024)
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