ate)' 
 
 X©; 
 
 ^OJ^i 
 
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 JVo. 109 
 
 LIBRARY OF SELECJT NOVELS. 
 
 JAIE EYRE.H 
 
 3.11 3,utobiograpl)2» 
 
 ^,1^ 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 R E R BELL, 
 
 '—t***^4«t***** — ■ 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 83 CLIFF STREET. 
 
 184 8. 
 
 Price Twenty-five Cents. 
 
 L<- ' 
 
aa va @«i(yca«ia Wit 
 
 IN COURSB OP PUBLICATION, IN THE CHEAP, POPCLAE FORM 
 
 BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
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 S3. 
 
 PELHAM. ByBULWER 
 THE DISOWNED. By BULWER 
 DEVEREtJX. ByBULWER . 
 PAUL CLIFFORD. By BULWER 
 EUGENE ARAM. By BULWER . 
 
 25 
 25 
 25 
 25 
 
 LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. ByBULWER 25 
 THE CZARINA. By Mrs. HOFLAND . . 25 
 
 RIENZI. By BULWER 25 
 
 SELF-DEVOTION. By Miss CAMPBELL . 25 
 THE NABOB AT HOME .... 25 
 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. By BULWER 25 
 ALICE. ByBULWER .... 25 
 
 LAST OF THE BARONS. By BULWER 
 FOREST DAYS. By G. P. R. JAMES . 
 ADAM BROWN. By HORACE S.MITH 
 
 25 
 12J 
 12i 
 
 PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. BULWER 12i 
 THE HOME. By Miss BREMER . . . 12J 
 THE LOST SHIP. By Capt. NEALE . . 25* 
 THE FALSE HEIR. By G. P. R. JAMES . 12* 
 THE NEIGHBORS. By Miss BREMER . 12^ 
 NINA. By Miss BREMER . . . .124 
 PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTERS. BREMER I24 
 THE BANKER'S WIFE. By Mrs. GORE . 12J 
 THE BIRTHRIGHT. By Mrs. GORE . 12J 
 NEW SKETCHES : a Diary. By BREMER 12i 
 ARABELLA STUART. By G. P. R.JAMES 12J 
 THE GRUMBLER. By Miss PICKERING 12^ 
 THE UNLOVED ONE. Mrs. UOFLAND . 12i 
 JACK OF THE MILL. By W. IIOWITT . 12i 
 THE HERETIC. By LAJETCHNIKOFF . 12J 
 THE JEW. By SPINDLER . . . .12^ 
 ARTHUR. By EUGENE SUE . . .25 
 CHATSWORTH. By WARD . . .12* 
 THE PRAIRIE BIRD. By MURRAY . 25" 
 
 AMY HERBERT 12i 
 
 ROSE D'ALBRET. By G. P. R. JAMES .12* 
 TRIUMPHS OF TIME. By Mrs. MARSH 25 
 
 THE H FAMILY. By Miss BREMER . 12J 
 
 THE GRAND-FATHER. Miss PICKERING 12J 
 ARRAH NEIL. By G. P. R. JAMES . 
 
 THE JILT 
 
 TALES FROM THE GERMAN 
 ARTHUR ARUNDEL. HORACE SMITH 
 AGINCOURT. By G. P. R. JAMES 
 THE REGENT'S DAUGHTER. DUMAS 25 
 THE MAlD OF HONOR . .... 25 
 SAFIA. By DE BEAUVOIR .... 
 LOOK TO THE END. By Mrs. ELLIS 
 THE IMPROVISATORE. By ANDERSEN 
 THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. By Mrs. GREY 25 
 VERONICA. By ZSCHOKKE . . .25 
 ZOE. By Miss JEWSBURY . . . .25 
 WYOMING -25 
 
 12* 
 
 12i 
 
 124 
 
 25 
 
 25 
 
 124 
 
 124 
 124 
 
 By EUGENE SUE 
 
 Cm* 
 . 25 
 . 35 
 . 25 
 . 25 
 
 54. DE ROHAN, 
 
 55. SELF 
 
 56. THE SMUGGLER. By G. P. R. JAMES 
 
 57. BREACH OF PROMISE 
 
 58. PARSONAGE OF MORA. Misi BREMER I24 
 89. A CHANCE MEDLEY. By GRATTAN . 25 
 
 60. THE WHITE SLAVE .... 25 
 
 61. THE BOSOM FRIEND. By Mr*. GREY , 25 
 
 62. AMAURY. By DUMAS 25 
 
 63. AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER. Mr». HOWITT I24 
 
 64. ONLY A FIDDLER. By ANDERSEN . 25 
 
 65. THE WHITEBOY. By Mrs. S. C. HALL . 25 
 
 66. THE FOSTER-BROTHER. By HUNT . 25 
 
 67. LOVE AND MESMERISM. By H.SMITH 25 
 
 68. ASCANIO. By DUMAS . . . . 2."i 
 
 69. THE LADY OF MILAN .... 25 
 
 70. THE CITIZEN OF PRAGUE . . .85 
 
 71. THE ROYAL FAVORITE. By Mrs. GORE 25 
 
 72. THE QUEEN OF DENMARK . .25 
 
 73. THE ELVES, ETC. By CARLYLE, etc. . 25 
 
 74. 75. THE STEP-MOTHER. JAMES, each . 25 
 
 76. JESSIE'S FLIRTATIONS . . . .25 
 
 77. CHEVALIER D'HARMENTAL. DUMAS 25 
 
 78. PEERS AND PARVENUS. By Mrs. GORE 25 
 
 79. COMMANDER OF MALTA. By SUE . 25 
 
 80. THE FEMALE MINISTER . . . 12* 
 
 81. EMILIA WYNDHAM. By Mrs. MARSH . 25 
 
 82. THE B'^SH RANGER. By ROWCROFT . 25 
 
 83. CLOV 
 
 84. CON" 
 
 P 
 
 85. ;i,' 
 
 86. 
 
 87. . 
 
 88. L. 
 
 89. H 
 
 90. Lt = 
 
 91. BE 
 
 92. FOl 
 
 93. DAN \ 
 
 94. FORTl 
 
 95. CINQ-Ri. 
 
 96. WOMAN' 
 
 ^'^. By DOUGLAS JERROLD 124 
 ' OF A PRETTY WOMAN. 
 B 25 
 
 Es 124 
 
 \LIVAN. By MAXWELL 25 
 . 25 
 . SS 
 . 25 
 
 \. By Mrs. MARSH 
 \rs. MABERLY . 
 y G. P. R. JAMES 
 
 \E. 
 
 1^ 
 
 %_ 
 
 BULWER LYTTON 25 
 
 P. R. JAMES . . 25 
 
 KNOWLES. Part I. 25 
 
 J. By Mrs. HOFLAND 25 
 
 , J. S. KNOWLES. Part H. 25 
 
 ^Jy DE VIGNY . .25 
 
 RIALS. By Mrs. S. C. HALL 25 
 
 97. CASTLE O'F EHRENSTEIN. By JAMES 25 
 
 98. MARRIAGE. By Miss S. FERRIER . 25 
 
 99. 100. INHERITANCE. By Miss S. FERRIER 50 
 
 101. RUSSELL. By G. P. R. JAMES . . .25 
 
 102. A SIMPLE STORY. By Mrs. INCHD.VLD 85 
 
 103. NORMAN'S BRIDGE. By Mrs. MARSH . 25 
 
 104. ALAMANCE 25 
 
 105. MARGARET GRAHAM. By JAMES . I94 
 
 106. THE WAYSIDE CROSS. By MILMAN . 134 
 
 107. THE CONVICT. By G. P. R. JAMES . 25 
 
 POCKET SERIES OF NOVELS. 
 
 1. THE YEMASSEE. By W. G. SIMMS . .25 
 
 2. YOUNG KATE 25 
 
 3. TALES OF GLAUBER SPA. By J. K. 
 
 PAULDING a7.d others 25 
 
 4. ATTILA. By G. P. R. JAMES . . .25 
 6. CORSE DE LEON. By G. P. R. JAMES .25 
 
 6. THE ANCIENT REGIME. By JAMES .25 
 
 7. THE MAN-AT-ARMS. By G. P. R. JAMES 25 
 
 8. CHARLES TYRRELL. By G. P. R. JAMES 25 
 
 9. DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE. PAULUINC 25 
 }0. NIGHT AND MORNING. By BULWER . 25 
 
 11. WESTWARD HO! By J. K. PAULDING . 
 
 12. EVELINA. By Miss BURNEY 
 
 13. THE ROBBER. By G. P. R. JAMES . 
 
 14. GUY RIVERS. By W. G. SIMMS . . . 
 
 15. THE YOUNG DUKE. By D'lSRAELI 
 
 16. RICHELIEU. By G. P. R. JAMES 
 
 17. CRICHTON. By W. H. AINSWORTH 
 
 18. LEILA. By Sir E. II. LYTTON . 
 
 19. THE HUGUENOT. By G. P. R. JAMES . 
 
 20. THE KINGS HIGHWAY. By JAMES . . 
 
 21. THE STRING OF PEARLS. By JAMES 
 
 SS 
 
 85 
 
 35 
 
 35 
 
 85 
 
 35 
 
 25 
 
 184 
 
 25 
 
 85 
 
 85 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 "^.n ^tttobiograpljB. 
 
 ..A 
 
 SDITED BT 
 
 ^'Qi R E R BELL, 
 
 / 
 
 V 
 
 » «««^»//l » l<#^^» W I 
 
 NOTE:- This book was actually 
 
 printed in 1847. 
 
 See dated ads on pages 175-176 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 82 CLIFF STREET, NEW YORK. 
 
 1.8 48. 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 There was no possibility of taking a walk 
 that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in 
 the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning ; 
 but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was 
 no company, dined early) the cold winter wind 
 had brought with it clouds so somber, and a 
 rain so penetrating, that further out-door exer- 
 cise was now out of the question. 
 
 I was glad of it : I never liked long walks, 
 especially on chilly afternoons : dreadful to me 
 was the coming home in the raw twilight, with 
 nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened 
 by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and hum- 
 bled by the consciousness of my physical infe- 
 riority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. 
 
 The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were 
 now clustered round their mamma in the draw- 
 ing-room ; she lay reclined on a sofa by the 
 fireside, and, with her darlings about her (for 
 the time neither quarreling nor crying), looked 
 perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from 
 joining the group, saying, "She regretted to 
 be under the necessity of keeping me at a dis- 
 tance ; but that until she heard from Bessie, 
 and could discover by her own observation that 
 I was endeavoring in good earnest to acquire a 
 more sociable and childlike disposition, a more 
 attractive and sprightly manner — something 
 lighter, franker, more natural, as it were — she 
 really must exclude me from privileges intended 
 only for contented, happy little children." 
 
 "What does Bessie say I have donel" I 
 asked. 
 
 " Jane, I don't like cavilers or questioners : 
 besides, there is something truly forbidding in a 
 child taking up her elders in that manner. Be 
 seated somewhere ; and, until you can speak 
 pleasantly, remain silent." 
 
 A small breakfast-room adjoined the drawing- 
 room : I slipped in there. It contained a book- 
 case : I soon possessed myself of a volume, 
 taking care that it should be one stored with 
 pictures. I mounted into the window-seat : 
 gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a 
 Turk ; and, having drawn the red moreen cur- 
 tain nearly close, I was shrined in double re- 
 tirement. 
 
 Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to 
 the right hand ; to the left were the clear panes 
 of glass protecting, but not separating, me from 
 the drear November day. At intervals, while 
 turning over the leaves of my book, I studied 
 the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar it 
 offered a pale blank of mist and cloud ; near, a 
 scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with 
 ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a 
 long and lamentable blast. 
 
 I returned to my book — Bewick's History of 
 British Birds ; the letter-press thereof I cared 
 little for, generally speaking ; and yet there 
 were certain introductory pages that, child as I 
 was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They 
 were' those which treat of the haunts of sea- 
 fowl ; of " the solitary rocks and promontories" 
 by them only inhabited ; of the coast of Nor- 
 way, studded with isles from its southern ex- 
 tremity, 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, Spitzber- 
 gen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with 
 " the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and thoss 
 forlorn regions of dreary space — that reservoir 
 of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the 
 accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed ia 
 Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, 
 and concenter the multiplied rigors of extreme 
 cold." Of these death-white realms I formed 
 an idea of my own — shadowy, like all the half- 
 comprehended notions that float dim through 
 children's brains, but strangely impressive. 
 The words in these introductory pages con- 
 nected themselves with the succeeding vig- 
 nets. and gave significance to the rock stand- 
 ing up alone in a sea of billow and spray ; to 
 the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast ; 
 to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through 
 bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. 
 
 I can not tell what sentiment haunted the 
 quiet, solitary chiirch-yard with its inscribed 
 headstone ; its gate, its two trees, its low hori- 
 zon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly- 
 risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. 
 
 The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, E 
 believed to be marine phantoms. 
 
 The fiend pinning down the thief's pack be- 
 hind him, I passed over quickly : it was an object 
 of terror. 
 
 So was the black, horned thing seated aloof 
 on a rock, surveying, a distant crowd surround- 
 ing a gallows. 
 
 Each picture told a story ; mysterious oftea 
 to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect 
 feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting : as 
 interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes nar- 
 rated on winter evenings, when she chanced to 
 be in good humor ; 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 night- 
 cap borders, fed our eager attention with pass- 
 ages of love and adventure taken from old fairy 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 tales and older ballads , or (as at a later period 
 I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and 
 Henry, Earl of Moreland. 
 
 With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy : 
 happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but 
 interruption, and that came too soon. The 
 breakfast- room door opened. 
 
 " Boh ! Madam Mope I" cried the voice of 
 John Reed ; then he paused : he found the room 
 apparently empty. 
 
 '• Where the dickens is she 1" he continued. 
 " Lizzy, Georgy !"' (calling to his sisters) " Joan 
 is not here : tell mamma she is run out into the 
 Tain — bad animal !" 
 
 " It is well I drew the curtain," thought 1 ; 
 and I wished fervently he might not discover 
 my hiding-place : nor would John Reed have 
 found it out himself; he was not quick either 
 of vision or conception : but Eliza just put her 
 head in at the door and said at once — 
 
 "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, 
 Jack." 
 
 And I came out immediately ; for I trembled 
 at the idea of being dragged forth by the said 
 Jack. 
 
 "What do you wantV I asked, with awk- 
 ward difl5dence. 
 
 " Say, 'what do you want. Master ReedT " 
 was the answer. " I want you to come here ;" 
 and, seating himself in an arm-chair, he inti- 
 mated by a gesture that I was to approach and 
 stand before him. 
 
 John Reed was a school-boy of fourteen years 
 old — four years older than I, for I was but ten — 
 large and stout for his age, with a dingy and 
 unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a, spa- 
 cious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. 
 He gorged himself habitually at table, which 
 made him bilious, and gave him a dim and 
 bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now 
 to have been at school ; but his mamma had 
 taken him home for a month or two, " on ac- 
 count of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the 
 master, affirmed that he would do very well if 
 he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him 
 from home ; but the mother's heart turned from 
 an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the 
 msre refined idea that John's sallowness was 
 owing to overapplication, and, perhaps, to pining 
 after home. 
 
 .Tohn had not much affection for his mother 
 ai ! sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied 
 aiid punished me — not two or three times in the 
 week, nor once or twice in the day, but con- 
 tinually ; every nerve I had feared him, and 
 every morsel of flesh on rny bones shrunk when 
 he came near. There were moments when I 
 "was bewildered by the terror he inspired, be- 
 cause I had no appeal whatever against either 
 his menaces or his inflictions : the servants did 
 not like to offend their young master by taking 
 my part against him, and Mrs Reed was blind 
 and deaf on the subject : she never saw him 
 strike or heard him abuse me, though he did 
 both now and then in her very presence — more 
 frequently, however, behind her back. 
 
 Habitually obedient to John, T came up to 
 his chair ; he spent some three minutes in 
 thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he 
 could without damaging the roots : I knew he 
 would soon strike, and, while dreading the blow, 
 I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance 
 
 of him who would presently deal it. I wonder 
 if he read that notion in my face ; for, all at 
 once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and 
 strongly. I toitered, and, on regaining my equi- 
 librium, retired back a step or two from his 
 chair. 
 
 "That is for your impudence in answering 
 mamma a while since," said he, "and for your 
 sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and 
 for the look you had in your eyes two minutes 
 since, you rat !" 
 
 Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never 
 had an idea of replying to it ; my care was how 
 to endure the blow which would certainly follow 
 the insult. 
 
 " What were you doing behind the curtain V' 
 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, mamma says ; you have 
 no money ; your father left you none ; you 
 ought to beg, and not to live here with gentle- 
 men's children like us, and eat the same meals 
 we do, and wear clothes at our mamma's ex- 
 pense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my 
 book-shelves : for they are mine ; all the house 
 belongs to me, or will do in a few yeara. 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 in- 
 tention ; but when I saw him lift and poise the 
 book, and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively 
 started aside with a cry of alarm — not soon 
 enough, however : the volume was flung, it hit 
 mp, and I fell, striking my head against the 
 door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was 
 sharp : my terror had passed its climax ; other 
 feelings succeeded. 
 
 " Wicked and cruel hoy !" I said. " You are 
 like a murderer — you are like a slave-driver — 
 you are like the Roman emperors !" 
 
 I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and 
 had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, &c. 
 Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I 
 never thought thus to have declared aloud. 
 
 " What ! what !" he cried, "did she say that 
 to me 1 Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana 1 
 Won't I tell mammal But first— " 
 
 He ran headlong at me ; I felt him grasp my 
 hair and my shoulder ; he had closed with a 
 desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant — 
 a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from 
 my head trickle down my neck, and was sensi- 
 ble of some pungent suffering : these sensa- 
 tions, for the time, predominated over fear, and 
 I received him in frantic sort. I don't very 
 well know what I did with my hands, but he 
 called me " Rat ! rat !" and bellowed out aloud 
 Aid was near him ; Eliza and Georgiana had 
 run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone up stairs ; 
 she now came upon the scene, followed by 
 Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted ; 
 I heard the words : 
 
 " Dear ! dear ! What a fury to fly at Mas- 
 ter John !" 
 
 " Did ever any body see such a picture of 
 passion !" 
 
 Then Mrs Reed subjoined : 
 
 " Take her away to the red-room, and lock 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 her in there." Four hands were immediately 
 laid upon me, and I was borne up stairs. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 I RESISTED all the way : a new thing for me, 
 and a circumstance which greatly strengthened 
 the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were 
 disposed to entertain of nie. The fact is, I 
 was a trifle beside myself; or, ratlier, out of 
 myself, as the French would say ; I was con- 
 scious that a moment's mutiny had already 
 rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, 
 like any other rebel slave, 1 felt resolved, in 
 my desperation, to go all lengths. 
 
 " Hold her arms, Miss Abbot ; she's like a 
 mad cat." 
 
 " For shame ! for shame !" cried the lady's- 
 maid. "What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, 
 to strike a young gentleman, your benefac- 
 tress's son ! your young master !" 
 
 " Master ! How is he my master ? Am I 
 a servant ;" 
 
 "No; you are less than a servan', for you 
 lo nothing for your keep. There, sit down and 
 think over your wickedness." 
 
 They had got me by this time into tbt apart- 
 ment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust 
 me upon a stool ; my impulse was to rise from 
 U hke a spring ; their two pairs of hands ar- 
 rested me instantly. 
 
 " If you don't sit still, you must be tied 
 down," said Bessie. "Miss Abbot, lend me 
 your garters; she would break mine directly." 
 
 Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of 
 the necessary ligature. This preparation for 
 bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, 
 took a little of the excitement out of me. 
 
 "Don't take them off," I cried ; " I will not 
 stir." 
 
 In guaranty whereof I attached myself to 
 my seat by my hands. 
 
 " Mind you don't," said Bessie ; and when 
 she had ascertained that I was really subsid- 
 ing, she loosened her hold of me ; y^ien she and 
 Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking 
 darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredu- 
 lous of my sanity. 
 
 " She never did so before," at last said Bes- 
 sie, turning to the Abigail. 
 
 " But it was always in her," was the reply. 
 " I've told missis often my opinion about the 
 child, and missis agreed with me. She's an 
 underhand Utile thing ; I never saw a girl of 
 her age with so much cover." 
 
 Bessie answered not ; but ere long, address- 
 ing me, she said, 
 
 " You- ought to be aware, miss, that you are 
 under obligations to Mrs. Reed : she keeps you ; 
 if she were to turn you off, you would have to 
 go to the poor-house." 
 
 I had nothing to say to these words ; they 
 were not new to me ; my very first recollec- 
 tions of existence included hints of the same 
 kind. This reproach of my dependence had be- 
 come a vague sing-song in my ear ; very pain- 
 ful and crushing, but only half intelligible. 
 Miss Abbot joined in : 
 
 '" And you ought not to think yourself on an 
 equality with the Misses Reed and Master 
 Reed, because missis kindly allows you to be 
 
 brought up with them. They will have a great 
 deal of money, and you will have none ; it is 
 your place to be humble, and to try to make 
 yourself agreeable to them." 
 
 " What we tell you is for your good," add- 
 ed Bessie, in no harsh voice ; " you should try,, 
 to be useful and pleasant, then perhaps you' 
 would have a home here ; but if you become 
 passionate and rude, missis will send you away, 
 I am sure." 
 
 '■ Besides," said Miss Abbot, " God will pun- 
 ish her ; he might strike her dead in the midst 
 of her tantrums, and then where would she go"! 
 Come, Bessie, we will leave her ; I wouldn't 
 have her heart for anj thing. Say your pray- 
 ers. Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for 
 if you don't repent, something bad might be 
 permitted to come down the chimney and fetch 
 you away." 
 
 They went, shutting the door, and locking it 
 behind them. 
 
 The bed-room was a spare chamber, very sel- 
 dom slept in ; I might say never, indeed, unless 
 when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead 
 Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account 
 all the accommodation it contained ; yet it was 
 one of the largest and stateliest chambers in 
 the mansion. A bed supported on massive 
 pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep 
 red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the 
 center; the two large windows, with their 
 blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded 
 in festoons and falls of similar drapery ; the 
 carpet was red ; the table at the foot of the bed 
 was covered with a crimson cloth ; the walls 
 a soft fawn-color, with a blush of pink in it ; 
 the wardrope, the toilet-table, the chairs were 
 of darkly-polished old mahogany. Out of these 
 deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared 
 white, the piled-up matresses and pillows of 
 the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles coun- 
 terpane. Scarcely less prominent was an am- 
 ple, cushioned easy-chair near the head of the 
 bed, also white, with a footstool before it ; and 
 looking, as I thought, like a pale throne. 
 
 This room was chill, because it seldom had 
 a fire ; it was silent, because remote from the 
 nursery and kitchens ; solemn, because it was 
 known to be so seldom entered. The house- 
 maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe 
 from the mirrors and the furniture a week's 
 quiet dust ; and Mrs. Reed herself, at far in- 
 tervals, visited it to review the contents of a 
 certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where 
 were stored divers parchments, her jewel- 
 casket, and a miniature of her deceased hus- 
 band ; and in those last words lies the secret 
 of the red-room — the spell which kept it so 
 lonely in spite of its grandeur. 
 
 Mr. Reed had been dead nine years ; it was 
 in this chamber he breathed his last ; here he 
 lay in state ; hence his coffin was borne by un- 
 dertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense 
 of dreary consecration had guarded it from fre- 
 quent intrusion. 
 
 My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss 
 Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman, 
 near the marble chimney-piece ; the bed rose 
 before me ; to my right hand there was the 
 high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken re- 
 flections varying the gloss of its panels ; to 
 my left were the muffled windows ; a great 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 looking-glass between them repeated the va- 
 cant majesty of the bed and room. I was not 
 quite sure whether they had locked the door ; 
 and, when I dared move, I got up, and went to 
 see. Alas ! yes ; no jail was ever more se- 
 cure. Returning, I had to cross before the 
 looking-glass ; my fascinated glance involun- 
 tarily explored the depth it revealed. All 
 looked colder and darker in that visionary hol- 
 low than in reality ; and the strange little figure 
 there gazing at me, with a white face and arms 
 specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear 
 moving where all else was still, had the effect 
 of a real spirit. I thought it like one of the 
 tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's 
 evening stories represented as coming up out 
 of lone, ferny dells, in moors, and appearing 
 before the eyes of belated travelers. I return- 
 ed to my stool. 
 
 Superstition was with mc at that moment, 
 but it was not yet her hour for complete vic- 
 tory. My blood was still warm ; the mdod of 
 the revolted slave was still bracing me with its 
 bitter vigor ; I had to stem a rapid rush of ret- 
 rospective thought before I quailed to the dis- 
 mal present. 
 
 All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sis- 
 ters' proud indifference, all his mother's aver- 
 sion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in 
 my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a tur- 
 bid well. Why was I always suffering, al- 
 ways browbeaten, always accused, forever 
 condemned ■? Why could I never please 1 
 Why was it useless to try to win any one's fa- 
 vor 1 Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, 
 was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled 
 temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and inso- 
 lent carriage, was universally indulged. Her 
 beauty — her pink cheeks and golden curls — 
 seemed to give delight to all who looked at 
 her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. 
 John, no one thwarted, much less punished, 
 though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, 
 killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the 
 sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their 
 fruit, and broke the buds 00" the choicest plants 
 in the conservatory ; he called his mother " old 
 girl," too ; sometimes reviled her for her dark 
 skin, similar to his own ; bluntly disregarded 
 her wishes ; not unfrequently tore and spoiled 
 her silk attire ; and he was still " her own dar- 
 ling." I dared commit no fault; 1 strove to 
 fulfill every duty ; and I was termed naughty 
 and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morn- 
 ing to noon, and from noon to night. 
 
 My head still ached and bled with the blow 
 and fall I had received. No one had reproved 
 John for wantonly striking me ; and because I 
 had turned against him to avert further irra- 
 tional violence, I was loaded with general op- 
 probrium. 
 
 "Unjust! unjust!" said my reason, forced 
 by the agonizing stimulus into precocious, 
 though transitory power ; and Resolve, equal- 
 ly wrought up, instigated some strange expe- 
 dient to achieve escape from insupportable 
 oppression— as running away, or, if that could 
 not be effected, never eating or drinking more, 
 and letting myself die. 
 
 What a consternation of soul was mine that 
 dreary afternoon ! How all my brain was in 
 tumult, and all my heart in insurrection ! Yet 
 
 in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was 
 the mental battle fought ! I could not answer 
 the ceaseless inward question — why I thus suf- 
 fered ; now, at the distance of— I will not say 
 how many years, I see it clearly. 
 
 I was a discord in Gateshead Hall ; I was 
 like nobody there ; I had nothing in harmony 
 with Mrs. Reed, or her children, or her chosen 
 vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as 
 little did I love them. They were not bound 
 to regard with affection a thing that could not 
 sympathize with one among them ; a hetero- 
 geneous thing, opposed to them in tempera- 
 ment, in capacity, in propensities ; a useless 
 thing, incapable of serving their interest, or 
 adding to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cher- 
 ishing the germs of indignation at their treat- 
 ment — of contempt of their judgment. I know 
 that, had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, 
 exacting, handsome, romping child, though 
 equally dependent and friendless, Mrs. Reed 
 would have endured my presencei more com- 
 placently ; her children would have entertained 
 for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling ; 
 the servants would have been less prone to 
 make me the scape-goat of the nursery. 
 
 Daylight began to forsake the red-room. It 
 was past four o'clock, and the beclouded after- 
 noon was tending to drear twilight. I heard 
 the rain still beating continuously on the stair- 
 case window, and the wind howling in the grove 
 behind the hall. I grew by degrees cold as a 
 stone, and then my courage sunk. My habitual 
 mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depres- 
 sion, fell damp on the embers of my decaying 
 ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might 
 be so — what thought had I been, but just con- 
 ceiving, of starving myself to death 1 That 
 certainly was a crime ; and was I fit to die 1 
 or was the vault under the chancel of Gates- 
 head Church an inviting bourne 1 In such 
 vault, I had been told, did Mr. Reed lie buried ; 
 and led by this thought to recall his idea, I 
 dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not 
 remember him, but I knew that he was my 
 own uncle — my mother's brother ; that he had 
 taken me when a parentless infant to his house ; 
 and that, in his last moments, he had required 
 a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and 
 maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. 
 Reed probably considered she had kept this 
 pronuse ; and so she had, I dare say, as well 
 as her nature would permit her ; but how could 
 she really like an interloper not of her race, and 
 unconnected with her, after her husband's 
 death, by any tie 1 It must have been most 
 irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung 
 pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a 
 strange child she could not love, and to see an 
 uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her 
 own family group. 
 
 A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubt- 
 ed not — had never doubted — that, if Mr. Reed 
 had been alive, he would have treated me kind- 
 ly ; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed 
 and overshadowed walls, occasionally, also, 
 turning a fascinated eye toward the dimly- 
 gleaming mirror, I began to recall what I had 
 heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by 
 the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the 
 earth to punish the perjured and avenge the op- 
 pressed ; and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, har 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 aased by the wrongs of his sister's child, might 
 quit its abode — whether in the church vault, or 
 in the unknown world of the departed — and 
 rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my 
 tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign 
 of violent grief might waken a preternatural 
 voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom 
 some haloed face bending over me with strange 
 pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt 
 would be terrible if realized. With all my 
 might I endeavored to stifle it— I endeavored 
 to be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I 
 lifted my head and tried to look boldly round 
 the dark room. At this moment a light gleam- 
 ed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray 
 from the moon penetrating some aperture in 
 the blind 1 No ; moonlight was still, and this 
 stirred. While I gazed, it glided up to the ceil- 
 ing and quivered over my head. I can now 
 conjecture readily that this streak of light was, 
 in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern, car- 
 ried by some one across the lawn ; but then, 
 prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as 
 my nerves were by agitation, I thought the 
 swift-darting beam was a herald of some com- 
 ing vision from another world. My heart beat 
 thick — my head grew hot ; a sound filled my 
 ears, which I deemed the rushing of wings ; 
 something seemed near me ; I was oppressed, 
 suffocated ; endurance broke down ; I rushed 
 to the door and shook the lock in desperate ef- 
 fort. Steps came running along the outer pass- 
 age ; the key turned ; Bessie and Abbot en- 
 tered. 
 
 » 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 nur- 
 sery !" was my cry. 
 
 "What fori Are you hurt? Have you 
 seen something ■?" again demanded Bessie. 
 
 " Oh ! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost 
 would come." I had now got hold of Bessie's 
 hand, and she did not snatch it from me. 
 
 •' She has screamed out on purpose ;" de- 
 clared Abbot, in some disgust. " And what a 
 scream ! If she had been in great pain one 
 would have excused it, but she only wanted to 
 bring us all here : I know her wicked, naughty 
 tricks." 
 
 " What is all this 1" demanded another voice 
 peremptorily ; and Mrs. Reed came along the 
 corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling 
 stormily. " Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave 
 orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red- 
 room till I came to her myself" 
 
 "Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma'am," 
 pleaded Bessie. 
 
 " Let her go," was the only answer. "Loose 
 Bessie's hand, child : you cdn not succeed in 
 getting out by these means, be assured. I ab- 
 hor artifice, particularly in children ; it is my 
 duty to show you that tricks will not answer ; 
 you will now stay here an hour longer, and it 
 is only on condition of perfect submission and 
 stillness that I shall liberate you then." 
 
 " Oh aunt, have pity ! Forgive me ! I can 
 not endure it — let me be punished some other 
 way ! I shall be killed if—" 
 
 " Silence ! This violence is almost repul- 
 sive ;" and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a 
 precocious actress in her eyes : she sincerely 
 
 looked on me as a compound of virulent pas- 
 sions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity. 
 
 Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs 
 Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and 
 wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked 
 me in, without further parley. I heard hor 
 sweeping away ; and soon after she was gone, 
 I suppose I had a species of fit : unconscious- 
 ness closed the scene. 
 
 CHAPTER IIR 
 
 The next thing I remember is, waking ap 
 with a feeling as if I had had a frightful night- 
 mare, and seeing before me a terrible red 
 glare, crossed with thick, black bars. I hoard 
 voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and 
 as if muffled by a rush of wind or water : agi- 
 tation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating 
 sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere 
 long, I became aware that some one was hand- 
 ling me; lifting me up and supporting me in 
 a sitting posture : and that more tenderly than 
 I ever been raised or upheld before. I rest- 
 ed my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt 
 easy. 
 
 In five minutes more, the cloud of bewilder- 
 ment dissolved ; I knew quite well that I was 
 in my own bed, and that the red glare was the 
 nursery fire. It was night : a candle burned on 
 the table ; Bessie stood at the bed-foot with a 
 a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a 
 chair near my pillow, leaning over me. 
 
 I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing con- 
 viction of protection and security, when I knew 
 that there was a stranger in the room ; an in- 
 dividual not belonging to Gateshead, and not 
 related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie 
 (though her presence was far less obnoxious to 
 me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have 
 been), I scrutinized the face of the gentleman: 
 I knew him ; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary, 
 sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the 
 servants were ailing ; for herself and the chil- 
 dren she employed a physician. 
 
 " Well, who am IT' he asked. 
 
 I pronounced his name, offering him at the 
 same time my hand : he took it, smjling and 
 saying, " We shall do very well by and by." 
 Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, 
 charged her to be very careful that I was not 
 disturbed during the night. Having given 
 some further directions, and intimated that he 
 should call again the next day, he departed, to 
 my grief; I felt so sheltered and befriended 
 while he sat in the chair near my pillow ; and 
 as he closed the door after him, all the room 
 darkened and my heart again sunk : inexpress- 
 ible sadness weighed it down. 
 
 " Do you feel as if you should sleep, miss V 
 asked Bessie, rather softly. 
 
 Scarcely dared I answer her ; for I feared 
 the next sentence might be rough. " I will 
 try." 
 
 " Would you like to drink, or could you eat 
 any thing 1" . 
 
 " No, thank you, Bessie." j 
 
 " Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past 
 twelve o'clock; but you may call me if you, 
 want any thing in the night." 
 
8 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 It emboldened me 
 
 Wonderful civility this ! 
 to ask a qaestion. 
 
 " Bessie, what is the matter with me 1 Am 
 lilll" 
 
 "You fell sick, I rinpposB, 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 nur- 
 sery ; I daren't for my life be alone with that 
 poor child to-night ; she might die : it's such a 
 strange thing she should have that fit ; I won- 
 der if she saw^ny thing. Missis was rather 
 loo hard." 
 
 Sarah came back with her ; they both went 
 to bed ; they were whispering together for half 
 an hour before they fell asleep. I caught 
 scraps of their conversation, from which I was 
 able only too distinctly to infer the main sub- 
 ject discussed. 
 
 " Something passed her, all dressed in white, 
 and vanished " — " A great black dog behind 
 him " — " Three loud raps on the chamber 
 door" — "A light in the church-yard just over 
 his grave" — &c., &c. 
 
 At last both slept : the fire and the candle 
 went out. For me, the watches of that long 
 night passed in ghastly wakefulness ; ear, eye, 
 and mind were alike strained by dread : such 
 dread as children only can feel. 
 
 No severe or prolonged bodily illness fol- 
 lowed this incident of the red-room : it only 
 gave my nerves a shock, of which I feel the 
 reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, 
 to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental 
 suffering. But I ought to forgive you, for you 
 knew not what you did : while rending my 
 heart-strings, you thought you were only up- 
 looting my bad propensities. 
 
 Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, 
 and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nursery 
 hearth. I felt physically weak and broken 
 down ; but my worst ailment was an unutter- 
 able wretchedness of mind : a wretchedness 
 ■which kept drawing from me silent tears ; no 
 sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my 
 cheek than another followed. Yet. I thought, 
 I ought to have been happy, for none of the 
 Reeds were there ; they were all gone out in 
 the carriage with their mamma : Abbot, too, was 
 sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she 
 moved hither and thither, putting away toys 
 and arranging drawers, addressed to me every 
 now and then a word of unwonted kindness. 
 This state of things should have been to me a 
 paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a 
 life of ceaseless reprinnand and thankless fag- 
 ging ;'but, in fact, my racked nerves were now 
 in such a state that no calm could soothe, and 
 no pleasure excite them agreeably. 
 
 Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and 
 she brought up with her a tart on acertain 
 brightly-painted china plate, whose bird of 
 paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli 
 and rose-buds, had been wont to stir in me a 
 most enthusiastic sense of admiration ; and 
 which plate I had often petitioned to be 
 allowed to take in my hand in order to ex- 
 amine it more closely, but had always hitherto 
 been deemed unworthy of such a privilefie 
 This precious vessel was now placed on my 
 knee, and I was cordially invited (o eat the 
 
 circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favor .' 
 coming, like most other favors, long deferred 
 and often wished for, loo late ! I could not 
 eat the tart ; and the plumage of the bird, the 
 tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I 
 put both plate and tart^iway. Bessie asked if 
 I would have a book : the word book acted as a 
 transient stimulus, and 1 begged her to fetch 
 Gulliver's Travels from the library. This 
 book I had again and again perused with 
 delight; I considered it a narrative of facts, 
 and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper 
 than what I found in fairy tales : for as to the 
 elves, having sought them in vain among fox- 
 glove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and 
 beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall- 
 nooks, I had at length made up my mind to 
 the sad truth that they were all gone out of 
 England to some savage country, where the 
 woods were wilder and thicker, and the popu- 
 lation more scant : whereas Lilliput and Brob- 
 dignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the 
 earth's surface, I doubted not that I might one 
 day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own 
 eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the 
 diminutive people, the tiny cows, slienp. and 
 birds of the one realm ; and the corn-fields 
 forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster 
 cats, the tower-like men and women, of the 
 other. Yet, when this cherished volume was 
 now placed in my hand — when I turned over 
 its leaves, and sought in its marvelous pictures 
 the charm I had, till now, never failed to find — 
 all was eerie and dreary ; the giants were 
 gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fear- 
 ful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in 
 most dread and dangerous regions. I closed 
 the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and 
 put it on the table, beside the untasted tart. 
 
 Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying 
 the room, and, having washed her hands, she 
 opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid 
 shreds of silk and satin, and began making a 
 new bonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantinae 
 she sang : her song was — 
 
 " In the days when we went gipsying, 
 A long time ago." 
 
 I had often heard the song before, and al- 
 ways with lively delight ; for Bessie had a 
 sweet voice — at least, I thought so. But now, 
 though her voice was still sweet, I found in its 
 melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, 
 preoccupied with her work, she sang the re- 
 frain very low, very lingeringly ; " A long time 
 ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a 
 funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, 
 this time a really doleful one : 
 
 " My Teet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; 
 Long is the way, .tii ! tlie mountains are wild ; 
 Soon will the twilipli close moonless and dreary 
 ■ Over the path of the poor orphan child. 
 
 " Why did thry send i:;o so for and so lonely, 
 
 Up where the moors spread and gray rocks are pUe<J1 
 Men are hard-liearted, and kind angels only 
 Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan chiM. 
 
 " 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 orjihan child. 
 " Even should 1 fall o'er the broken bridge paejing, 
 Or stray in the marshes, by f»l«e liglits beguiled, 
 Still will my Father, wiUi proniioc and blevsaijig, 
 Take to His bosom the poor orphan child. 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 " There is a thought that for strength should nvail rae, 
 Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled ; 
 Heiivenls a home, and a rest will not fail me ; 
 God is a, friend to the poor orphan child." 
 
 " Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie, 
 as she finished. She might as well have said 
 to the fire "don't burn!" hut how could she 
 divine the morbid suffering to which I was a 
 prey 1 In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd 
 came again. 
 
 " What, already up !" said he, as he entered 
 the nursery. " Well, nurse, how is she 1" 
 Be.ssie 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 wl^at about 1 Have you 
 any pain 1" 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say she is crying because she 
 could not go out with missis in the carriage," 
 interposed Bessie. 
 
 " Surely not '. why, she is too old for such 
 pettishness." 
 
 I thought so too ; and my self-esteem being 
 wounded by the false charge, I answered 
 promptly, " I never cried for such a thing in 
 my life : I hate going out in the carriage. I 
 cry because I am miserable." 
 "Oh, fie, miss!" said Bessie. 
 The good apDthecary appeared a little puz- 
 zled. I was standing before him ; he fixed his 
 eyes on mc very steadily : his eyes were small 
 and gray ; not very bright, but I dare say I 
 should think them shrewd now : he had a hard- 
 featured yet good-natured looking face. Having 
 considered ine at leisure, he said — 
 " What made you ill yesterday V 
 " 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 agel She must be 
 eight or nine years old." 
 
 " I was knocked down," was the blunt ex- 
 planation jerked out of me by another pang of 
 mortified pride: "but that did not make me 
 ill," I added, while Mr. Lloyd helped himself 
 to a pinch of snuff. 
 
 As he was reluming the box to his waistcoat 
 pocket, a loud hell rung for the servant's din- 
 ner ; he knew what it was. "That's for you, 
 nurse," said he; "you can go down ; I'll give 
 Miss Jane a lecture till you come back." 
 
 Bessie would rather have stayed ; but she 
 was obliged to go, because punctuality at meals 
 was rigidly enforced at Cateshead Hall. 
 
 "The fall did not make you illl what did, 
 thenT' piirsuisd Mr. Lloyd, when Bessie was 
 gone. 
 
 " I was shut up in a room where there is a 
 ghost, till after dark." 
 
 I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same 
 time : " Ghost ! What, you are a baby after 
 all ! You are afraid of ghosts 1" 
 
 "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 
 nan help it ; and it was cruel to shut me up 
 
 " Nonsense ! And is it that makes you so 
 miserable 1 Are you afraid now in daylight 1" 
 
 " No ; but night will come again before long ; 
 and, besides, I am unhappy, very unhappy, for 
 other things." 
 
 " What other things 1 Can you tell me some 
 of them V 
 
 How much I wished to reply fully to this 
 question ! How difficult it was to frame any 
 answer ! Children can feel, but they can not 
 analyze their feelings ; and if the analys4s is 
 partially effected in thought, they know not 
 how to express the result of the process in 
 words. Fearful, however, of losing this first 
 and only opportunity of relieving my grief by 
 imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, con- 
 trived to frame a meager, though, as far as it 
 went, true response. 
 
 " For one thing, I have no father or mother, 
 brothers or sisters." 
 
 "You have a kind aunt and cousins." 
 
 Again f 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 1" asked he. " Are you not 
 very thankful to have such a fine place to live 
 at?" 
 
 " It is not my house, sir ; and Abbot says I 
 have less right to be here than a servant." 
 
 " Pooh ! you can't be silly enough to wish to 
 leave such a splendid place!" 
 
 " If I had any where else to go, I sheuld be 
 glad to leave it ; but I can never get away from 
 Gateshead till I am a woman." 
 
 " Perhaps you may — who knows ■? Have 
 you any relations besides Mrs. Reedl" 
 
 "I think not, sir." 
 
 "None belonging to your fatherl" 
 
 " I don't know : I asked Aunt Reed once 
 and she said possibly I might have some poor, 
 low relations called Eyre ; but she knew nothing 
 about them." 
 
 " If you had such, would you like to go to 
 themV 
 
 I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown 
 people ; still more so to children : they have 
 not much idea of industrious, working, respect- 
 able poverty ; they think of the word only aa 
 connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, 
 fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing 
 vices : poverty for me was synonymous with 
 degradation. 
 
 " No ; I should not like to belong to poor 
 people," was my reply. 
 
 " Not even if they were kind to you 1" 
 
 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 man- 
 ners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of 
 the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their 
 children or washing their clothes at the cottage 
 doors of the village of Gateshead; no, I was 
 not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the 
 price of caste. 
 
 " But are your relatives so very poor! Are 
 they working people?" 
 
 " I can not tell. Aunt Reed says if I have 
 
 alone without a candle — so cruel that I think 1 any, they must be a beggarly set ; I should not 
 shall never forget it." I like to go a-begging." 
 
10 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Would you like to go to schooH" 
 
 Again I reflected. I scarcely knew what 
 school was. Bessie sometimes spoke of it as 
 a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, 
 wore back-bcfards, and were expected to be ex- 
 ceedingly genteel and precise ; John Reed hated 
 his school, and abused his master ; but John 
 Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if 
 Bessie's accounts of school-discipline (gather- 
 ed from the young ladies of a family where she 
 had lived before coming to Gateshead) were 
 somewhat appalling, her details of certain ac- 
 complishments attained by these same young 
 ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. She 
 boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and 
 flowers by them executed ; of songs they could 
 sing and pieces they could play, of purses they 
 could net, of French books they could translate ; 
 till ray spirit was moved to emulation as I lis- 
 tened. Besides, school would be a complete 
 change ; it implied a long journey, an entire 
 separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a 
 new life. 
 
 " I should indeed like to go to school," was 
 the audible conclusion of my musings. 
 
 " Well, well ; who knows what may hap- 
 pen?' said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. "The 
 child ought to have change of air and scene ;" 
 be added, speaking to himself, " nerves not in 
 a good state." 
 
 Bessie now returned ; at the same moment 
 the carriage was heard rolling up the gravel- 
 walk. 
 
 "Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. 
 Lloyd : " I should like to speak to her before I 
 go." 
 
 Bessie invited him to walk into the break- 
 fast-room, and led the way out. In the inter- 
 view which followed between him and Mrs. 
 Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences, that 
 the apothecary ventured to recommend my be- 
 ing sent to school ; and the recommendation 
 was no doubt readily enough adopted ; for, as 
 Abbot said, in discussing the Subject with Bes- 
 sie, when both sal sewing in the nursery one 
 night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, 
 asleep, " Missis was, she dared say, glad enough 
 to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned 
 child, who always looked as if she were watch- 
 ing every body, and scheming plots underhand." 
 Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort 
 of infantine Guy Fawkes. 
 
 On that same occasion I learned, for the first 
 time, from Miss Abbot's communications to 
 Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergy- 
 man ; that my mother had married him against 
 the wishes of her friends, who considered the 
 match beneath her ; that ray grandfather Reed 
 was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her 
 off without a shilling ; that after my mother 
 and father had been married a year, the latter 
 caught the typhus fever while visiting among 
 the poor of a large manufacturing town where 
 his curacy was situated, and where that disease 
 was then prevalent ; that my mother took the 
 infection from him, and both died within a 
 month of each other. 
 
 Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed 
 and said, " Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, 
 Abbot." 
 
 " Yes," responded Abbot ; " if she were a 
 nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her 
 
 forlornness ; but one really can not bare for 
 such a little toad as that." 
 
 " Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed Bes- 
 sie ; " at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgi- 
 ana would be more moving in the same condi- 
 tion." 
 
 " Yes, I dote on Miss Georgiaha !" cried the 
 fervent Abbot. " Little darling ! with her long 
 curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet col- 
 or as she has ; just as if she were painted ! 
 Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for sup- 
 per." 
 
 " So could I — with a roast onion. Come, 
 we'll go down." They went 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 From ray discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from 
 the above-reported conference between Bessie 
 and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice 
 as a motive for wishing to get well : a change 
 seemed near — I desired and waited it in silence. 
 It tarried, however ; days and weeks passed ; I 
 had regained my normal slate of health, but no 
 new allusion was made to the subject over 
 which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me at 
 times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed 
 me. Since my illness she had drawn a more 
 marked .line of separation than ever between 
 me and her own children ; appointing me a 
 small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning 
 me to take my meals alone, and pass all my 
 time in the nursery, while my cousins were 
 constantly in the drawing-room. Not a hint, 
 however, did she drop about sending me to 
 school ; still I felt an instinctive certainty that 
 she would not long endure me under the same 
 roof with her ; for her glance, now more than 
 ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuper- 
 able and rooted aversion. 
 
 Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting accord- 
 ing to orders, spoke to me as little as possible. - 
 John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever 
 he saw me, and once attempted chastisement ; 
 but as I instantly turned against him, roused by 
 the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate 
 revolt which had stirred my corruption before, 
 he thought it better to desist, and ran from me 
 uttering execrations and vowing I had burst his 
 nose. I had indeed leveled at that prominent 
 feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could 
 inflict ; and when I saw that either that or my 
 look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination 
 to follow up my advantage to purpose ; but he 
 was already with his mamma. I heard him in 
 a blubbering tone commence the tale of how 
 " that nasty Jane Eyre" had flown at him like 
 :' mad cat — : he was stopped rather harshly — 
 
 " Don't talk to me about her, John : I told 
 you not to go near her ; she is not worthy of 
 notice ; I do not choose that either you or your 
 sisters should associate with her." 
 
 Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out 
 suddenly and without at all deliberating on my 
 words, 
 
 " They are. not fit to associate with me." 
 
 Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman, but, on 
 hearing this strange and audacious declaration, 
 she ran nimbly up the* stair, swept me like a 
 whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 11 
 
 down on the edge of ray crib, dared me in an 
 emphatic voice to rise from that place or utter 
 one syllable during the remainder of the day. 
 
 " What would Uncle Reed say to you if he 
 were alive?" was my scarcely voluntary de- 
 mand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed 
 as if my tongue pronounced words without my 
 will consenting to their utterance : something 
 spoke out of me over which I had no control. 
 
 "What?" said Mrs. Reed, under her breath: 
 her usuallv cold, composed gray eye became 
 troubled with a look like fear; she took her 
 hand from my arm and gazed at me as if she 
 really did not know whether I were child or 
 fiend. I was now in for it. 
 
 " My Uncle Reed is in heaven and can see all 
 you do and think ; and so can papa and mamma : 
 they know how you shut me up all day long, and 
 how you wish me dead." 
 
 Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits : she shook 
 me most soundly ; she boxed both my ears, and 
 then left me without a word. Bessie supplied 
 the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in 
 which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the 
 most wicked and abandoned child ever reared 
 under a roof I half believed her ; for I felt 
 indeed only bad feelings surging in my breast. 
 
 November, December, and half of January 
 passed away. Christmas and the New Year 
 had been celebrated at Gateshead with the 
 usual festive cheer ; presents had been inter- 
 changed, dinners and evening parties given. 
 From every enjoyment I was, of course, ex- 
 cluded : my share of the gayety consisted in 
 witnessing the daily appareling of Eliza and 
 Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the 
 drawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks 
 and scarlet sashes, with hair elaborately ring- 
 leted ; and afterward, in listening to the sound 
 of the piano or the harp played below, to the 
 passing to and fro of the butler and footmen, to 
 the jingling of glass and china as refreshments 
 were handed, to the broken hum of conversa- 
 tion as the drawing-room doors opened and 
 closed. When tired of this occupation, I would 
 retire from the stair-head to the solitary and 
 silent nursery : there, though somewhat sad, I 
 was not miserable. To speak truth, I had not 
 the least wish to go into company, for in com- 
 pany I was very rarely noticed ; and if Bessie 
 had but been kind and companionable, I should 
 have deemed it a treat to spend the evenings 
 quietly with her, instead of passing them under 
 the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed, in a room full 
 of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon 
 as she had dressed her young ladies, used to 
 take herself off to the lively regions of the 
 kitchen and housekeeper's room, generally bear- 
 ing the candle along with her : I then sat with 
 my doll on my knee, till the fire got low, glancing 
 round occasionally to make sure that nothing 
 worse than myself haunted the shadowy room ; 
 and when the embers sunk to a dull red, I un- 
 dressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as 
 I best might, and sought shelter from cold and 
 darkness in my crib. To this crib I always 
 took my doll : human beings must love some- 
 thing, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of 
 affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving 
 and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as 
 a miniature scare-crow. It puzzles me now to 
 roraember with what absurd sincerity I doted 
 
 on this wooden toy, half fancying it alive and 
 capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless 
 it was folded in my night-gown ; and when it 
 lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively 
 happy, believing it happy likewise. 
 
 Long did the hours seem while I waited the 
 departure of the company, and listened for the 
 sound of Bessie's step on the stairs : sometimes 
 she would come up in the interval to seek her 
 thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me 
 something by way of supper — a bun or a cheese- 
 cake ; then she would sit on the bed while I ate 
 it, and when I had finished she wxjuld tuck the 
 clothes round me ; and twice she kissed me, and 
 said, "Good night. Miss Jane." When thus 
 gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, 
 kindest being in the world ; and I wished most 
 intensely that she would always be so pleasant 
 and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, 
 or task me unreasonably, as she was too often 
 wont to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, ha:ve 
 been a girl of good natural capacity ; for she 
 was smart in all she did, and had a remarkable 
 knack of narrative : so, at least, I judge from 
 the impression made on me by her nursery 
 tales. She was pretty, too, if my recollections 
 of her face and person are correct. I remem- 
 ber her as a slim young woman, with black 
 hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and good, 
 clear complexion ; but she had a capricious 
 and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas of 
 principle or justice : still, such as she was, 
 I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead 
 Hall. 
 
 It was thf fifteenth of January, about nine 
 o'clock in the morning : Bessie was gone down 
 to breakfast ; my cousins had not yet been sum- 
 moned to their mamma ; Eliza was putting on 
 her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and 
 feed her poultry, an occupation of which she 
 was fond ; and not less so of selling the eggs to 
 the housekeeper and hoarding up the money 
 she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffick, 
 and a marked propensity for saving, shown not 
 only in the vending of eggs and chickens, but 
 also in driving hard bargains with the gardener 
 about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants ; 
 that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed 
 to buy of his young lady all the products of her 
 parterre she wished to sell : and Eliza would 
 have sold the hair off her head if she could have 
 made a handsome profit thereby. As to her 
 money, she first secreted it in odd corners, 
 wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper ; but, 
 some of these hoards having been discovered 
 by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day losing 
 her valued treasure, consented to intrust it to 
 her mother, at a usurious rate of interest — fifty 
 or sixty per cent. — which interest she exacted 
 every quarter, keeping her accounts in a little 
 book with anxious accuracy. 
 
 Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her 
 hair at the glass and interweaving her curls 
 with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of 
 which she had found a store in a drawer in the 
 attic. I was making my bed, having received 
 strict orders from Bessie to get it arranged 
 before she returned (for Bessie now frequently 
 employed me as a sort of under nursery maid, 
 to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.). Having 
 spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, J 
 went to the window-scat to put in order some 
 
12 
 
 JANE EYRE 
 
 picture-books and doll's house furniture scat- 
 tered there ; an abrupt command from Geor- 
 giana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny 
 chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups 
 were her property) stopped my proceedings ; 
 and then, for lack of other occupation, I fell to 
 breathing on the frost-flowers with which the 
 window was fretted, and thus clearing a space 
 in the glass through which I might look out on 
 the grounds, where all was still and petrified 
 under the influence of a hard frost. 
 
 From this window were visible the porter's 
 lodge and the carriage road, and just as I had 
 dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage 
 veiling the panes as left room to look out, I 
 saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll 
 through. I watched it ascending the drive with 
 indifference : carriages often came to Gates- 
 head, but none ever brought visitors in whom 
 I was interested ; it stopped in front of the 
 house, the door-bell rung loudly, the new-comer 
 was admitted. All this being nothing to me, 
 my vacant attention soon found livelier attrac- 
 tion in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, 
 which came and chirped on the twigs of the 
 leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near 
 the casement. The remains of my breakfast 
 of bread and milk stood on the table, and hav- 
 ing crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at 
 the sash to put out the crumbs on the window- 
 sill, when Bessie came running up stairs into 
 the nursery. 
 
 " Miss Jane, take off your pinafore : what are 
 you doing there T Have you washed your hands 
 and face this morning 1" I gave another tug 
 before I answered, for I wanted the bird to be 
 secure of its bread : the sash yielded ; I scat- 
 tered the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some 
 on the cherry-tree bough, then, closing the win- 
 dow, I replied : 
 
 " No, Bessie ; I have only just finished dust- 
 ing." 
 
 " 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 fori" 
 
 I was spared the trouble of answering, for 
 Bessie seemed in too great a hurry to listen to 
 explanations ; she hauled me to the washstand, 
 inflicted a mcrciles-.^, but, happily, brief scrub 
 on my face and Lands with soap, water, and a 
 coarse towel ; disciplined my head with a brist- 
 ly brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then 
 hurrying me to the lop of the stairs, bid me go 
 down directly, as I was wanted in the break- 
 fast-room. 
 
 I would have asked who wanted me ; I would 
 have demanded if Mrs. Reed was there ; but 
 Bessie was already gone, and had closed the 
 nursery door upon me : I slowly descended. 
 For nearly three months I had never been call- 
 ed to Mrs. Reed's presence ; restricted so long 
 to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and draw- 
 ing-rooms were biscome for me awful regions 
 on which it dismayed me to intrude. 
 
 I now stood in the empty hall ; before me 
 was the breakfast-room door, and I slopped, 
 intimidated and trembling. What a miserable 
 Utile poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust 
 punishment, made of me in those days ! I feared 
 to return lo the nursery ; I feared to go forward 
 to the parlor -. ten minutes I siood in agitated 
 
 hesitation : the vehement ringing of the break- 
 fast-room bell decided me ; I must enter. 
 
 "Who could want meV I asked inwardly, 
 as with both hands T turned the stiff door-han- 
 dle, which, for a second or two, resisted my 
 efforts. " What should I see besides Aunt 
 Reed in the apartment— a man, or a woman?" 
 The handle turned, the door unclosed, and 
 passing through and courtesying low, I looked 
 up at — a black pillar ! — such, at least, appeared 
 to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable- 
 clad shape standing erect on the rug : the grim 
 face at the top was like a carved mask, placed 
 above the shaft by way of capital. 
 
 Mts. Reed occupied her usual seat by the 
 fireside : she made a signal to me to approach ; 
 I did so, and she introduced me to the stony 
 stranger with these words : " This is the little 
 girl respecting whom I applied to you." 
 
 He, for it was a man, turned his head slowly 
 toward where I stood, and having examined 
 me with the two inquisitive-looking gray eyes 
 which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, 
 said, solemnly, and in a bass voice : " Her siae 
 is small ; what is her age?" 
 
 "Ten years." 
 
 "So much?" was the doubtful answer ; and 
 he prolonged his scrutiny some minutes. Pres- 
 ently he addressed me. 
 
 " Your name, little girl ?" 
 
 "Jane Eyre, sir." 
 
 In uttering these words I looked up: he 
 seemed to me a tall gentleman ; but then I was 
 very little ; his features were large, and they 
 and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh 
 and prim. 
 
 " Well. Jane Eyre, and are you a good child ?" 
 
 Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative — 
 my little world held a contrary opinion — I was 
 silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an ex- 
 pressive shake of the head, adding soon, " Per- 
 haps the less said on that subject the better, 
 Mr. Brocklehurst." 
 
 " Sorry indeed to hear it ! she and I must 
 have some talk ;" and, bending from the per- 
 pendicular, he installed his person in the arm- 
 chair, opposite Mrs. Reed's. " Come here," 
 he said. 
 
 I stepped across the rug ; he placed me 
 square and straight before him. What a face 
 he had, now that it was almost on a level with 
 mine ! what a great nose ! and what a mouth ! 
 and what large, prominent teeth ! 
 
 " No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," 
 he began, "especially a naughty little girl. Do 
 you know where the wicked go after death?" 
 
 '■ They go to hell," was my ready and ortho- 
 ilox answer. 
 
 •' And what is hell ? Can you tell me that V 
 
 " A pit full of fire." 
 
 " And should you like to fall into that pit, and 
 10 be burning there forever?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " What must you do to avoid it?" 
 
 I deliberated a moment. My answer, whea 
 it did come, was objectionable. " I must keep 
 in good health, and not die." 
 
 " How can you keep in good health? Chil- 
 dren younger than you die daily. I buried a 
 little child of five years old, only a day or two 
 since- -a good little child, whose soul is now 
 in heaven. It is lo be feared the same could 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 13 
 
 not be said of you, were you to be called 
 hence." 
 
 Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, 
 I only cast my eyes down on the two large feet 
 planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing myself 
 far enough away. 
 
 i " I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that 
 you repent ever having been the occasion of 
 discomfort to your excellent benefactress." 
 
 " Benefactress ! benefactress !" said I, in- 
 wardly. "They all call Mrs. Reed my bene- 
 factress ; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeable 
 thing.", 
 
 " Do yeu say your prayers night and morn- 
 ing?" continued my interrogator. 
 . , "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Do you read your Bible 1" 
 ( " Sometimes." 
 I "With pleasure 1 Are you fond of it]" 
 
 " I like Revelations and the book of Daniel, 
 and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Ex- 
 odus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, 
 and Job and Jonah." 
 
 "And the Psalms] I hope you like them." 
 , "No, sir." 
 
 " No ! oh, shocking ! I have a little boy 
 younger than you, who knows six psalms by 
 heart ; and when you ask him which he would 
 rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat, or a verse 
 of a psalm to learn, he says : ' Oh, the verse 
 of a psalm ! Angels sing psalms,' says he ; 
 * I wish to be a little angel here below ;' he 
 then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant 
 piety." 
 
 " Psalms are not interesting," I remarked. 
 I " That proves you have a wicked heart ; 
 and you must pray to God to change it — to 
 give you a new and a clean one — to take away 
 your heart of stone and give you a heart of 
 flesh." 
 
 I was about to propound a question, touching 
 the manner in which that operation of chang- 
 ing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs. 
 Reed interposed, telling me to sit down ; she 
 then proceeded to carry on the conversation 
 herself 
 
 " Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in 
 the letter which I wrote to you three weeks 
 ago, that this little girl has not quite the char- 
 acter and disposition I could wish. Should you 
 admit her into Lowood school, I should be glad 
 if the superintendent and teachers were re- 
 quested to keep a strict eye on her, and, above 
 all, to guard against her worst fault — a ten- 
 dency to deceit. I mention this in your hear- 
 ing, Jane, that you may not attempt to impose 
 on Mr. Brocklehurst." 
 
 Well might I dread — well might I dislike 
 Mrs. Reed, for it was her nature to wound me 
 cruelly. Never was I happy in her presence. 
 However carefully I obeyed, however stren- 
 uously I strove to please her, my efforts were 
 still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as 
 the above. Now, uttered before a stranger, 
 the accusation cut me to the heart. I dimly 
 perceived that she was already obliterating 
 hope from the new phase of existence which 
 she destined me to enter ; I felt, though I could 
 not have expressed the feeling, that she was 
 sowing aversion and unkindness along my fu- 
 ture path ; I saw myself transformed, under 
 Mr. Brocklehurst's eye, into an artful, noxious 
 
 child, and what coukl I do to remedy the in- 
 jury]" 
 
 "Nothing, indeed," thought I, as I strug- 
 gled to repress a sob, and hastily wiped away 
 some tears, the impotent evidences of my an- 
 guish. 
 
 " Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child," 
 said Mr. Brocklehurst ; " it is akin to false- 
 hood, and all liars will have their portion in the 
 lake burning with fire and brimstone. She 
 shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will 
 speak to Miss Temple and the teachers." 
 
 " I should wish her to be brought up in a 
 manner suiting her prospects," continued my 
 benefactress ; " to be made useful, to be kept 
 humble ; as for the vacations, she will, with 
 your permission, spend them always at Lo- 
 wood." 
 
 " Your decisions aie perfectly judicious, mad- 
 am," returned Mr. Brocklehurst. " Humility 
 is a Christian grace, and one peculiarly appro- 
 priate to the pupils of Lowood ; I, therefore, 
 direct that especial care shall be bestowed on 
 its cultivation among them. I have studied 
 how best to mortify in them the worldly senti- 
 ment of pride, and, only the other day, I had a 
 pleasing proof of my success. My second 
 daughter, Augusta, went with her mamma to 
 visit the school, and on her return she ex- 
 claimed : ' Oh, dear, papa, how quiet and plain 
 all the girls at Lowood look ! with their hair 
 combed behind their ears, and their long pina- 
 fores, and those little holland pockets outside 
 their frocks — they are almost all like poor peo- 
 ple's children!' and, said she, 'they looked at 
 my dress and mamma's as if they had never 
 seen a silk gown before.' " 
 
 " This is the state of things I quite approve," 
 returned Mrs. Reed ; " had I sought all Eng- 
 land over, I could scarcely have found a sys- 
 tem more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. 
 Consistency, my dear Mr. Brocklehurst ; I ad- 
 vocate consistency in all things." 
 
 " Consistency, madam, is the first of Christ- 
 ian duties ; and it has been observed in every 
 arrangement connected with the establishment 
 of Lowood : plain fare, simple attire, unsophis- 
 ticated accommodations, hardy and active hab- 
 • its ; such is the order of the day in the house 
 and its inhabitants." 
 
 " Quite right, sir. I may, then, depend upon 
 this child being received as a pupil at Lowood, 
 and there being trained in conformity to her po- 
 sition and prospects ]" 
 
 " Madam, you may ; she shall be placed in 
 that nursery of chosen plants ; and I trust she 
 will show herself grateful to the inestimable 
 privilege of her election." 
 
 •' I will send her, then, as soon as possible 
 Mr. Brocklehurst ; for, I assure you, I feel 
 anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that 
 was becoming too irksome." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt, madam ; and now I 
 wish you good morning. I shall return to 
 Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or 
 two ; my good friend, the archdeacon, will not 
 permit me to leave him sooner. I shall send 
 Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new 
 girl, so that there will be no difficulty about re- 
 ceiving her. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by Mr. Brocklehurst ; remember me 
 to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst, and to Au- 
 
14 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 gusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton 
 Brocklehurst." 
 
 "I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book 
 entitled the ' Child's Guide ;' read it, with pray- 
 er, especially that part containing an ' account 
 
 of the awfully sudden death of Martha G , 
 
 a naughty child, addicted to falsehood and de- 
 ceit.' " 
 
 With these words, Mr. Brocklehurst put into 
 my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover ; and 
 having rung for his carriage, he departed. 
 
 Mrs. Reed and I were left alone ; some min- 
 utes passed in silence ; she was sewing, I was 
 watching her. Mrs. Reed might be, at that 
 time, some six or seven-and-thirty ; she was a 
 woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and 
 strong-limbed, not tall, and though stout not 
 obese; she had a somewhat large face, the 
 under-jaw being much developed and very sol- 
 id ; her brow was low, her chin large and prom- 
 inent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular ; un- 
 der her light eyebrows glimmered an eye de- 
 void of ruth ; her skin was dark and opaque, 
 her hair nearly flaxen ; her constitution was 
 sound as a bell ; illness never came near her ; 
 she was an exact, clever manager, her house- 
 hold and tenantry were thoroughly under her 
 control ; her children only, at times defied her 
 authority and laughed it to scorn ; she dressed 
 well, and had a presence and port calculated 
 to set off handsome attire. 
 
 Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her 
 arm-chair, I examined her figure ; I perused 
 her features. In my hand I held the tract, 
 containing the sudden death of the liar ; to 
 which narrative my attention had been pointed 
 as to an appropriate warning. What had just 
 passed — what Mrs. Reed had said concerning 
 me to Mr. Brocklehurst — the whole tenor of 
 their conversation was recent, raw, and sting- 
 ing in my mind ; I had felt every word as 
 acutely, as I had heard it plainly ; and a pas- 
 sion of resentment fermented now within me. 
 
 Mrs. Reed looked up from her work ; her 
 eye settled on mine, her fingers at the same 
 time suspended their nimble movements. 
 
 "Go out of the room ; return to the nursery," 
 was her mandate. My look or something else 
 must have struck her as offensive, for she 
 spoke with extreme, though suppressed, irrita- 
 tion. 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 severe- 
 Jy and must turn ; but how ? What strength 
 had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist ! I 
 gathered my energies and launched them in 
 this blunt sentence : 
 
 " I am not deceitful ; if I were, I should say 
 I loved you ; but I declare, I do not love you ; 
 I dislike you the worst of any body in the world 
 except John Reed ; and this book about the 
 liar, you may give it to your girl, Georgiana, 
 for it is she who tells lies, and not I." 
 
 Mrs. Reed's hands still lay on her work in- 
 active ; her eye of ice continued to dwell freez- 
 mgly on mine : 
 
 " What more have you to say V she asked, 
 rather in the tone in which a person might ad- 
 dress an opponent of adult age than such as is 
 ordinarily used to a child. 
 
 Thai eye of hers, that voice, stirred every 
 
 antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, 
 thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " I am glad you are no relation of mine ; I 
 will never call you aunt again as long as I live 
 I will never come to see you when I am grown 
 up ; and if any one asks me how I liked you, 
 and how you treated me, I will say the very 
 thought of you makes me sick, and that you 
 treated me with miserable cruelty." 
 
 " How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre 1" 
 
 "How dare I, Mrs. Reedl How dare It 
 Because it is the truth. You think I have no 
 feeUngs, and that I can live without one bit of 
 love or kindness ; but I can not hve so ; and 
 you have no pity. I shall remember how you 
 thrust me back — roughly and violently thrust 
 me back into the red-room, and locked me up 
 there — to my dying day ; though I was in 
 agony ; though I cried out, while suffocating 
 with distress, ' Have mercy ! Have mercy, 
 Aunt Reed !' And that punishment you made 
 me suffer because your wicked boy struck me — 
 knocked me down for nothing. I will tell any 
 body who asks me questions, this exact tale. 
 People think you a good woman ; but you are 
 bad — hard-hearted. Fom are deceitful !" 
 
 Ere I had finished this reply, my soul begaa 
 to expand, to exult, with the strangest sense of 
 freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as 
 if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had 
 struggled out into unhoped-for hberty. Not 
 without cause was this sentiment ; Mrs. Reed 
 looked frightened ; her work had slipped from 
 her knee ; she was lifting up her hands, rock- 
 ing herself to and fro, and even twisting her 
 face as if she would cry. 
 
 " Jane, you are under a mistake ; what is 
 the matter with you ] Why do you tremble 
 so violently! Would you like to drink some 
 water 1" 
 
 "No, Mrs. Reed." 
 
 " Is there any thing else you wish for, Jane? 
 I assure, I desire to be your friend." 
 
 " Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had 
 a bad character, a deceitful disposition ; and 
 I'll let every body at Lowood know what you 
 are, and what you have done." 
 
 " Jane, you don't understand these things ; 
 children must be corrected for their faults." 
 
 " Deceit is not my fault !" I cried out in a 
 savage, high voice. 
 
 " But you are passionate, Jane ; that you 
 must allow ; and now return to the nursery, 
 there's a dear, and lie down a little." 
 
 "I am not your dear; I can not lie down ; 
 send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate 
 to live here." 
 
 " I will indeed send her to school soon," 
 murmured Mrs. Reed, sotto voce ; and gathering 
 up her work, she abruptly quitted the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 I was left there alone, winner of the field. 
 It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the 
 first victory I had gained. I stood awhile oa 
 the rug, where Mr. Brocklehurst had stood, and 
 I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. First, I 
 smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce 
 pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the ac- 
 celerated throb of my pulses. A child can not 
 quarrel with its elders, as I had done ; can not 
 give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 15 
 
 "bad given mine, without experiencing after- 
 ward the pang of remorse and the chill of 
 reaction. A ridge of lighted heath, alive, glan- 
 cing, devouring, would have been a meet em- 
 blem of my mind when I accused and menaced 
 Mrs. Reed ; the same ridge, black and blasted 
 after the flames are dead, would have repre- 
 sented as metely my subsequent condition, 
 when half an hour's silence and reflection 
 had shown me the madness of my conduct, 
 and the dreariness of my hated and hating posi- 
 tion. 
 
 Something of vengeance I had tasted for the 
 first time ; as aromatic wine it seemed on 
 swallowing, warm and racy ; its after-flavor, 
 metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as 
 if I had been poisoned. Willingly would I now 
 have gone and asked Mrs. Reed's pardon ; but 
 I knew, partly from experience and partly from 
 instinct, that was the way to make her repulse 
 me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting ev- 
 ery turbulent impulse of my nature. 
 
 I would fain exercise some better faculty than 
 that of fierce speaking ; fain find some nourish- 
 ment for some less fiendish feeling than that of 
 somber indignation. I took a book, some Ara- 
 bian tales ; I sat down and endeavored to read. 
 I could make no sense of the subject ; my own 
 thoughts swam always between me and the 
 page I had always found fascinating. I opened 
 a glass door in the breakfast-room ; the shrub- 
 bery was quite still; the black frost reigned, 
 unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. 
 I covered my head and arms with the skirt of 
 my frock, and went out to walk in a part of the 
 plantation which was quite sequestered ; but I 
 found no pleasure in the silent trees, the fal- 
 len fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, 
 russet leaves, swept by past winds in heaps, 
 and now stiffened together. I leaned against 
 a gate, and looked into an empty field where 
 no sheep were feeding, where the short grass 
 was nipped and blanched. It was a very gray 
 day ; a most opaque sky, " ending on snaw," 
 canopied all ; thence flakes fell at intervals, 
 which settled on the hard path and on the 
 hoary lea without melting. I stood, a wretch- 
 ed 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 1 Come to lunch !" 
 
 It was Bessie, I knew well enough ; but I 
 did not stir : her light step came tripping down 
 the path, 
 
 " You naughty little thing !" she said. " Why 
 don't you come when you are called 1" 
 
 Bessie's presence now, compared with the 
 thoughts over which 1 had been brooding, 
 seemed cheerful ; even though, as usual, she 
 was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my 
 conflict with, and victory over, Mrs. Reed, I 
 was not disposed to care much for the nurse- 
 maid's transitory anger ; and I was disposed to 
 bask in her youthful hghtness of heart. I just 
 put my two arms round her, and said, " Come, 
 Bessie ! don't scold." 
 
 The action was more frank and fearless than 
 any I was habituated to indulge in : somehow 
 it pleased her. 
 
 "You are a strange child. Miss Jane," she 
 said, as she looked down at me : "a little rov- 
 
 ing solitary thing : and you are going to school, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bes- 
 sie?" 
 
 " What does Bessie care for me ? She is 
 always scolding me." 
 
 "Because you're such a queer, frightened, 
 shy little thing. You should be bolder." 
 
 " What ! to get more knocks ?" 
 
 "Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, 
 that's certain. My mother said, when she 
 came to see me last week, that she would not 
 like a little one of her own to be in your place. 
 Now come in, and I've some good news for 
 you." 
 
 "I don't think you have, Bessie." 
 
 " Child ! What do you mean ? What sor- 
 rowful eyes you fix on me ! Well I but missis 
 and the young ladies and Master John are go- 
 ing out to tea this afternoon, and you shall 
 have tea with me. I'll ask the cook to bake 
 you a little cake, and then you shall help me to 
 look over your drawers ; for I am soon to 
 pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave 
 Gateshead in a day or two , and you shall 
 choose what toys you like to take with you." 
 
 " Bessie, you must promise not to scold me 
 any more till I go." 
 
 " Well, I will : but mind you are a very good 
 girl, and don't be afraid of me. Don't start 
 when I chance to speak rather sharply : it's so 
 provoking." 
 
 " I don't think I shall ever be afraid of you 
 again, Bessie, because I've got used to you ; 
 and I shall soon have another set of people to 
 dread." 
 
 " If you dread them they'll dislike you." 
 
 "As you do, Bessie?" 
 
 " I don't dislike you, miss ; I believe I am 
 fonder of you than all the others." 
 
 " You don't show it." 
 
 " You little sharp thing ! you've got quite a. 
 new way of talking. What makes you so ven- 
 turesome and hardy?" 
 
 " Why, I shall soon be away from you, and 
 
 besides . I was going to say something 
 
 about what had passed between me and Mrs. 
 Reed ; but on second thoughts I considered it 
 better to remain silent on that head." 
 
 " And so you are glad to leave me ?•" 
 
 " Not at all, Bessie ; indeed, just now I am 
 rather sorry." 
 
 " Just now ! and rather ! How coolly my lit- 
 tle lady says it ! I dare say now, if I were to 
 ask you for a kiss you wouldn't give it me : 
 you'd say you would rather not." 
 
 " I'll kiss you and welcome : bend your head 
 down." Bessie stooped ; we mutually em- 
 braced, and I followed her into the house quite 
 comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace 
 and harmony ; and in the evening Bessie told 
 me some of her mool enchaining stories, and 
 sung me some of her sweetest songs. Even 
 for me life had its gleams of sunshine. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Five o'clock had hardly struck on the morn- 
 ing of the 19th January when Bessie brought- 
 
ie 
 
 JANK KYRK 
 
 a candk: into my cioeirl iiiKl found mo already 
 up and nearly droHKcd. I had rin<n half iin 
 hour h<;f(iro her »;ntran(;fc, and liad wimlird my 
 face and put «)n my clolhcH hy iht; li^lil <»f a 
 half moon jnKl H«;tirnf;, wIkiho ray ntr»:amfd 
 throuf;h Ihn narrow window ol tny lilll<! r.rib. 
 f was to Iravf! (ialrKhcad that day hy a roa<;li 
 which paHRc^d tliii lod(!o haU'h at mix am Kch 
 Hio wa8 III*! oidy porKon y»!t riHf-n ; hIh; had 
 li((ht«fl a fire in tin; rnirHcry, wlicro Hho now 
 procficdcd to make my hri'JiklaHt. Kcw child 
 rt-n can t;at when excited with the. IhouKlilH o( 
 a journny ; nor ooiild I. JJohhIo, having prens- 
 rd mc in vain to lakf! a few BpoonfiilB of the 
 >K>ile(l milk and hread hhr; had prrrpared for mc, 
 wrapped iiji Home hiHciiilH in a paper and put 
 them into my ha|{ ; then Hhe helfied mc; on with 
 my peliHHe anfl honnet, and, wrapping heraelf in 
 a Hhawl, f,he and I left the niirHcry. As we 
 paHHod fV[r«. Keed'H bedroom, nh(i Haid, " Will 
 you ({(» in nnd hid miBHlH (;ood hy ?" 
 
 " No, KeHHie Hho eatne to my crib last nifjht 
 when you were (joiie down to HU[i[ier, and naid 
 I net^d not distnili her in the morning;, or my 
 eouKiriH either ; and hhr. told in«: to remember 
 that Hhe had alwayw been my be»t friend, and 
 to Bpeak of hor and bo Kratoful to h(!r accord- 
 ingly." 
 
 " What did you say, mi«8?" 
 
 " Nolbing 1 (;overi;fl my (ace with the bed- 
 r|oth(!K, anri tiirnf;d from her to the; wall " 
 
 "That wa« wrttoy,, Mihh .lane." 
 
 " It waH (juite riKlil, HcHHie : your niinBiB Uhh 
 not been my friend ; hIio haw been my foe." 
 
 " f)h, Mihh .Fan*' ' ilon't Hay ho !" 
 
 "fiood-by to (JateKliead '" cried I, aw we 
 |>aKHed through the hall and went out at tin- 
 front door. 
 
 'I'hn moon wan not, and it was very dark ; 
 HcBHic carried a lantern, whose light glanced 
 on wot Bte[iH and gravel road hodden by a re- 
 cent thaw, Kaw and chill wan the winter 
 morning ; my tr;eth ehaltered an I haHtened 
 down the firivr:. 'I'here was a light in the 
 porter'H lodge ; when we r<;ached it we louiiil 
 the porter's wife ju»l kindling her fire : my 
 trunk, which had been carried «!own the even- 
 ing before, Htood r;ordcd at the door. Ft want- 
 ed but a few iiimtileH of hix, and hhorlly after 
 that hour had Ktrii(;k, Uic. di.stant roll of wIiccIh 
 announced (lie (U)ming coach ; I went to the 
 door and watched iIh larnpH a()proach rapidly 
 through the gloom 
 
 " Is Hhe going by herself!" askfid the por 
 ter's wife 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And how far in it'" 
 
 " I''ifty milcH " 
 
 " What a long way ' I wonder Mrs. Kccd i.s 
 not afraid to trust her ho far alono." 
 
 Tho coach drew up ; there it was at the gatcH, 
 with itH four horHCH and iIh (op ladi-n with pann 
 cngnrH : the guard and '^,,,(1111^111 loudly urged 
 haste; my trunk waH h<iiHted up, I waw taken 
 from iU'HMie'H neck, to which I clung with 
 kisses. 
 
 " He sure and lakt; good cnrn of h«r," cried 
 she to the guard, m he lifted mi; into the in- 
 Hido. 
 
 "Ay. ay'" wum the aiiHWcr the door waw 
 clapped to, a voice exebiimed "All ngiit" and 
 on wc drove. Thus was I Movcrcd from Ilos- 
 
 sio and (fateshRad ; thue whtrlod away to un- 
 known, and, as I then deeuiod, ruiuole and 
 iny.slcriouH regions. 
 
 I remember but little, of the journey : I only 
 know that the day Hcemod to me of a prelor- 
 nalural length, and that we appeared to travel 
 over hiindrcdH of mile.'* of road. We passed 
 through several towuH, and in one — a very large 
 one tlie coach Htoppr d ; the horses Were taken 
 out, and the pauHengerH alighted to dine. I 
 waH carried into an inn, where the guard want- 
 ed me to have nome dinner , but, as 1 hud no 
 appetite, he left me in an immense room with 
 a fireplace at each end, a «:bandelicr pendent 
 from the c«Mling, and a litlle red gallery high up 
 agaiiiHt the wall filled wilh imiHical iiiHlrumenm. 
 Here I walked about a long time, feeling very 
 strange, and mortally apprehensive of sorno 
 one coming in and kidnapping me : for I be- 
 lieved in kidnappers, their e.xploits having fre- 
 <|iienlly figured in HcKSie's fireside chronicles 
 At lant tlie guard returned ; once rnorr; 1 was 
 htowed away in tin; coach , my protector mount- 
 ed hm own Hcat, sounded his hollow horn, anrl 
 away we rattled over the "stony street" of 
 I 
 
 'I'he afternoon came on wet and sornewhat 
 miHty ; as it waned into dusk, I began to fee! 
 that we were getting very far indeed from 
 <>alr!Hliead : we ceased to pass thioiigh towns ; 
 the country changed : gr(rat gray IiiIIh heaved 
 up round the hori'/.on : as twilight deepened, 
 we desocinded a valh^y, dark with wood, and 
 long after night had overidouded the pros|iect, I 
 heard a wild wind rushing among IrcvH 
 
 l.iillcil by (hr; Hound, I at last drojiped asleep: 
 I had not long Hliiudtere'd when the Hudden ees- 
 Hation of molKMi awoke me; the coach door 
 waH thrown optui, and a perHon like a servant 
 was Htanding at it; 1 saw her face and dross 
 by the light of the lamps. 
 
 " Is there a little girl called .lane Kyre, hnrc T" 
 kIic asked 1 answered, " Vv.h," and was then 
 lifted out; my iriiiik was handed down, and 
 ihe coach in.slantly drove away 
 
 1 was Htifl with long sitting, and bewildered 
 with the noise and motion of the coach galh 
 ering my faculties, 1 lookr^d about me. Ilain. 
 wind, and darkncHH filled thr; air ; nevcrtholesii, 
 1 dimly dinr-erncd a wall before mi', and n door 
 o[icn in It , through thi« door I pasHcd with rny 
 new guide ; Hhe Hhiit and locked it behind her. 
 There was now visibli! a house or houses — for 
 the building Kprea(' far —with many windows, 
 and lightH burning in some ; we went u|i a 
 broad, pebbly path, Mpjanhmg writ, and were ad- 
 mitted at a door . iheu the servant Ird mo 
 through a passage into a room wilh a fire, 
 where hhe left me alone. 
 
 I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over 
 the hla7/<\ then I looked round ; there was no 
 candit;, hut the uncertain light from the hearth 
 Hhowcd hy intervals, papered walls, (tarpet, our- 
 taiiiM, hhiiiing mahogany furniture ; it was a 
 parlor, not ho spa(U(Uis or Hplcmlid as the draw- 
 ing room lit (;ateHherrd,but (•oin(orliibl(!enouj{h. 
 I was pu/,7,luig to mak«!out the siibjoel of a |mc- 
 tiire on the wall, when the door opened, and nn 
 mdivMliial carrying a light entered ; another 
 followed cloHc Itchind 
 
 The fuHl was ii taFI Fady, wilh dark hair, dork 
 eyes, and a pale and large fureheud ; hor figure 
 
JANK KYUl':. 
 
 17 
 
 With parlly oiivt'lopiul in a almwl, hor cuunto- 
 naiicc wan |{ruvc, lici Ix aiiun erect. 
 
 " 'I'lu! cliilil is very youim to be hoiiI alone," 
 •aid ttlic, puttiiig lier camlle down on the lal)li'. 
 Slie ('(inHnlcicd nic altrntively for a minute or 
 two, Mien lurtlier added ; 
 
 ".She had hclter i)e put U) lied soon — mIk; 
 looks tireil. Arc yon tir(!d '" ahe aaked, jdaeing 
 hor hand on iny shoulder. 
 
 " A liille, nia'aui." 
 
 "And liiMiury, too, no doubt; lot her have 
 8(init> supper heftire she goes to bed. Miss Mil- 
 ler. Is this the first I line you have lidt your 
 parents to come to scdioel, my little ^irl !" 
 
 F explameil to lici that 1 had no |)arcntM. 
 Sho incjuired how long they had been dead ; 
 then, how (dd I was, what was my name, 
 whether 1 could rend, write, and sew a little ; 
 then she touched my (^heck ^'cnlly with Inir fore 
 linj^er, and .saying, ".shrliopi'd I .simnid Iteagood 
 child," dismissed nu: along with Misn Milli-r. 
 
 The lady 1 had Iclt miglil he aliont Iwenly- 
 nine ; the oni! who wniii with me app(^ar<!d 
 Bomo years yoiing(;r; tho first imprcs.sed me 
 by her voice, look, and air. Mias Milhir was 
 more ordinary ; rmldy in com|ilexjoii, though 
 ot a (;arcwnrn countenance ; hurried m gail 
 and action, like onr who had always a miiilj 
 plicity ol tasks on hand ; tsho looked, iieh i d, 
 what I afterward found she really was, an 
 umler-teaehcr. Led by her, 1 paM.y(!d liom 
 coiniiartmiuit tu compartment, from pa.ssag(' to 
 pa^tsage, of a lar'^c and iricgnliir liiiildiiig , till, 
 (Miierging from the total and .somewhat dreaiy 
 Hilenei' iM.'rvading that portion of tiic house we 
 had traversed, we came upon the hum of many 
 voices, and presently entered a wide, huig nioiii, 
 with great d(!al tables, two at each (Mid, on each 
 of vvhi(di burned a pair of candles, and, seated 
 tdl round on benches, a congrt.gation <d' giils 
 of every age from nine or ten to (wenly. Neni 
 by the dim light oi tln^ dips, tin ir number lu 
 uie appealed couiilh^ss, though noi. in icalily 
 exceeding eighty ; liiey wer*! unirormiy dressed 
 in brown sliilf frixdis of <|uaiiil fashion, and 
 long holland pinaforti.s It was the hour of 
 sillily ; they were eiig.igi'd in conning over tlieii 
 to mm row's task, and the hum I bad lie.iid was 
 the uoiiibined result of I heir whispered rcjic 
 titions 
 
 Miss Miller signed to mo to sit on a bench 
 near the door, then walking u|) to the top (d Ibe 
 long room, she cried out : 
 
 " Monitora, (Millcct the los«oti-bo(d>s and jiiit 
 them away !" 
 
 four tall girls ami^e from ddfcrent (aides, and 
 going round, gatlieml the boi i, i and ieiiiovi.'d 
 thuui. Miss Miller ugniu gavu the wmd of 
 (^onimanil : 
 
 " Momiora, fetch the sii|iper trays ! ' 
 
 The tall girls went out and returned jiresent 
 «y, each bi-aiing a tray, wilb portions of mouic- 
 tliiiig, 1 knew not \Nhat, arranged tbcrron, and 
 a pilidier of wiiter and mug in (be iniddli) ol 
 each Iruy. The portions were handed kiiiiiiI ; 
 those who liked took a draught ol Ibe walii, 
 the mug being common to all. When it (^mie 
 to my turn, 1 drank, (or I was thirsty, but did 
 not touch till! food, excit(!mont anil latimie rm- 
 deriiig me incapable of i^ating ; 1 now .saw, 
 nowever, that it was a thin oaten cake, shared 
 Into fragnioitts. 
 
 U 
 
 The meal over, prayers were read by Mi.<ja 
 Miller, and the classes filed off, two and two, up 
 stairs. Overpowered by this lime with weati- 
 iiesa, I s(!arc(dy noticed what sort of u place 
 the bedroom was, except that, like the sidiool- 
 loom, I .^aw it was very long. To-mght 1 was 
 lo be Misa Miller's bed Allow ; siic helped me 
 to llnd^e[^a. When laid ilowii, 1 glanced at the 
 long row.') of beds, each of wliieh was quickly 
 Idled with two occupanta ; m ton minutes the 
 single lig'it was extinguished ; amid silence 
 and complete darkness, I fell asleep. 
 
 The night passed rapidly , I was too tired 
 even to dream ; 1 only once awoke to bear the 
 wind rave in furious giisl.s, ami llin ram fall m 
 torrents, and lo he sensible that Mi.vs Miller bad 
 takiMi her place by my side. When 1 ag.iin un- 
 closed my eyes, a loud bell was ringing, tho gu l.s 
 were up and dressing, day had not yel begun 
 to davMi, and a rushlight or two biirni^d in the 
 loom. I, too, rose relnclantly ; it was liiltei 
 I'old, and 1 dressed as well as I could for shiv- 
 ering, and washed, v\ hen there was a basin at 
 li'ieily, which did nut occur soon, aa there wab 
 but one basin to aix girls, on the stands down 
 the middle of tlie room. Again the liell rung; 
 all formed in file, two and two, and in that or- 
 der descended the stairs and entered the cold 
 and dimly-lighted scboid-room ; here prayers 
 were r»!ad by Miss Millor ; afterward bIio called 
 out : 
 
 " I'orin claasoB !" 
 
 A gieat tumult sueiiecded loi .somi- mimiti.a, 
 diiiiiig wliiidi Miss Miller repealiidly exelaiinetJ, 
 " Silence I" and " Order !" When it subsided, 
 1 saw them all drawn ii|i in four .seiiiieiruleb, 
 before four chairs, placed at the lour tables ; all 
 held boilks in their hands, and a great book, like 
 a liible, lay on each table, before the vacant sent. 
 A p.'Uise of siuiie seconds siKu-eeded, filled up 
 by the low, vague hum of numbers ; Miss Mil- 
 ler walked from class to class, hushing this in^ 
 delinite sound. 
 
 A distant bell tinkled. Immedialely throe 
 ladies entered the room) each walked to a la 
 hie and took hor seat; Miss Miller assuming 
 Ibe fourth vacant chair, which was that near- 
 e.st Ibe dooi, and around wlncli the .smalli^st of 
 the ehildren were assembled , to this inferior 
 cla.ss 1 v\as called, and jilaced at the bottoin 
 
 of It. 
 
 HusiiKiss now beg.in, The day's e<dlect wntt 
 re|ieated, then (M^rtain texts of .Scripture were 
 saiil, and to thi'se Miicceeded a protracted rnad- 
 111,'.; ol (diaplers in the Itilde, which lasted an 
 liMiir. liy the tune that exerciae was termina- 
 h d, d.iy had lidly d.iwiied. Tin' indetatigahle 
 lull now sounded lor the loin lb lime; the 
 classes were marshaled, and maicbed mlo an- 
 other room to hreakla.t. Ilow glad 1 was to 
 belndd a prospect of getting sobiclbiiig to cat ! 
 I was now nearly sick Inuii inaiiilion, having 
 cilu'ii so little (he day before. 
 
 'Ibe refectory was a great, lo>v-coilod, ghioinj 
 room ; on two long tables smoked basins of 
 .something hot, wliieb, however, lo my dismay, 
 Hriit forth an odor tar liiuii inviting. I saw A 
 universal inanileatatioii of discontunl when tho 
 Inines of the repast mot the nostrils ol Uioho 
 destined lo swallow it. rrotn the van of the 
 pioeession, the lall girls of the first class, rose 
 the whispered words : 
 
18 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Disgusting ! The porridge is burned 
 again !" 
 
 "Silence!" ejaculated a voice — not that of 
 Miss Miller, but of one of the upper teachers, 
 a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, 
 but of somewhat morose aspect, who installed 
 herself at the top of one table, while a more 
 buxom lady presided at the other. I looked in 
 vain for her I had first seen the night before — 
 she was not visible. Miss Miller occupied the 
 foot of the table, where I sat, and a strange, 
 foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teach- 
 er^ as I afterward found, took the correspond- 
 ing seat at the other board. A long grace was 
 said, and a hymn sung ; then a servant brought 
 in some tea for the teachers, and the meal be- 
 gan. 
 
 Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a 
 spoonful or two of my portion without think- 
 ing of its taste; but the first edge of hunger 
 blunted, I perceived I had got in hand a nau- 
 seous mess. Burned porridge is almost as bad 
 as rotten potatoes ; famine itself soon sickens 
 over it. The spoons were moved slowly. I 
 saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow 
 it, but in most cases the effort was soon relin- 
 quished. Breakfast was over and none had 
 breakfasted. Thanks being returned for what 
 we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, 
 the refectory was evacuated for the school- 
 room. I was one of the last to go out ; and, in 
 passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a ba- 
 sin of the porridge and taste it. She looked at 
 the others ; all their countenances expressed 
 displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, 
 whispered : 
 
 " Abominable stuff! How shameful !" 
 A quarter of an hour passed before lessons 
 again begun, during which the school-room was 
 in a glorious tumult. For that space of time 
 it seemed to be permitted to talk loud and more 
 freely, and they used their privilege. The 
 whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which 
 one and all abused roundly. Poor things ! it 
 was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller 
 was now the only teacher in the room : a group 
 of great girls standing about her, spoke with 
 serious and sullen gestures. I heard the name 
 of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips ; 
 at which Miss Miller shook her head disap- 
 provingly ; but she made no great effort to 
 check the general wrath ; doubtless she shared 
 in it. 
 
 A clock in the school-room struck nine ; Miss 
 Miller left her circle, and, standing in the middle 
 of the room, cried : 
 
 " Silence ! To your seats !" 
 Discipline prevailed : in five minutes the con- 
 fused throng was resolved into order, and com- 
 parative silence quelled the Babel clamor of 
 tongues. The upper teachers now punctually 
 resumed their posts ; but still, all seemed to 
 wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of 
 the room, the eighty girls sat motionless and 
 erect ; a quaint assemlilage they appeared, all 
 •with plain locks combed from their faces, not 
 a curl visible ; in brown dresses, made high 
 and surrounded by a narrow tucker about the 
 throat, with little pockets of hoUand (shaped 
 something like a Highlander's purse) tied in 
 front of their frocks and destined to serve the 
 purpose of a work-bag ; all, loo, wearing wool- 
 
 en stockings and country-made shoes fastened 
 with brass buckles. Above twenty of these 
 clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or, 
 rather, young women : it suited them ill, and 
 gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest. 
 
 I was still looking at them, and also at inter- 
 vals examining the teachers — none of whom 
 precisely pleased me ; for the stout one was a 
 little coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the 
 foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller, 
 poor thing ! looked purple, weather-beaten, and 
 overworked — when, as my eye wandered from 
 face to face, the whole school rose simultane- 
 ously, as if moved by a common spring. 
 
 What was the matter? I had heard no or- 
 der given ; I was puzzled. Ere I had gathered 
 my wits, the classes were again seated ; but 
 as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine 
 followed the general direction, and encountered 
 the personage who had received me last night. 
 She stood at the bottom of the long room, on 
 the hearth ; for there was a fire at each end : 
 she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and 
 gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed to 
 ask her a question, and, having received her 
 answer, went back to her place, and said aloud, 
 
 " Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes I" 
 
 While the direction was being executed, the 
 lady consulted moved slowly np the room. I 
 suppose I have a considerable organ of venera- 
 tion, for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe 
 with which my eyes tracked her steps. Seen 
 now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, 
 and shapely ; brown eyes, with a benignant 
 light in their irids, and a fine penciling of 
 long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of 
 her large front ; on each of her temples her 
 hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in 
 round curls, according to the fashion of those 
 times, when neither smooth bands nor long 
 ringlets were in vogue ; her dress, also in the 
 mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved 
 by a sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet ; 
 a gold watch (watches were not so common 
 then as now) shone at her girdle. Let the 
 reader add, to complete the picture, refined 
 features ; a complexion if pale, clear ; and a 
 stately air and carriage, and he will have, at 
 least as clearly as words can give it, a correct 
 idea of the exterior of Miss Temple — Maria 
 Temple, as I afterward saw the name written 
 in a prayer-book intrusted to me to carry to 
 church. 
 
 The superintendent of Lowood (for such was 
 this lady) having taken her seat before a pair 
 of globes placed on one of the tables, summon- 
 «»d the first class round her, and commenced 
 giving a lesson in geography; the lower classes 
 were called by the teachers ; repetitions in his- 
 tory, grammar, &c., went on for an hour; 
 writing and arithm vie succeeded, and music 
 lessons were given by Miss Temple to some 
 of the elder girls. T'.ie duration of each les- 
 son was measured by the clock, which at last 
 struck twelve. The superintendent rose : 
 
 " I have a word to address to the pupils," 
 said she. 
 
 The tumult of cessation from lessons was 
 already breaking forth, but it sunk at her voice. 
 She went on : 
 
 "You had this morning a breakfast which 
 you could not eat ; you must be hungry : I 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 19 
 
 have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese 
 shall be served to all." 
 
 The teachers looked at her with a sort of 
 surprise. 
 
 " It is to be done on my responsibility," she 
 added, in an explanatory tone to them, and 
 immediately afterward left the room. 
 
 The bread and cheese was presently brought 
 in and distributed, to the high delight and re- 
 freshment of the whole school. The order 
 was now given, "To the garden!" Each put 
 on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of color- 
 ed calico, and a cloak of gray frieze. I was- 
 similarly equipped, and, following the stream, 
 I made my way into the open air. 
 
 The garden was a wide inclosure, surround- 
 ed with walls so high as to exclude every 
 glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran 
 down on one side, and broad walks bordered 
 a middle space divided into scores of little 
 beds ; these beds were assigned as gardens for 
 the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had an 
 owner. When full of flowers, they would, 
 doubtless, look pretty ; but now, at the latter 
 end of January, all was wintry bl.ght and 
 brown decay. I shuddered as I stood and 
 looked around me : it was an inclement day 
 for out-door exercise — not positively rainy, 
 but darkened by a drizzling, yellow fog ; all 
 underfoot was still soaking wet with the floods 
 of yesterday. The stronger among the girls 
 ran about and engaged in active games, but 
 sundry pale and thin ones herded together for 
 shelter and warmth in the verandah ; and among 
 these, as the dense mist penetrated to their 
 shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound 
 of a hollow cough. 
 
 As yet T had spoken to no one, nor did any 
 body seem to take notice of me ; I stood lone- 
 ly enough : but to that feeling of isolation I was 
 accustomed, it did not oppress me much. I 
 leaned against a pillar of the verandah, drew 
 my gray mantle close about me, and trying to 
 forget the cold which nipped me without, and 
 the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me with- 
 in, delivered myself up to the employment of 
 watching and thinking. My reflections were 
 too undefined and fragmentary to merit record; 
 I hardly yet knew where I was. Gateshead 
 and my past life seemed floated away to an 
 immeasurable distance ; the present was vague 
 and strange, and of the future, I could form no 
 conjecture. I looked around the convent-like 
 garden, and then, up at the house, a large 
 building, half of which seemed gray and old, 
 the other half quite new. The new part, con- 
 taining the school-room and dormitory was 
 lighted by muUioned and latticed windows 
 which gave it a church-like aspect ; a stone 
 tablet over the door bore this inscription : 
 
 " Lowood Institution. This portion was 
 
 rebuilt a.d. , by Naomi Brocklehurst, of 
 
 Brocklehurst Hall, in this county." ' Let your 
 light 'so shine before men that they may see" 
 your good works, and glorify your Father which 
 is in heaven.' — St. Matt., v., 16." 
 
 I read these words over and over again : I 
 felt that an explanation belonged to them, and 
 was unable fully to penetrate their import. I 
 was still pondering the signification of "Insti- 
 tution," and endeavoring to make out a con- 
 nection between the first words and the verse 
 
 of Scripture, when the sound of a cough, close 
 behmd me, made me turn my head. I saw a girl 
 sitting on a stone bench near ; she was bent 
 over a book, on the perusal of which she seem- 
 ed intent ; from where I stood I could see the 
 title — it was " Rasselas," a name that struck 
 me as strange, and consequently attractive. In 
 turning a leaf she happened to Jock up, and I 
 said to her directly, 
 
 " Is your book interesting 1" I had already 
 formed the intention of askmg her to lend it to 
 me some day. 
 
 " I like it," she answered, after a pause of a 
 second or two, during which she examined me. 
 
 " What is it about 1" I continued. I hardly 
 know where I found the hardihood thus to open 
 a conversation with a stranger ; the step was 
 contrary to my nature and habits : but I think 
 her occupation touched a chord of sympathy 
 somewhere ; for I, too, liked reading, though of 
 a frivolous and childish kind ; I could not 
 digest or comprehend the serious or substantial. 
 
 " You may look at it," replied the girl, offer- 
 ing ine the book. 
 
 I did so ; a brief examination convinced me 
 that the contents were less taking than the 
 title: "Rasselas" looked dull to my trifling 
 taste ; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing 
 about genii ; no bright variety seemed spread 
 over the closely-printed pages. I returned it 
 to her ; she received it quietly, and without 
 saying any thing, she was about to relapse 
 into her former studious mood : again I ven- 
 tured to disturb her — 
 
 " Can you tell me what the writing on that 
 stone over the door means 1 What is Lo- 
 wood Institution V 
 
 " This house where you are come to live." 
 
 " And why do they call it Institution 1 Is it 
 in any way different from other schools V 
 
 " It is partly a charity-school : you and I, 
 and all the rest of us are charity-children. I 
 suppose you are an orphan : are not either 
 your father or your mother dead 1" 
 
 " Both died before I can remember." 
 
 " Well, all the girls here have lost either one 
 or both parents, and this is called an insti- 
 tution 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 V 
 
 "Because fifteen pounds is not enough for 
 board and teaching, and the deficiency is sup- 
 plied by subscription." 
 
 "Who subscribes 1" 
 
 " Different benevolent-minded ladies and 
 gentlemen in this neighborhood and in Lon- 
 don !" 
 
 " Who was Naomi Brocklehurst ?" 
 
 "The lady who built the new part of this 
 house, as that tablet records, and whose soa 
 overlooks and directs every thing here." 
 
 "WhyV 
 
 " Because he is treasurer and manager of 
 the establishment." 
 
 " Then this house does not belong to that 
 tall lady who wears a watch, and who said we 
 were to have some bread and cheese 1" 
 
 " To Miss Temple 1 Oh no ! I wish it did : 
 she has to ansv.er to Mr. Brocklehurst for all 
 
20 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 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 saj that tall lady was called Miss 
 Temple 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And what are the other teachers called V 
 
 " The one with red cheeks is called Miss 
 Smith ; she attends to the work, and cuts out — 
 for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and 
 pelisses, and every thing ; the little one with 
 black hair is Miss Scatcherd : she teaches his- 
 tory and grammar, and hears the second class 
 repetitions ; and the one who wears a shawl, 
 and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side 
 with a yellow ribbon, is Madame Pierrot ; she 
 comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches 
 French." 
 
 ♦' Do you like the teachers V 
 
 " Well enough." , 
 
 "Do you like the little black one, and the 
 
 Madame 1 — I can not' pronounce her 
 
 name as you do." 
 
 " Miss Scatcherd is hasty — you must take 
 care not to offend her ; Madame Pierrot is not 
 a bad sort of person." 
 
 " But Miss Temple is the best — isn't she 1" 
 
 " Miss Temple is very good, and very clever : 
 she is above the rest, because she knows far 
 more than they do." 
 
 " Have you been long here 1" 
 
 " Two years." 
 
 " Are you an orphan 1" 
 
 " My mother is dead." 
 
 " Are you happy hereV 
 
 " You ask rather too many questions. I 
 have given you answers enough for the pres- 
 ent ; now I want to read." 
 
 But at that moment the summons sounded 
 for dinner : all re-entered tho house. The odor 
 which now filled the refectory was scarcely 
 more appetizing than that wliich had regaled 
 our nostrils at breakfast : the dinner was 
 served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence 
 rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat, 
 I found the mess to consist of indifferent 
 potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, 
 mixed and cooked together. Of this prepara- 
 tion a tolerably abundant plateful was appor- 
 tioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and 
 wondered within myself whether every day's 
 fare would bo like this. 
 
 After dinner we immediately adjourned to 
 the school-room : lessons recommenced, and 
 were continued till five o'clock. 
 
 The only marked event of the afternoon 
 was, that I saw the girl with whom I had 
 conversed in the verandah dismissed in dis- 
 grace, by Miss Scatcherd, from a history class, 
 and sent to stand in the middle of the large 
 school-room. The punishment seemed to me 
 in a high degree ignominious, especially for so 
 great a girl — she looked thirteen or upward. 
 I expected she would show signs of great dis- 
 tress and .shame ; but, to my surprise, she 
 neither wept nor blushed : composed, though 
 grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes. 
 " How can she bear it so quietly— so firmly 1" 
 
 I asked of myself. " Were I in her place, it 
 seems to me I should wish the earth to open 
 and swallow me up. She looks as if she were 
 thinking of something beyond her punishment — 
 beyond her situation : of something not round 
 her nor before her. I have heard of day- 
 dreams — is she in a day-dream now 1 Her 
 eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they 
 do not see it — her sight seems turned in, gone 
 down into her heart: she is looking at what 
 she can remember, I believe ; not at what is 
 really present. I wonder what sort of a girl she 
 is — whether good or naughty." 
 
 Soon after five p.m. we had another meal, 
 consisting of a small mug of coffee and half a 
 slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread 
 and drank my coffee with relish ; but I should 
 have been glad of as much more — I was still 
 hungry. Half an hour's recreation succeeded, 
 then study ; then the glass of water and the 
 piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was 
 my first day at Lowood. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The next day commenced as before, getting 
 up and dressing by rushlight ; but this morning 
 we were obhged to dispense with the cere- 
 mony of washing: the water in the pitchers 
 was frozen. A change had taken place in the 
 weather the preceding evening, and a keen 
 northeast wind, whistling through the crevices 
 of our bedrootn windows all night long, had 
 made us shiver in our beds, and turned the 
 contents of the ewers to ice. 
 
 Before the long hour and a half of prayers 
 and bible reading was over, I felt ready to 
 perish with cold. Breakfast-time came at last, 
 and this morning the porridge was not burned ; 
 the quality was eatable, the quantity small : 
 how small my portion seemed ! I wished it had 
 been doubled. 
 
 In the course of the day I was enrolled a 
 member of the fourth class, and regular tasks 
 and occupations were assigned me : hitherto 
 I had only been a spectator of the proceedings 
 at Lowood — I was now to become an actor 
 therein. At first, being little accustomed to 
 learn by heart, the lessons appeared to me 
 both long and difficult : the frequent change 
 from task to task, too, bewildered me ; and I 
 was glad, when, about three o'clock in the 
 afternoon. Miss Smith put into my hands a 
 border of muslin, two yards long, together with 
 needle, thimble, &c., and sent me to sit in a 
 quiet corner of the school-room, with directions 
 to hem the same. At that hour most of the 
 others were sewing likewise ; but one class 
 still stood round Miss Scatcherd's chair read- 
 ing, and as all was quiet, the subject of their 
 lessons could be heard, together with the man- 
 ner in which each girl acquitted herself, and 
 the animadversions or commendations of Miss 
 Scatcherd on the performance. It was English 
 history : among the readers, I observed my 
 acquaintance of the verandah ; at the com- 
 mencement of the lesson, her place had been 
 at the top of the class, but for some error of 
 pronunciation or some inattention to stops, she 
 was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Evea 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 21 
 
 in that obscure position, Miss Scatcherd con- 
 tinued to make her an object of constant 
 notice ; she was continually addressing to her 
 such phrases as the following ; — 
 
 " Burns (such it seenns was her name ; the 
 girls here, were all called by their surnames, as 
 boys are elsewhere), Burns, you are standing 
 on the side of your shoe, turn your toes out 
 immediately." " Burns, you poke your chin 
 most unpleasantly, draw it in." " Burns, I 
 insist on your holding your head up ; I will not 
 have you before me in that attitude," &c., &c. 
 
 A chapter having been read through twice, 
 the books were closed and the girls examined. 
 The lesson had comprised part of the reign of 
 Charles I., and there were sundry questions 
 about tunnage and poundage, and ship-money, 
 which most of them appeared unable to answer ; 
 still, every little difficulty was solved instantly 
 when it reached Burns : her memory seemed 
 to have retained the substance of the whole les- 
 son, and she was ready with answers on every 
 point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd 
 would praise her attention ; but, instead of that, 
 she suddenly cried out : 
 
 "You dirty, disagreeable girl ! you have never 
 cleaned your nails this morning !" 
 
 Burns made no answer : I wondered at her 
 silence. 
 
 "Why," thought I, "does she not explain 
 that she could neither clean her nails nor wash 
 her face, as the water was frozen T' 
 
 My attention was now called ofT by Miss 
 Smith, desiring me to hold a skein of thread : 
 while she was winding it, she talked to me 
 from time to time, asking whether I had ever 
 been at school before, whether I could mark, 
 stitch, knit, &c. ; till she dismissed me, I could 
 not pursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd's 
 movements. When I returned to my seat, that 
 lady was just delivering an order, of which I 
 did not catch the import ; but Burns imme- 
 diately left the class, and, going into the small 
 inner room where the books were kept, re- 
 turned in half a minute, carrying in her hand 
 a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. 
 This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatch- 
 erd with a respectful courtesy ; then she quietly, 
 and without being told, unloosed her pinafore, 
 and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted 
 on her neck a dozen strokes with the hunch of 
 twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns's eye ; and, 
 while I paused from my sewing, because my 
 fingers quivered at this spectacle with a senti- 
 ment of unavailing and impotent anger, not a 
 feature of her pensive face altered its ordinary 
 expression. 
 
 " Hardened girl !" exclaimed Miss Scatcherd, 
 '' nothing can correct you of your slatternly 
 habits : carry the rod away." 
 
 Burns obeyed : I looked at her narrowly as 
 she emerged from the book-closet ; she was 
 just putting back her handkerchief into her 
 pocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her 
 thin cheek. 
 
 The play-hour in the evening I thought the 
 pleasantest fraction of the day at Lowood : the 
 bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at 
 five o'clock had revived vitality, if it had not 
 satisfied hunger ; the long restraint of the day 
 was slackened ; the school-room felt warmer 
 than in the morning : its fires being allowed to 
 
 burn a little more brightly to supply, in some 
 measure, the place of candles, not yet intro- 
 duced ; the ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, 
 the confusion of many voices gave one a wel- 
 come sense of liberty. 
 
 On the evening of the day on which I had 
 seen Miss Scatcherd flog her pupil Burns, I 
 wandered as usual among the forms and tables 
 and laughing groups without a companion, yet 
 not feeling lonely : when I passed the windows, 
 I now and then lifted a blind and looked out ; it 
 snowed fast, a drift was already forming against 
 the lower panes ; putting my ear close to the 
 window, I could distinguish, from the gleeful 
 tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the 
 wind outside. 
 
 Probably, if I had lately left a good home and 
 kind parents, this would have been the hour 
 when I should most keenly have regretted the 
 separation : that wind would then have sad- 
 dened my heart ; this obscure chaos would have 
 disturbed my peace : as it was I derived from 
 both a strange excitement, and, reckless and 
 feverish, I wished the wind to howl more wildly, 
 the gloom to deepen to darkness, and the con- 
 fusion to rise to clamor. 
 
 Jumping over forms and creeping under ta- 
 bles, I made my way to one of the fireplaces : 
 there, kneeling by the high wire fender, I found 
 Burns, absorbed, silent, abstracted from all 
 round her by the companionship of a book, 
 which she read by the dim glare of the embers. 
 
 "Is it still Rasselasl" I asked, coming be- 
 hind her. 
 
 "Yes ;" she said, "and I have just finished 
 it." 
 
 And in five minutes more she shut it up. I 
 was glad of this. 
 
 " Now," thought I, " I can perhaps get her to 
 talk." I sat down by her on the floor. 
 
 " What is your name besides Burns 1" 
 
 " Helen." 
 
 " Do you come a long way from here 1" 
 
 " I come from a place farther north — quite on 
 the borders of Scotland." 
 
 " Will you ever go back V 
 
 " I hope so ; but nobody can be sure of the 
 future." 
 
 " You must wish to leave Lowood 1" 
 
 " No : why should I ? I was sent to Lowood 
 to get an education ; and it would be of no use 
 going away until I have attained that object." 
 
 " But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, is so cruel 
 to you;" 
 
 " Cruel 1 Not at all! She is severe: she 
 dislikes my faults." 
 
 "And if I were in your place I should dislike 
 her : I should resist her ; if she struck me with 
 that rod, I should get it from her hand ; I should 
 break it under her nose." 
 
 " Probably you would do nothing of the sort : 
 but if you did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel 
 you from the school ; that would be a great 
 grief to your relations. It is far better to en- 
 dure patiently a smart which nobody feels but 
 yourself, than to commit a hasty action whose 
 evil consequences will extend to all connected 
 with you — and, besides, the Bible bids us re- 
 turn good for evil." 
 
 " But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, 
 and to be sent to stand in the middle of a room 
 full of people ; and you are such a great girl ; I 
 
ss 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 am far younger than you and I could not bear 
 it." 
 
 " Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you 
 could not avoid it : it is weak and silly to say 
 3^u can not bear what it is your fate to be re- 
 quired to bear." 
 
 I heard her with wonder : I could not com- 
 prehend this doctrine of endurance ; and still 
 less could I understand or sympathize with the 
 forbearance she expressed for her chastiser. 
 Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things 
 by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected 
 she might be right and I wrong ; but I would 
 not ponder the matter deeply : like Felix, I put 
 it off to a more convenient season. 
 
 " You say you have faults, Helen : what are 
 they 1 To me you seem very good." 
 
 "Then learn from me not to judge by ap- 
 pearances : I am, as Miss Scatcherd said, slat- 
 ternly ; I seldom put, and never keep things in 
 order ; I am careless ; I forget rules •, I read 
 when I should learn my lessons ; I have no 
 method ; and sometimes I say, like you, I can 
 not bear to be subjected to systematic arrange- 
 ments. This is all very provoking to Miss 
 Scatciierd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and 
 particular." 
 
 " And cross and cruel," I added ; but Helen 
 Burns would not admit my addition : she kept 
 silence. 
 
 " Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss 
 Scatcherd !" 
 
 At the utterance of Miss Temple's name, a 
 soft smile flitted over her grave face. 
 
 " Miss Temple is full of goodness ; it pains 
 her to be severe to any one, even the worst in 
 the school ; she sees my errors, and tells me 
 of them gently ; and, if I do any thing worthy 
 of praise, she gives me my meed liberally. One 
 strong proof of my wretchedly defective nature 
 is, that even her expostulations, so mild, so 
 rational, have not influence to cure me of my 
 faults ; and even her praise, though I value it 
 most highly, can not stimulate me to continued 
 care and foresight." 
 
 "That is curious," said I ; "it is so easy to 
 be careful." 
 
 " For you I have no doubt it is. I observed 
 you in your class this morning, and saw you 
 were closely attentive ; your thoughts never 
 seemed to wander while Miss Miller explained 
 the lesson and questioned you. Now, mine 
 co.'.tinually rove away : when I should be listen- 
 ing to Miss Scatcherd, and collecting all she 
 says with assiduity, often I lose the very sound 
 of her voice ; I fall into a sort of ilream. Some- 
 times I think I am in Nortliumbeiland, and that 
 the noises I hear round ine are the bubbling of 
 a little brook which runs through Deepden, 
 near our house ; then, when it comes to my 
 turn to reply, I have to be wakened ; and, hav- 
 ing heard nothing of what was read for listen- 
 ing to the visionary brook, I have no answer 
 ready." 
 
 "Yet how well you replied this afternoon !" 
 " It was mere chance ; the subject on which 
 we had been reading had interested me. This 
 afternoon, instead of dreaming of Deepden, I 
 was wondering how a man who wished to do 
 right could act so unjustly and unwisely as 
 Charles the First sometimes did ; and I thought 
 what a pity it was that, with his integrity and 
 
 conscientiousness, he could see no farther thao 
 the prerogatives of the crown. If he had but 
 been able to look to a distance, and see how 
 what they call the spirit of the age was tend- 
 ing ! Still, I like Charles — I respect him — I 
 pity him, poor murdered king ! Yes, his ene- 
 mies were the worst : they shed blood they 
 had no right to shed. How dared they kill 
 him !" 
 
 Helen was talking to herself now ; she had 
 forgotten I could not very well understand her 
 — that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of the sub- 
 ject she discussed. I recalled her to my level. 
 " And when Miss Temple teaches you, do 
 your thoughts wander then 1" 
 
 " No, certainly, not often ; because Miss Tem- 
 ple has generally something to say which is 
 newer than my own reflections ; her language 
 is singularly agreeable to me, and the informa- 
 tion she communicates is often just what I 
 wished to gain " 
 
 " Well, then, with Miss Temple you are 
 goodl" 
 
 " Yes, in a passive way ; I make no effort ; 
 I follow as inclination guides me. There is 
 no merit in such goodness." 
 
 " A great deal ; you are good to those who 
 are good to you. It is all I ever desire to be. 
 If people were always kind and obedient to 
 those who are cruel and unjust, the wicked 
 people would have it all their own way : they 
 would never feel afraid, and so they would 
 never alter, but grow worse and worse. When 
 we are struck at without a reason, we should 
 strike back again very hard; I am sure we 
 should — so hard as to teach the person who 
 struck us never to do it again." 
 
 " You will change your mind, I hope, when 
 you grow older ; as yet you are but a little 
 untaught girl." 
 
 " But I feel this, Helen ; I must dislike those 
 who, whatever I do to please them, persist in 
 disliking me ; I must resist those who punish 
 me unjustly. It is as natural as that I should 
 love those who show me affection, or submit 
 to punishment when I feel it is deserved." 
 
 " Heathens and savage tribes hold that doc- 
 trine, but Christians and civilized nations dis- 
 own it." 
 
 " How 1 I don't understand." 
 " It is not violence that best overcomes hate 
 — nor vengeance that most certainly heals in- 
 jury." 
 "What then 1" 
 
 " Read the New Testament, and observe 
 what Christ says, and how he acts — make his 
 I word your rule, and his conduct your example " 
 '■What does he say ?" 
 
 "Love your enemies ; bless them that curse 
 you ; do good to them that hate you and de- 
 spitefully use you." 
 
 " Then I should love iMrs. Reed, which I can 
 not do; I should bless her son John, which is 
 impossible." 
 
 In her turn, Helen Burns asked me to ex- 
 plain ; and I proceeded forthwith to pour out, 
 in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and 
 resentments. Bitter and truculent when ex- 
 cited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve or 
 softening. Helen heard me patiently to ihe 
 end : I expected she would then make a re- 
 mark, but she said nothing 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 23 
 
 " Well," I asked impatiently, " is not Mrs. 
 Reed, a hard-hearted, bad woman 1" 
 
 " She has been unkind to you, no doubt ; 
 because, you see, she dislikes your cast of 
 charaeter, as Miss Scatcherd does mine : but 
 how minutely you remember all she has done 
 and said to you ! What a singularly deep im- 
 pression her injustice seems to have made on 
 your heart ! No ill usage so brands its record 
 on my feelings. ' Would you not be happier if 
 you tried to forget her severity, together with 
 the passionate emotions it excited 1 Life ap- 
 pears to me too short to be spent in nursing 
 animosity or registering wrongs. We are, 
 and must be, one and all, burdened with faults 
 in this world : but the time will soon come 
 when, I trust, we shall put them off in putting 
 off our corruptible bodies ; when debasement 
 and sin will fall from us with this cumbrous 
 frame of flesh, and only the spark of the spirit 
 will remain, the impalpalbe principle of life and* 
 thought, pure as when it left the Creator to in- 
 spire the creature : whence it came it will re- 
 turn — perhaps again to be communicated to 
 some being higher than man — perhaps to pass 
 through gradations of glory, from the pale 
 human soul to brighten to the seraph ! Surely it 
 will never, on the contrary, be suffered to degen- 
 erate from man to fiend 1 No ; I can not be- 
 lieve that ; I hold another creed, which no one 
 ever taught me, and which I seldom mention, 
 but in which I delight, and to which I cling ; 
 for it extends hope to all : it makes Eternity a 
 rest — a mighty home, not a terror and an abyss. 
 Besides, with this creed, I can so clearly dis- 
 tinguish between the criminal and his crime ; 
 I can so sincerely for^^ive the first while I 
 abhor the last : with this creed, revenge never 
 worries my heart, degradation never too deeply 
 disgusts me, injustice never crushes me too 
 low : I live in calm, looking to the end." 
 
 Helen's head, always drooping, sunk a little 
 lower as she finished this sentence. I saw by 
 her look she wished no longer to talk to me, 
 but rather to converse with her own thoughts. 
 She was not allowed much time for meditation : 
 a monitor, a great rough girl, presently came 
 up, exclaiming, in a strong Cumberland accent : 
 
 " Helen Burns, if you don't go and put your 
 drawer in order, and fold up your work this 
 minute, I'll tell Miss Schatcherd to come and 
 look at it !" S 
 
 Helen sighed as her revery fled, and getting 
 up, obeyed the monitor without reply as with- 
 out delay. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age ; 
 and not the golden age either : it comprised an 
 irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating 
 myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The 
 fear of failure in these points harassed me 
 •worse than the physical hardships of my lot ; 
 though these were no trifles. 
 
 During January, February, and part of 
 March, the deep snows, and after their melt- 
 ing, the almost impassable roads prevented 
 our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to 
 go to church ; but within these limits we had 
 
 to pass an hour every day in the open air. 
 Our clothing was insufficient to protect us 
 from the severe cold : we had no boots, the 
 sm,w got into our slioes and melted there ; 
 our ungloved hands became numbed and cov- 
 ered with chilblains, as were our feet ; I re- 
 member well the distracting irritation I en- 
 dured from this cause, every evening when 
 my feet inflamed ; and the torture of thrusting 
 the swelled, raw and stiff toes into my shoes 
 in the morning. Then the scanty supply of 
 food was distressing : with the keen appetites 
 of growing children, we had scarcely sufficient 
 to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this 
 deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, 
 which pressed hardly on the younger pupils ; 
 whenever the famished great girls had an op- 
 portunity, they would coax or menace the lit- 
 tle ones out of their portion. Many a time I 
 have shared between two claimants the pre- 
 cious morsel of brown bread distributed at tea 
 time ; and after relinquishing to a third half the 
 contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed 
 the remainder with an accompaniment of secret 
 tears, forced from me by the exigency of hun- 
 ger. 
 
 Sundays were dreary days in that wintry 
 season. We had to walk two miles to Brock- 
 lebridge church, where our patron officiated : 
 we set out cold, we arrived at church colder ; 
 during the morniug service we became almost 
 paralyzed. It was too far to return to dinner, 
 and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in 
 the same penurious proportion observed in our 
 ordinary meals, was served around between the 
 services. 
 
 At the close of the afternoon service, we re- 
 turned by an exposed and hilly road, where the 
 bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of 
 snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the 
 skin from our faces. 
 
 I can remember Miss Temple walking light- 
 ly and rapidly along our drooping line, her plaid 
 cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered, gathered 
 close about her, and encouraging us, by precept 
 and example, to keep up our spirits, and march 
 forward, as she said, " like stalwart soldiers." 
 The other teachers, poor things, were general- 
 ly themselves too much dejected to attempt 
 the task of cheering others. 
 
 How we longed for the light and heat of a 
 blazing fire when we got back ! But, to the 
 little ones at least, this was denied ; each 
 hearth in the school-room was immediately 
 surrounded by a double row of great girls, and 
 behind them the younger children crouched ia 
 groups, wrapping their starved arms in their 
 pinafores. 
 
 A little solace came at tea time, in the shape 
 of a double ration of bread, a whole instead of 
 a half slice, with the delicious addition of a 
 thin scrape of butter; it was the hebdomadal 
 treat to which we all looked forward from Sab- 
 bath to Sabbath. I generally contrived to re- 
 serve a moiety of this bounteous repast for my- 
 self, but the remainder I was invariably obliged 
 to part with. 
 
 The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, 
 by heart, the Church Catechism, and the fifth, 
 sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew; 
 and in listening to a long sermon, read by Miss 
 Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested her 
 
24 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ■weariness. A frequent interlude of these per- 
 formances was the enactment of the part of 
 Eutychus by some hall dozen of little girls ; 
 who, overpowered by sleep, would fall down, if 
 not out of the third loft, yet off the fourth form, 
 and be taken up half dead. The remedy wa& 
 to thrust them forward into the center of the 
 school-room, and oblige them to stand there 
 till the sermon was finished. Sometimes their 
 feet failed them, and they sunk together in a 
 heap ; they were then propped up with the mon- 
 itor's high stools. 
 
 I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. 
 Brocklehurst ; and, indeed, that gentleman was 
 from home during the greater part of the first 
 month after my arrival — perhaps prolonging 
 his stay with his friend the archdeacon ; his 
 absence was a relief to me. 1 need not say 
 that I had my own reasons for dreading his 
 coming ; but come he did at last. 
 
 One afternoon (I had then been three weeks 
 at Lowood), as I was sitting with a slate in ray 
 hand, puzzling over a sum in long division, my 
 eyes, raised in abstraction to the window, 
 caught sight of a figure just passing ; I recog- 
 nized, almost instinctively, that gaunt outline ; 
 and when, two minutes after, all the school, 
 teachers included, rose en masse, it was not 
 necessary for me to look up in order to ascer- 
 tain whose entrance they thus greeted. A long 
 stride measured the school-room, and presently 
 beside Miss Temple, who herself had risen, 
 stood the same black column which had frowned 
 on me so ominously from the hearth-rug of 
 CTateshead. I now glanced sideways at this 
 piece of architecture. Yes, I was right ; it 
 was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a sur- 
 tout, and looking longer, narrower, and more 
 rigid than ever. 
 
 I had my own reasons for being dismayed 
 at this apparition ; too well I remembered the 
 perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my 
 disposition, &c. ; the promise pledged by Mr. 
 Brocklehurst to apprise Miss Temple and the 
 teachers of my vicious nature. All along I had 
 been dreading the fulfillment of this promise ; I 
 had been looking out daily for the " Coming 
 Man," whose information respecting my past 
 hfe and conversation was to brand me as a 
 b£Ki child forever ; now there he was. He 
 stood at Miss Temple's side ; he was speaking 
 low in her ear ; I did not doubt he was making 
 disclosures of my villainy, and I watched her 
 eye with painful anxiety, expecting every mo- 
 ment to see its dark orb turn on me a glance 
 of repugnance and contempt. I listened, too ; 
 and as I happened to be seated quite at the top 
 of the room, I caught most of what he said ; 
 its import relieved me from immediate appre- 
 hension. 
 
 " I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought 
 at Lowton will do ; it struck me that it would 
 be just of the quality for the calico chemises, 
 and I sorted the needles to match. You may 
 tell Miss Smith that I forgot to make a memo- 
 randum of the darning-needles, but she shall 
 have some papers sent in next week ; and she 
 is not, on any account, to give out more than 
 one at a time to each pupil ; if they have more, 
 they are apt la be careless and lose them. And, 
 oh, ma'am ! I wish the woolen stockings were 
 better looked to ! When I was liere last I went 
 
 into the kitchen-garden and examined the 
 clothes drying on the line ; there was a quan- 
 tity of black hose in a very bad state of repair ; 
 from the size of the holes in them I was sure 
 they had not been well mended from time to 
 time." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " Your directions shall be attended to, sir," 
 said Miss Temple. 
 
 " And, ma'am," he continued, " the laundress 
 tells me some of the girls have two clean tuck- 
 ers in the week ; it is too much ; the rules 
 limit them to one." 
 
 " I think I can explain that circumstance, 
 sir. Agnes and Catherine Johnstone were in- 
 vited to take tea with some friends at Lowton 
 last Thursday, and I gave them leave to put 
 on clean tuckers for the occasion." ' 
 
 Mr. Brocklehurst nodded. 
 
 " Well, for once it may pass ; but please not 
 to let the circumstance occur too often. And 
 there is another thing which surprised me ; I 
 find, in settling accounts with the housekeeper, 
 that a lunch, consisting of bread and cheese, 
 has twice been served out to the girls during 
 the past fortnight. How is this^ I look over 
 the regulations, and I find no such meal as 
 lunch mentioned. Who introduced this inno- 
 vation 1 and by what authority 1" 
 
 " I must be responsible for the citcumstance, 
 sir," replied Miss Temple ; " the breakfast was 
 so ill prepared that the pupils cotild not possi- 
 bly eat it ; and I dared not allow them to re- 
 main fasting till dinner time." 
 
 " Madam, allow me an instant I You are 
 aware that my plan in bringing up these girls 
 is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury 
 and indulgence, but to render them hardy, pa- 
 tient, self-denying. Should any little accident- 
 al disappointment of the appetite occur, such 
 as the spoiling of a meal, the under or over 
 dressing of a dish, the incident ought not to be 
 neutralized by replacing with something more 
 delicate the comfort lost, thus pampering the 
 body and subverting the aim of this institution; 
 it ought to be improved to the spiritual edifica- 
 tion of the pupils, by encouraging them to 
 evince fortitude under the temporary privation. 
 A brief address on those occasions would not 
 be mistimed, wherein a judicious instructor 
 vKould take the opportunity of referring to the 
 sufferings of the primitive Christians ; to the 
 torments of martyrs, to the exhortations of our 
 blessed Lord himself, calling upon his disciples 
 to take up their cross and follow him ; to his 
 warnings that man shall not live by bread 
 alone, but by every word that proceedeth ou* 
 of the mouth of God ; to his divine consola- 
 tions, ' if ye suffer hunger or thirst for my sake, 
 happy are ye.' Oh, madam, when you put 
 bread and cheese, instead of burned porridge 
 into these children's mouths, you may indeed 
 feed their vile bodies, but you little think how 
 you starve their immortal souls-?" 
 
 Mr. Brocklehurst again paused — perhaps 
 overcome by his feelings. Miss Temple had 
 looked down when he first began to speak to 
 her, but she now gazed straight before her, and 
 her face, naturally pale as marble, appeared to 
 be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that 
 material, especially her mouih, closed as if it 
 would have required a sculptor's chisel to open 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 25 
 
 it, and her brow settled gradually into petrified 
 severity. 
 
 Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on 
 the hearth with his hands behind his back, ma- 
 jestically surveyed the whole school. Sudden- 
 ly his eye gave a blink, as if it had met some- 
 thing that either dazzled or shocked its pupil ; 
 turning, he said, in more rapid accents than he 
 had hitherto used, 
 
 " Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what— what is 
 that girl with curled hair 1 Red hair, ma'am, 
 curled— curled all overV And extending his 
 cane he pointed to the awful object, his hand 
 shaking as he did so. 
 
 " It is Julia Severn," replied Miss Temple, 
 very quietly. 
 
 "Julia Severn, ma'am! And why has she, 
 or any other, curled hair^ Why, in defiance 
 of every precept and principle of this house, 
 does she conform to the world so openly — here, 
 in an evangelical, charitable establishment — as 
 to wear her hair one mass of curls 1" 
 
 "Julia's hair curls naturally," returned Miss 
 Temple, still more quietly. 
 
 " Naturally I Yes, but we are not to con- 
 form to nature ; I wish these girls to be the 
 children of grace; and why that abundance'? 
 I have again and again intimated that I desire 
 the hair to be arranged closely, modestly, plain- 
 ly. Miss Temple, that girl's hair must be cut 
 off entirely ; I will send a barber to-morrow ; 
 and I see others who have far too much of the 
 excrescence ; that tall girl, tell her to turn 
 round. Tell all the first form to rise up and 
 direct their faces to the wall." 
 
 Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over 
 her lips, as if to smooth away the involuntary 
 J smile that curled them ; she gave the order, 
 however, and when the first class could take 
 in what was required of them, they obeyed. 
 Leaning back on my bench, I could see the 
 looks and grimaces with which they comment- 
 j ed on this manoeuver ; it was a pity Mr. Brock- 
 lehurst could not see them too ; he would, per- 
 haps have felt that, whatever he might do with 
 the outside of the cup and platter, the inside 
 was farther beyond his interferense than he 
 imagined. 
 
 He scrutinized the reverse of these living 
 medals some five minutes, then pronounced 
 senteiice. These words fell lilcl^ the knell of 
 doom • 
 
 "All those topknots must be cutoff." 
 
 Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate. 
 
 " Madam," he pursued, " I have a Master to 
 serve whose kingdom is not of this world ; my 
 mission is to mortify in these girls the lusts of 
 the flesh ; to teach them to clothe themselves 
 with shame-facedness and sobriety, not with 
 braided hair and costly apparel ; and each of 
 the young persons before us has a string of 
 hair twisted in plaits which vanity itself might 
 have woven; these, I repeat, must be cut off; 
 think of the time wasted, of — " 
 
 Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted : three 
 other visitors, ladies, now entered the room. 
 ' They ought to have come a little sooner to 
 have heard his lecture on dress, for they were 
 splendidly attired in velvet, silk, and furs. 
 The two younger of the trio (fine girls of six- 
 teen and seventeen) had gray beaver hats, then 
 in fashion, shaded with ostrich-plumes, and 
 
 from under the brim of this graceful head-dress 
 fell a profusion of ligiit tresses, elaborately 
 curled ; the elder lady was enveloped in a cost- 
 ly velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she 
 wore a false front of French curls. 
 
 These ladies were deferentially received by 
 Miss Temple, as Mrs. and the Misses Brockle- 
 hurst, and conducted to seats of honor at the 
 top of the room. It seems they had come in 
 the carriage with their reverend relative, and 
 had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of 
 the rooms up stairs, while he transacted busi- 
 ness with the housekeeper, questioning the 
 laundress, and lecturing the superintendent. 
 They now proceeded to address divers re- 
 marks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was 
 charged with the care of the linen and the in- 
 spection of the dormitories ; but I had no time 
 to listen to what they said ; ether matters 
 called off and enchained 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 own persona^ safety; which I 
 thought would be effected, if I could only elude 
 observation. To this end, I had set well back 
 on the form, and while seeming to be busy with 
 my sum, had held my slate in such a manner as 
 to conceal my face : I might have escaped no- 
 tice, had not my treacherous slate somehow 
 happened to slip from my hand, and falling with 
 an obtrusive crash, directly drawn every eye 
 upon me ; I knew that it was all over now, 
 and, as I stooped to pick up the two fragments 
 of slate, I rallied my forces for the worst. It 
 came. 
 
 "A careless girl!" said Mr. Brocklehurst, 
 and unmediately after—" It is the new pupil, I 
 perceive." And before I could draw breath, 
 " I must not forget I have a word to say re- 
 specting her." Then aloud — how loud it seem- 
 ed to me I — " Let the child who broke her slate, 
 come forward !" 
 
 Of my own accord I could not have stirred ; 
 I was paralyzed : but the two great girls who 
 sat on each side of me set me on my legs and 
 pushed me toward the dread judge, and then 
 Miss Temple gently assisted me to his very 
 feet, and I caught her whispered counsel. 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Jane ; I saw it was an ac 
 cident : you shall not be punished." 
 
 The kind whisper went to my heart like a 
 dagger. 
 
 " Another minute, and she will despise me 
 for a hypocrite," thought I ; and an impulse of 
 fury against Reed, Brocklehurst, and Co., 
 bounded in my pulses at the conviction. I was 
 no Helen Burns. 
 
 " Fetch that stool," said Mr. Brocklehurst, 
 pointing to a very high one from which a mon- 
 itor had just risen. It was brought. 
 
 " Place the child upon it." 
 
 And I was placed there, by whom I don't 
 know ; I was in no condition to note particu- 
 lars ; I was only aware that they had hoisted 
 me up to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose, 
 that he was within a yard of me, and that a 
 spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses, 
 and a cloud of silvery plumage extended and 
 waved below me. 
 
 Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed. 
 
 "Ladies," said he, turning to his family 
 
26 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Mies Temple, teachers, and children, you all 
 aee this girlT' 
 
 Of course they did ; for I felt their eyes di- 
 rected like burning-glasses against my scorched 
 skin. 
 
 «» You see she is yet young ; you observe 
 she possesses the ordinary form of child- 
 hood ; God has graciously given her the shape 
 that he has given to all of us ; no signal de- 
 formity points her out as a marked character. 
 Who would think that the Evil One had al- 
 ready found a servant and agent in herl Yet 
 such, I grieve to say, is the case." 
 
 A pause — in which I began to steady the 
 palsy of my nerves, and to feel that the rubicon 
 was passed ; and that the trial, no longer to be 
 shirked, must be firmly sustained. 
 
 "My dear children," pursued the black mar- 
 ble clergyman, with pathos, " this is a sad, a 
 melancholy occasion ; for it becomes my duty 
 to warn you, that this girl, who might be one 
 of God's own lambs, is a little Cast-away ; not a 
 member of the true flock, but evidently an in- 
 terloper and an alien. You must be on your 
 guard against her ; you must shun her exam- 
 ple ; if necessary, avoid her company, exclude 
 her from your sports, and shut her from your 
 converse. Teachers, you must watch her ; 
 keep your eyes on her movements, weigh well 
 her words, scrutinize her actions, punish her 
 body to save her soul ; if, indeed, such salva- 
 tion be possible, for (my tongue falters while I 
 tell it) this girl — this child, the native of a 
 Christian land, worse than many a little heath- 
 en who says its prayers to Brahma and kneels 
 before Juggernaut — this girl is — a liar !"' 
 
 Now came a pause of ten minutes ; during 
 which I, by this time in perfect possession of 
 my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts 
 produce their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply 
 them to their optics, while the elderly lady 
 swayed herself to and fro, and the younger 
 ones whispered, " How shocking !" 
 
 Mr. Brocklehurst resumed. 
 
 " This I learned from her benefactress ; from 
 the pious and charitable lady who adopted her 
 in her orphan state, reared her as her own 
 daughter, and whose kindness, whose generos- 
 ity, the unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so 
 bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent pat- 
 roness was obliged to separate her from her 
 own young ones, fearful lest her vicious example 
 should contaminate their purity ; she has sent 
 her here to be healed, even as the Jews of old 
 sent their diseased to the ti:oubled pool of Be- 
 thesda; and, teachers, superintendent, I beg of 
 you not to allow the waters to stagnate round 
 her." 
 
 With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brockle- 
 hurst adjusted the top button of his surtout, 
 muttered something to his family, who rose, 
 bowed to Miss Temple, and then all the great 
 people sailed in state from the room. Turning 
 at the door, my judge said, 
 
 "Let her stand half an hour longer on that 
 stool, and let no one speak to her during the 
 rem<iinder of the day." 
 
 There I was, then, mounted aloft : I who 
 had said I could not bear the shame of stand- 
 ing on my natural feet in the middle of the 
 room, was now exposed lo general view on a 
 pedestal of infamy. What my sensations 
 
 were no language can describe ; but just as 
 they all rose, stifling my breath and constrict- 
 ing my throat, a girl came up and passed me ; 
 in passing, she lifted her eyes. What a strange 
 light inspired them? What an extraordinary 
 sensation that ray sent through me! How the 
 new feeling bore me up. It was as if a martyr, 
 a hero, had passed a slave or victim, and im- 
 parted strength in the transit. I mastered the 
 rising hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a 
 firm stand on the stool. Helen IBurns asked 
 some slight question about her work of Miss 
 Smith, was chidden for the triviality of the in- 
 quiry, returned to her place, and smiled at me 
 as she again went by. What a smile ! I re- 
 member it now, and I know that it was the 
 effluence of fine intellect, of true courage ; it 
 lighted up her marked lineaments, her thin 
 face, her sunken, gray eye, like a reflection 
 from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that mo- 
 ment Helen Burns wore on her arm " the un- 
 tidy badge ;" scarcely an hour ago I heard her 
 condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of 
 bread and water on the morrow, because she 
 had blotted an exercise in copying it out. 
 Such is the imperfect nature of man — such 
 spots are there on the disc of the clearest plan- 
 et ; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only 
 see those minute defects, and are blind to the 
 full brightness of the orb. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck ; 
 school was dismissed, and all were gone into 
 the refectory to tea. I now ventured to de- 
 scend ; it was deep dusk ; I retired into a 
 corner and sat down on the floor. The spell 
 by which I had been so far supported began to 
 dissolve ; reaction took place, and soon, so 
 overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I 
 sunk prostrate with my face to the ground. • 
 Now I wept ; Helen Burns was not here ; 
 nothing sustained me : left to myself I aban- 
 doned myself, and my tears watered the boards. 
 I had meant to be so good, and to do so much 
 at Lowood ; to make so many friends, to earn 
 respect, and win affection. Already I had 
 made visible progress ; that very morning I 
 had reached the head of my class ; Miss Miller 
 had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had 
 smiled approbation ; she had promised to teach 
 me drawing, and to let me learn French, if I 
 continued to make similar improvement two 
 months longer : and then I was well received 
 by my fellow-pupils ; treated as an equal by 
 those of my own age, and not molested by any, 
 now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; 
 and could I ever rise more'! 
 
 " Never," 1 thought ; and ardently I wished 
 to die. While sobbing out this wish in broken 
 accents, some one approached ; I started up — 
 again Helen Burns was near me ; the fading 
 fires just showed her coming up the long, 
 vacant room ; she brought my coffee and bread. 
 
 " Come, eat something," she said ; but I put 
 both away from me, feeling as if a drop or a 
 crumb would have choked me in my present 
 condition. Helen regarded me, probably with 
 surprise : I could not now abate my agitation, 
 
JANE EYRE 
 
 27 
 
 though I tried hard ; I continued to weep aloud. 
 She sat down on the ground near me, em- 
 braced her knees with her arms, and rested 
 her head upon them ; in that attitude she re- 
 mained silent as an Indian. I wa.« the first 
 who spoke. 
 
 " Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom 
 every body believes to be a liarl" 
 
 " Every body, Jane 1 Why, there are only 
 eighty people who have heard you called so, 
 aild the world contains hundreds of mill- 
 ions." 
 
 " But what have I to do with millions 1 The 
 eighty I know despise me." 
 
 "^ Jane, you are mistaken ; probably not one 
 in the school either despises or dislikes you ; 
 many, I am sure, pity you much." 
 
 " How can they pity me after what Mr. 
 Brocklehurst saidl" 
 
 " Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god ; nor is he 
 even a great and admired man : he is little 
 liked here ; he never took steps to make him- 
 self liked. Had he treated you as an especial 
 favorite, you would have found enemies, de- 
 clared or covert, all around you ; as it is, the 
 greater number would offer you sympathy if 
 they dared. Teachers and pupils may look 
 coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly 
 feelings are concealed in their hearts ; and if 
 you persevere in doing well, these feelings will 
 ere long appear so much the more evidently 
 for their temporary suppression. Besides, 
 Jane — " She paused. 
 
 "Well, Helen 1" said I, putting my hand 
 into hers ; she chafed my fingers gently to 
 warm them, and went on — 
 
 " If all the world hated you, and believed 
 you wicked, while your own conscience ap- 
 proved you, and absolved you from guilt, you 
 "would not be without friends." 
 
 " No ; I know I should think well of myself ; 
 but that is not enough ; if others don't love 
 me, I would rather die than live — I can not 
 bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look 
 here ; to gain some real affection from you, or 
 Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, 
 I would willingly submit to have the bone of 
 my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to 
 stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash 
 its hoof at my chest — " 
 
 " Hush, Jane ! you think too much of the 
 love of human beings ; you are too impulsive, 
 too vehement ; the Sovereign hand that created 
 your frame, and put life into it, has provided 
 you with other resources than your feeble self, 
 or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this 
 earth, and besides the race of men, there is an 
 invisible world and a kingdom of spirits ; that 
 ■world is round us, for it is every where ; and 
 those spirits watch us, for they are commis- 
 sioned to guard us ; and if we were dying in 
 pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, 
 and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, 
 recognize our innocence (if innocent we be, 
 as I know you are of this eharge which Mr. 
 13rocklehurst has weakly and pompously re- 
 peated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed ; for I 
 read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and 
 on your clear front), and God waits only the 
 separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with 
 a full reward. Why, then, should we ever 
 sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is 
 
 so soon over, and death is so certam an en- 
 trance to happiness — to glory 1" 
 
 I was silent ; Helen had calmed me ; but in 
 the tranquillity she imparted there was an alloy 
 of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression 
 of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell 
 whence it came ; and when, having done 
 speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed 
 a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own 
 sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her. 
 
 Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put 
 my arms round her waist; she drew me to her, 
 and we reposed in silence. We had not sat 
 long thus, when another person came in. 
 Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a 
 rising wind, had left the moon bare ; and her 
 light, streaming in through a window near, 
 shone full both on us and on the approaching 
 figure, which we at once recognized as Miss 
 Temple. 
 
 " I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," 
 said she ; " I want you in my room ; and as 
 Helen Burns is with you, she may come too." 
 
 We went ; following the superintendent's 
 guidance, we had to tread some intricate 
 passages, and mount a stair-case before we 
 reached her apartment ; it contained a good 
 fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told 
 Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair 
 on one side of the hearth, and herself taking 
 another, she called me to her side. 
 
 " Is it all overl" she asked, looking down 
 at my face. " Have you cried your grief 
 away '!" 
 
 " I am afraid I never shall do that." 
 
 " Whyl" 
 
 " Because I have been wrongly accused ; 
 and you, ma'am, and every body else will now 
 think me wicked." 
 
 " We shall think you what you prove your- 
 self to be, my child. Continue to act as a 
 good girl, and you will satisfy me." 
 
 " Shall I, Miss Temple 1" 
 
 " You wdl," said she, passing her arm 
 round me. " And now tell me who is the lady 
 whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefac- 
 tress V 
 
 " Mrs. ReeiJ, 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 1" 
 
 " No, ma'am ; she was sorry to have to do 
 it ; but my uncle, as I have often heard the 
 servants say, got her to promise, before he 
 died, that she would always keep me." 
 
 " Well, now, Jane, you know, or at least I 
 will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, 
 he is always allowed to speak in his own 
 defense. You have been charged with false- 
 hood ; defend yourself to me as well as you 
 can. Say whatever your memory suggests as 
 true ; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing." 
 
 I resolved in the depth of my heart that I 
 would be most moderate — most correct ; and, 
 having reflected a few minutes in order to 
 arrange coherently what I had to say, I told 
 her all the story of my sad childhood. Ex- 
 hausted by emotion, my language was more 
 subdued than it generally was when it developed 
 that sad theme ; and mindful of Helen's warn- 
 ings against the indulgence of resentment, I 
 infused into the narrative far less of gall and 
 
28 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained 
 and simplified, it sounded more credible ; I 
 felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully 
 believed me. 
 
 In the course of the talc I tiad mentioned 
 Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me after the 
 fit ; for I never forgot the, to me, frightful 
 episode of the red-room ; in detailing which, 
 my excitement was sure, in some degree, to 
 break bounds ; for nothing could soften in my 
 recollection the spasm of agony which clutched 
 my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild 
 supplication for pardon, and locked me a 
 second time in the dark and haunted cham- 
 Ijer. 
 
 I had finished. Miss Temple regarded me a 
 few minutes in silence; she then said — 
 
 " I know something of Mr. Lloyd ; I shall 
 write to him ; if his reply agrees with your 
 statement, you shall be publicly cleared from 
 every imputation ; to me, Jane, you are clear 
 now." 
 
 She kissed me, and still keeping me at her 
 side (where I was contented to stand, for I de- 
 rived a child's pleasure from the contemplation 
 of her face, her dress, her one or two orna- 
 ments, her while forehead, her clustered and 
 shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she 
 proceeded to address Helen Burns. 
 
 "How are you to-night Helen 1 Have you 
 coughed much to-day !" 
 
 " Not quite so much, I think, ma'am." 
 " And the pain in the chest V 
 "It is a little better." 
 
 Miss Temple got up, took her hand and ex- 
 amined her pulse ; then she returned to her 
 own seat : as she resumed it, I heard her sigh 
 low. She was pensive a few minutes, then 
 rousing heiseli", she said cheerfully, 
 
 " But you two are my visitors to-night ; I 
 must treat you as such." She rung her bell. 
 
 " Barbara," she said to the servant who an- 
 swered it, " I have not yet had tea ; bring the 
 tray, and place cups for these two young la- 
 dies." 
 
 And a tray was soon brought. How pretty 
 to my eyes did the china cups and bright tea- 
 pot look, placed on the little round table near 
 the fire ! How fragrant was the steam of the 
 beverage, and the scent of the toast ! of which, 
 however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning 
 to be hungry), discerned only a very small por- 
 tion; Miss Temple discerned it too. 
 
 " Barbara," said she, " can you not bring a 
 little more bread and butter 1 There is not 
 enough for three." 
 
 Barbara went out ; she returned soon ; 
 "Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has -sent up 
 the usual quantity." 
 
 Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the house- 
 keeper ; a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst's own 
 heart, made up of equal parts, whalebone and 
 iron. 
 
 "Oh, very well!" returned Miss Temple; 
 " we must make it do, Barbara, I suppose." 
 And as the girl withdrew, she added, smilingly, 
 " Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply 
 deficiencies for this once." 
 
 Having invited Helen and me to approach 
 the table, and placed before each of us a cup of 
 lea, with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, 
 she got up, and unlocked a drawer, and tak- 
 
 ing from it a parcel wrapped in paper, dis- 
 closed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed- 
 cake. 
 
 " I meant to give each of you some of this 
 to take with you," said she ; " but as there 
 is so little toast you must have it now," and 
 she proceeded to cut slices with a generous 
 hand. 
 
 We feasted that evening as on nectar and 
 ambrosia ; and not the least delight of the en- 
 tertainment was the smile of gratification with 
 which our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied 
 our famished appetites on the delicate fare she 
 liberally supplied. Tea over and the tray re- 
 moved, she a^gain summoned us to the fire ; 
 we sat one on each side of her, and now a con- 
 versation followed between her and Helen, 
 which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted 
 to hear. 
 
 Miss Temple had always something of seren- 
 ity in her air, of state in her mien, of refined 
 propriety in her language, which precluded 
 deviation into the ardent, the excited, the 
 eager ; something which chastened the pleas- 
 ure of those who looked on her and listened to 
 her, by a controlling sense of awe ; such was 
 my feeling now : but as to Helen Burns, I was 
 struck with wonder. 
 
 The refre.shing meal, the brilliant fire, the 
 presence and kindness of her beloved instruct- 
 ress, or perhaps more than all these, something 
 in her own unique mind, had roused her powers 
 within her. They woke, they kindled ; first, 
 they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, 
 which till this hour I had never seen but pale 
 and bloodless ; then they shone in the liquid 
 luster of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired 
 a beauty more singular than that of Miss Tem- 
 ple's — a beauty neither of fine color, nor long 
 eyelash, nor penciled brow, but of meaning, of 
 movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on 
 her lips, and language flowed, from what source 
 I can not tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart 
 large enough, vigorous enough to hold the 
 swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence ? 
 Such was the characteristic of Helen's dis- 
 course on that, to me, memorable evening ; 
 her spirit seemed hastening to live within a 
 very brief span as much as many live during a 
 protracted existence. 
 
 They conversed of things I had never heard 
 of; of nations and times past; of countries far 
 away ; of secrets of nature discovered or 
 guessed at ; they spoke of books ; how many 
 they had read ! ' What stores of knowledge 
 they possessed ! Then they seemed so fa- 
 miliar with French names and French au- 
 thors ; but my amazement reached its climax: 
 when Miss Temple asked Helen if she some- 
 times snatched a moment to recall the Latin 
 her father had taught her ; and, taking a book 
 from a shelf, hade her read and construe a page 
 of "Virgil ;" and Helen obeyed, my organ of 
 yeneralion expanding at every sounding line. 
 She had scarcely finished ere the bell announ- 
 ced bed-lime; no delay could be admitted; 
 Miss Temple embraced us both, saying as she 
 drew us to her heart : t 
 
 " God bless you, my children '■'' 
 Helen she held a little longer than me , she 
 
 let her go more reluctantly ; it was Helen her 
 eye followed to tho door ; it was for her she » 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 second time breathed a sad sigh ; for her she 
 wiped a tear from her cheek. 
 
 On reaching the bedroom, we heard the 
 voice of Miss Scatcherd ; she was examining 
 drawers ; she had just pulled out Helen Burns's, 
 and when we entered Helen was greeted with 
 a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she 
 should have half a dozen of untidy folded arti- 
 cles pinned to her shoulder. 
 
 "My things were, indeed, in shameful disor- 
 der," murmured Helen to me, in a low voice ; 
 '♦ I intended to have arranged them, but I for- 
 got." 
 
 Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in con- 
 spicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard 
 the word " Slattern," and bound it like a phy- 
 lactery round Helen's large, mild, intelligent, 
 and benign-looking forehead. She wore it till 
 evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as 
 a deserved punishment. The moment Miss 
 Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon-school, I 
 ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the 
 fire ; the fury of which she was incapable had 
 been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot 
 and large, had continually been scalding my 
 cheek ; for the spectacle of her sad resignation 
 gave me an intolerable pain at the heart. 
 
 About a week subsequently to the incidents 
 above narrated. Miss Temple, who had written 
 to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer : it appeared 
 that what he said went to corroborate my ac- 
 count. Miss Temple, having assembled the 
 whole school, announced that inquiry had been 
 made into the charges alleged agamst Jane 
 Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able 
 ^o pronounce her completely cleared from every 
 imputation. The teachers then shook hands 
 with me and kissed me, and a murmur of 
 pleasure ran through the ranks of my com- 
 panions. 
 
 Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that 
 hour set to work afresh, resolved to pioneer 
 my way through every difficulty ; I toiled hard, 
 and my success was proportionate to my ef- 
 forts ; my memory, not naturally tenacious, 
 improved with practice ; exercise sharpened 
 my wits ; in a few weeks I was promoted to 
 a higher class ; in less than two months I was 
 allowed to commence French and drawing. 
 I learned the first^two tenses of the verb Etre, 
 and sketched my first cottage (whose walls hy- 
 the-by, outrivaled in slope those of the leaning 
 tower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, 
 on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in imagina- 
 tion the Barmecide supper of hot, roast pota- 
 toes, or white bread and new milk, with which 
 I was wont to amuse my inward cravings ; I 
 feasted, instead, on the spectacle of ideal draw- 
 ings which I saw in the dark ; all the work of 
 my own hands : freely penciled houses and 
 trees, picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like 
 groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies 
 hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking 
 at ripe cherries, of wrens' nests inclosing 
 pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy 
 sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the pos- 
 sibility of my ever being able to translate cur- 
 rently, a certain little French story-book which 
 Madam Pierrot had that day shown me ; nor 
 was that problem solved to my satisfaction ere 
 I fell sweetly asleep. 
 Well has Solomon said ; " Better is a dinner 
 
 of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and 
 hatred therewith." 
 
 I would not now have exchanged Lowood, 
 with all its privations, for Gateshead and its 
 daily luxuries. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 But the privations, or, rather, the hardships 
 of Lowood, lessened. Spring drew on ; she 
 ^as, indeed, already come ; the frosts of win- 
 ter had ceased ; its snows were melted ; its 
 cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet, 
 flayed and swelled to lameness by the sharp air 
 of January, began to heal and subside under the 
 gentler breathings of April. The nights and 
 mornings no longer, by their Canadian temper- 
 ature, froze the very blood in our veins; we 
 could now endure the play-hour passed in the 
 garden. Sometimes, on a sunny day, it began 
 even to be pleasant and genial ; and a green- 
 ness grew over those brown beds which, fresh- 
 ening daily, suggested the thought that Hope 
 traversed them at night, and left each morning 
 brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped 
 out among the leaves — snowdrops, crocuses, 
 purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On 
 Thursday afternoons (half holydays) we now 
 took walks, and found still sweeter flowers 
 opening by the wayside, under the hedges. 
 
 I discovered, too, that a great pleasure — an 
 enjoyment which the horizon only bounded — lay 
 all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of 
 our garden. This pleasure consisted in a pros- 
 pect of noble summits girdling a great hill- 
 hollow, rich in verdure and shadow ; in a bright 
 beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. 
 How different had this scene looked when I 
 viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of win- 
 ter, stiffened in frost, shrquded with snow — 
 when mists as chill as death wandered to the 
 impulse of east windS along those purple peaks, 
 and rolled down " ing" and holm till they blend- 
 ed with the frozen fog of the beck ! That beck 
 itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless ; 
 it tore asunder the wood, and sent a raving 
 sound through the air, often thickened with 
 wild rain or whirhng sleet ; and for the forest 
 on its banks, that showed only ranks of skel- 
 etons. 
 
 ' - April advanced to May. A bright, serene 
 May it was ; days of blue sky, placid sun- 
 shine, and soft western or southern gales filled 
 up its duration. And now vegetation matured 
 with vigor ; Lowood shook loose its tresses ; it 
 became all green, all flowery ; its great elm, ash, 
 and oak skeletons were restored to majestic 
 life ; woodland plants sprung up profusely in 
 its recesses ; unnumbered varieties of moss 
 filled its hollows ; and it made a strange 
 ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild 
 primrose plants ; I have seen their pale, gold 
 gleam,' in overshadowed spots, like scatterings 
 of the sweetest luster. All this I enjoyed often 
 and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone ; 
 for ihis unwonted liberty and pleasure there 
 was a cause, to which it now becomes my task 
 to advert. 
 
 Have I not described a pleasant site for a 
 dwelling, when I speak of it as bosomed in hill 
 
30 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 and wood, and rising from the verge of a 
 stream 1 Assuredly, pleasant enough ; but 
 whether healthy or not is another question. 
 
 That forest dell, where Lowood lay, was the 
 cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence ; which, 
 quickening with the quickening spring, crept 
 into the Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus 
 through its crowded §chool-room and dormi- 
 tory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the 
 seminary into an hospital. 
 
 Semi-starvation and neglected colds had pre- 
 disposed most of the pupils to receive infection. 
 Forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one 
 time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. 
 The few who continued well were allowed al- 
 most unlimited license, because the medical at- 
 tendant insisted on the necessity of frequent 
 exercise to keep them in health ; and had it 
 been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or 
 restrain them. Miss Temple's whole attention 
 was absorbed by the patients ; she lived in the 
 sick room, never quitting it except to snatch a 
 few hours' rest at night. The teachers were 
 fully occupied with packing up and making oth- 
 er necessary preparations for the departure of 
 those girls who were fortunate enough to have 
 friends and relations able and willing to remove 
 them from the seat of contagion. Many, al- 
 ready smitten, went home only to die ; some 
 died at the school, and were buried quietly and 
 quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding 
 delay. 
 
 While disease had thus become an inhabitant 
 of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor ; while 
 there was gloom and fear within its walls ; while 
 its rooms and passages steamed with hospital 
 smells — the drug and the paslile striving vainly 
 to overcome the effluvia of mortality — that 
 bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills 
 and beautiful woodland out-of-doors. Its gar- 
 den, too, glowed with flowers ; hollyhocks had 
 sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened, dah- 
 lias and roses were in bloom ; the borders of 
 the little beds were gay with pink thrift and 
 crimson double-daisies ; the sweet-briers gave 
 out, morning and evening, their scent of spice 
 and apples ; and these fragrant treasures were 
 all useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, 
 except to furnish now and then a handful of 
 herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin. 
 
 But I, and the rest who continued well, en- 
 joyed fully the beauties of the scene and seas- 
 on. They let us ramble in the wood, like gip- 
 seys, from morning till night'; we did what we 
 liked — went where we liked ; we lived better, 
 too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never 
 came near Lowood now ; household matters 
 were not scrutinized into ; the cross house- 
 keeper was gone, driven away by the fear of 
 infection ; her successor, who had been matron 
 at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways 
 of her new abode, provided with comparative 
 liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed ; 
 the sick could eat little ; our breakfast-basins 
 were better filled ; when there was no time to 
 prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, 
 she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or 
 a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we 
 carried away with us to the wood, where we 
 each chose the spot we liked best, and dined 
 sumptuously. 
 My favorite seat was a smooth and broad 
 
 stone, rising white and dry from the very mid- 
 dle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading 
 through the water — a feat I accomplished bare- 
 foot. The stone was just broad enough to ac- 
 commodate comfortably me and another girl — 
 at that time my chosen comrade — one Mary 
 Ann Wilson, a sljrewd, observant personage, 
 whose society I took pleasure in, partly because 
 she was witty and original, and partly because 
 she had a manner which set me at my ease. 
 Some years older than I, she knew more of the 
 world, and could tell me many things I liked to 
 hear. With her my curiosity found gratifica- 
 tion. To my faults, also, she gave ample in- 
 dulgence, never imposing curb or rein on any 
 thing I said. She had a turn for narrative — I 
 for analysis ; she liked to inform — I to ques- 
 tion ; so Y-e got on swimmingly together, de- 
 riving much entertainment, if not much im- 
 provement, from our mutual intercourse. 
 
 And where, meantime, was Helen Burns T 
 Why did I not spend these sweet days of liber- 
 ty with herl Had I forgotten herl or was I 
 so worthless as to have grown tired of her pure 
 society 1 Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have 
 mentioned was inferior to my first acquaint- 
 ance ; she could only tell me amusing stories, 
 and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I 
 chose to indulge in ; while, if I have spoken 
 truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those 
 who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a 
 taste of far higher things. 
 
 True, reader, and I knew and felt this ; and 
 though I am a defective being, with many faults 
 and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of 
 Helen Burns, nor ever ceased to cherish for her 
 a sentiment of attachment as strong, tender, 
 and respectful as any that ever animated my 
 heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, 
 at all times and under all circumstances, evinced 
 for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which 
 ill-humor never soured nor irritation ever trou- 
 bled ■! But Helen was ill at present ; for some 
 weeks she had been removed from my sight to 
 I knew not what room, up stairs. She was not, 
 I was told, in the hospital portion of the house 
 with the fever patients ; for her complaint was 
 consumption, not typhus ; and by consumption 
 I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, 
 which time and care would be sure to alle- 
 viate. 
 
 I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of 
 her once or twice coming down stairs on very 
 warm, sunny afternoons, and being taken by 
 Miss Temple into the garden ; but, on these oc- 
 casions, I was not allowed to go and speak to 
 her ; I only saw her from the school-room win- 
 dow, and then not distinctly, for she was much 
 wrapped, up, and sat at a distance under the 
 verandah. 
 
 One evening, in the beginning of June, I had 
 stayed out very late with Mary Ann in the 
 wood ; we had, as usual, separated ourselves 
 from the others, and had wandered far — so far 
 that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a 
 lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, 
 who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that 
 fed on the mast in the wood. When we got 
 hack, it was after moonrise ; a pony, which we 
 knew to be the surgeon's, was standing at the 
 garden-door. Mary Ann remarked, that she 
 supposed some one must be very ill, as Mr. 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 3t 
 
 Bates had been sent for at that time of the 
 evening. She went into the house. I stayed 
 behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a 
 handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and 
 which I feared would wither if I left them till 
 morning. This done, I lingered yet a little 
 longer ; the flowers smelled so sweet as the 
 dew fell ; it was such a pleasant evening, so 
 serene, so warm ; the still glowing west prom- 
 ised so fairly another fine day on the morrow ; 
 the moon rose with such majesty in the grave 
 east. I was noting these things, and enjoying 
 them as a child might, when it entered my 
 mind, as it had never done before : 
 
 " How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and 
 to be in danger of dying ! This world is pleas- 
 ant ; it would be dreary to be called from it, and 
 to have to go — who knows where 1" 
 
 And then my mind made its first earnest ef- 
 fort to comprehend what had been infused into 
 it concerning heaven and hell, and for the first 
 time it recoiled, baffled ; and, for the first time, 
 glancing behind, on each side, and before it, it 
 saw all round an unfathomed gulf; it felt the 
 one point where it stood — the present ; all the 
 rest was formless cloud and vacant depth, and 
 it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and 
 plunging amid that chaos. While pondering 
 this new idea, I heard the front door open ; Mr. 
 Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. 
 After she had seen him mount his horse and 
 depart, she was about to close the door, but I 
 ran up to her. 
 
 " How is Helen Burns 1" 
 " Very poorly," was the answer. 
 " Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see V 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And what does he say about herl" 
 "He says she'll not be here long." 
 This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, 
 would have only conveyed the notion that she 
 was about to be removed to Northumberland, 
 to her own home. I should not have suspected 
 that meant she was dying ; but I knew instant- 
 ly now ; it opened clear on my comprehension 
 that Helen Burns was numbering her last days 
 in this world, and that she was going to be 
 taken to the region of spirits, if such region 
 there were. I experienced a shock of horror, 
 then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire — a 
 necessity — to see her ; and I asked in what 
 room she lay. 
 
 " She is in Miss Temple's room," said the 
 nurse. 
 
 "May 1 go up and speak to her?" 
 " Oh, no, child ! It is not likely : and now it 
 is time for you to come- in ; you'll catch the 
 fever if you stop out when the dew is falling." 
 
 The nurse closed the front door ; I went in 
 by the side entrance which led to the school- 
 room ; I was just in time ; it was nine o'clock, 
 and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to 
 bed. 
 
 It might be two hours later, probably near 
 eleven, when I — not having been able to fall 
 asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence 
 of the dormitory, that my companions were all 
 wrapped in profound repose — rose softly, put 
 on my frock over my night-dress, and, without 
 shoes, crept from the apartment, and set off in 
 quest of Miss Temple's room. It was quite at 
 the other end of the house ; but I knew my 
 
 way ; and the light of the unclouded summer 
 moon, entering here and there at passage win- 
 dows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. 
 An odor of camphor and burned vinegar warned 
 me when I came near the fever room ; and I 
 passed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse 
 who sat up all night should hear me. I dreaded 
 being discovered and sent back ; for I must see 
 Helen — I must embrace her before she died — I 
 must give her one last kiss, exchange with her 
 one last word. 
 
 Having descended a stair-case, traversed a 
 portion of the house below, and succeeded in 
 opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, 
 I reached another flight of steps ; these I mount- 
 ed, and then just opposite to me was Miss Tem- • 
 pie's room. A light shone through the key- 
 hole, and from under the door : a profound 
 stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming near, 
 I found the door slightly ajar ; probably to admit 
 some fresh air into the close abode of sickness. 
 Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient 
 impulses — soul and senses quivering with keen 
 throes — I put it back and looked in. My eye 
 sought Helen, and feared to find death. 
 
 Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered 
 with its white curtains, there stood a little crib. 
 I saw the outline of a form under the clothes, 
 but the face was hid by the hangings : the nurse 
 I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy 
 chair, asleep ; an unsnufl^ed candle burned dimly 
 on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen : 
 I knew afterward that she had been called to 
 a delirious patient in the fever-room. I ad- 
 vanced ; then paused by the crib side : my hand 
 was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking 
 before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the 
 dread of seeing a corpse. 
 
 " Helen !" I whispered softly ; " are you 
 awake 1" 
 
 She stirred, herself put back the curtain, and 
 I saw her face, pale, wasted, but quite com- 
 posed ; she looked so little changed that my 
 fear was instantly dissipated. 
 
 " Can it be you, Jane 1" she asked in her owq 
 gentle voice. 
 
 "Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; 
 they are mistaken : she could not speak and 
 look so calmly if she were." 
 
 I got on to her crib and kissed her : her fore- 
 head was cold, and her cheek both cold and 
 thin, and so were her hand and wrist ; but she 
 smiled as of old. 
 
 " Why are you come here, Jane 1 It is past 
 eleven o'clock ; I heard it strike some minutes 
 since." 
 
 " I came to see you, Helen ; I heard you 
 were very ill, and I could not sleep till I had 
 spoken to you." ^ 
 
 " You came to bid me good-by, then ; you are 
 just in time, probably." 
 
 " Are you going somewhere, Helen ^ Are 
 you going homel" 
 
 " Yes ; to my long home — my last home." 
 
 "No. no, Helen." I stopped, distressed. 
 While I tried to devour my tears, a fit of cough- 
 ing seized Helen ; it did not, however, wake 
 the nurse ; when it was over, she lay some 
 minutes exhausted ; then she whispered — 
 
 " Jane, your little feet are bare ; lie dowa 
 and cover yourself with my quilt." 
 
 I did so ; she put her arm over nie, and f 
 
33 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 nestled close to her. After a long silence, she 
 resumed ; still whispering— 
 
 " I am very happy, Jane ; and when you hear 
 that I am dead you must be sure and not grieve ; 
 there is nothing to grieve about. We all must 
 die one day, and the illness which is removing 
 me is not painful ; it is gentle and gradual ; my 
 mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me 
 much ; I have only a father ; and he is lately 
 married, and will not miss me. By dying young 
 I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qual- 
 ities or talents to make my way very well in 
 the world ; I should have been continually at 
 fault." 
 
 " But where are you going to, Helen ? Can 
 , you see ] Do you know !" 
 
 " I believe ; I have faith ; I am going to 
 Ood." 
 
 " Where is God 1 What is God V> 
 
 " My maker and yours ; who will never dcr 
 slroy what he created. I rely implicitly on his 
 power, and confide wholly in his goodness ; I 
 count the hours till that eventful one arrives 
 which shall restore me to him, reveal him to 
 me." 
 
 " You are sure, then. Helen, that there is 
 such a place as heaven ; and that our souls can 
 get to it when we die 1" 
 
 " I am sure there is a future state ; 1 believe 
 God is good ; I can resign my immortal part to 
 him without any misgiving. God is my father ; 
 God is my friend ; I love him ; I believe he 
 loves me." 
 
 " And shall I see you again, Helen, when I 
 dieV 
 
 " You will come to the same region of happi- 
 ness ; he received by the same mighty, univer- 
 sal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane." 
 
 Again I questioned ; but this time only in 
 thought. " Where is that region 1 > Does it 
 exist ?" And I clasped my arms closer round 
 Helen ; she seemed dearer to me than ever ; I 
 felt as if I could not let her go ; I lay with my 
 face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, 
 in the sweetest tone — 
 
 " How comfortable I am ! That last fit of 
 coughing has tired me a little ; I feel as if I 
 could .sleep ; but don't leave me, Jane ; I like 
 to have you near me." 
 
 " I'll stay with you, dear Helen ; no one shall 
 take me away." 
 
 "Are you warm, darling V * 
 
 "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 move- 
 ment roused me ; I looked up ; I was in some- 
 body's arms ; the nurse held me ; she was 
 carrying me through the passage back to the 
 dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving 
 my bed ; people had something else to think 
 about : no explanation was afforded then to my 
 many questions ; but a day or two afterward I 
 learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her 
 own room at dawn, had found me laid in the lit- 
 tle crib ; my face against Ellen Burns's shoulder, 
 my arras round her neck. I was asleep, and 
 Helen was — dead. 
 
 Her grave is in Brocklebridge church-yard ; 
 for fifteen years after her death it was only 
 
 covered by a grassy mound ; but now a gray 
 marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her 
 name, and the word " Resurgam." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events 
 of my insignificant existence : to the first ten 
 years of my life, I have given almost as many 
 chapters. But this is not to be a regular auto- 
 biography ; I am only bound to invoke memory 
 where I know her responses will possess some 
 degree of interest ; therefore 1 now pass a space 
 of eight years almost in silence : a few lines 
 only are necessary to keep up the links of con- 
 nection. 
 
 When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mis- 
 sion of devastation at Lowood, it gradually dis- 
 appeared from thence ; but not till its virulence 
 and the number of its victims had drawn public ' 
 attention on the school. Inquiry was made 
 into the origin of the scourge, and by degrees 
 various facts came out which excited public 
 indignation in a high degree. The unhealthy 
 nature of the site ; the quantity and quality of 
 the children's food ; the brackish, fetid water 
 used in its preparation ; the pupils' wretched 
 clothing and accommodations, all these things 
 were discovered ; and the discovery produced a 
 result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but bene- 
 ficial to the institution. 
 
 Several wealthy and benevolent individuals 
 in the county subscribed largely for the erection 
 of a more convenient building in a better situa- 
 tion ; new regulations were made ; improve- 
 ments in diet and clothing introduced ; the" 
 funds of the school were intrusted to the man- 
 agement of a committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, 
 who, from his wealth and family connections, 
 could not be overlooked, still retained the post 
 of treasurer ; but he was aided in the discharge 
 of his duties by gentlemen of rather more en- 
 larged and sympathizing minds ; his office of 
 .inspector, too, was shared by those who knew 
 how to combine reason with strictness, comfort 
 with economy, compassion with uprightness. 
 The school, thus improved, became in time a 
 truly useful and noble institution. I remained 
 an imnate of its walls, after its regeneration, for 
 eight years — six as pupil, and two as teacher ; 
 and in both capacities I bear my testimony to 
 its value and importance. 
 
 During these eight years my life was uniform : 
 but not unhappy, because it was not inactive. 
 I had the means of aa excellent education placed 
 within my reach ; a fondness for some of my 
 studies and a desire to excel in all, together 
 with a great delight in pleasing my teachers, 
 especially such as I loved, urged me on ; I 
 availed myself fully of the advantages offered 
 me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the 
 first class ; thep I was invested with the ottice 
 of teacher ; which I discharged with zeal for 
 two years : but at the end of that time I altered. 
 
 Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus 
 far continued superintondont of the seminary; 
 to her instruction I out tl the best part of my 
 acquirements ; her friemiship and .-society had 
 been my continual solace ; she hml stood me 
 in the stead of motUw; governess, and, latterly 
 
 i 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 33 
 
 companion, At this period she married, re- 
 moved with her husband (a clergyman, an ex- 
 cellent man, almost worthy of such a wife) to 
 a distant county, and, consequently, was lost 
 to me. 
 
 From the day she left I was no longer the 
 same : with her was gone every settled feeling, 
 every association that had made Lowood in 
 some degree a home to me. I had imbibed from 
 • her something of her nature and much of her 
 habits : more harmonious thoughts ; what 
 seemed better regulated feelings had become 
 the inmates of my mind. I had given in alle- 
 giance to duty and order ; I v.'as quiet ; I be- 
 lieved I was content ; to the eyes of others, 
 usually even to my own, I appeared a disci- 
 plined and subdued character. 
 
 But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Na- 
 smyth, came between me and Miss Temple ; I 
 saw her in her traveling-dress step into a post- 
 chaise, shortly after the marriage ceremony, I 
 watched the chaise mount the hill and disap- 
 pear beyond its brow, and then retired to my 
 own room, and there spent in solitude the 
 greatest part of the half-holyday granted in hon- 
 or of the occasion. 
 
 I walked about the chamber most of the time. 
 I imagined myself only to be regretting my loss 
 and thinking how to repair it ; but when my re- 
 flections were concluded, and I looked up and 
 found that the afternoon was gone, and evening 
 far advanced, another discovery dawned on 
 me ; namely, that in the interval I had under- 
 gone a transforming process ; that my mind 
 had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Tem- 
 ple, or, rather, that she had taken with her the 
 serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her 
 vicinity, and that now I was left in my natural 
 element, and beginning to feel the stirring of 
 old emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were 
 withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone ; 
 it was not the power to he tranquil vs'hich had 
 failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was no 
 more. My world had for some years been in 
 Lowood ; my experience had been of its rules 
 aifd systems ; now I remembered that the real 
 I world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes 
 land fears, of sensations and excitements, 
 iwaited those who had courage to go forth into 
 ?ts expanse to seek real knowledge of life amid 
 its perils. 
 
 I went to my window, opened it, and looked 
 out. There were the two wings of the build- 
 ing ; there was the garden ; there were the 
 skirts of Lov/ood ; there was the hilly horizon. 
 My eye passed all other objects to rest on those 
 most remote, the blue peaks ; it was those I 
 longed to surmount ; all within their boundary 
 of rock and heath seemed prison-ground, exile 
 limits. I traced the white road winding round 
 the base of one mountain, and vanishing in a 
 gorge between two : how I longed to follow it 
 further ! I recalled the time when I had trav- 
 eled that very road in a coach ; I remembered 
 descending that hill at twilight : an age seemed 
 to have elapsed since the day which brought 
 'me first to Lowood ; and I had never quitted it 
 since. My vacations had all been spent at 
 school ; Mrs. Reed had never sent for me to 
 Gateshead ; neither she nor any of her family 
 had ever been to visit me. I had had no com- 
 munication by letter or message with the outer 
 C 
 
 world ; school rules, school duties, school hab- 
 its and notions, and voices, and faces, and phra- 
 ses, and costumes, and preferences, and antip- 
 athies ; such was what I knew of existence. 
 And now I felt that it was not enough. I tired 
 of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. 
 I desired liberty ; for liberty I gasped ; for lib- 
 erty I uttered a prayer ; it seemed scattered on 
 the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it, 
 and framed an humbler supplication ; for change, 
 stimulus ; that petition, too, seemed swept off 
 into vague space. " Then," I cried, half despe- 
 rate, " grant me, at least, a new servitude !" 
 
 Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, call- 
 ed me down stairs. 
 
 I was not free to resume the interrupted 
 chain of my reflections till bed-time ; even then 
 a teacher who occupied the same room with me 
 kept me from the subject to which I longed to 
 recur, by a prolonged effusion of small talk. 
 How I wished sleep would silence her ! It 
 seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea 
 which had last entered my mind as I stood at 
 the window, some inventive suggestion would 
 rise for relief 
 
 Miss Gryce snored at last ; she was a heavy 
 Welshwoman, and till now her habitual nasal 
 strains had never been regarded by me in any 
 other light than as a nuisance ; to-night I hailed 
 the first deep notes with satisfaction ; I was 
 debarrassed of interruption ; my half-effaced 
 thought instantly revived. 
 
 "A new servitude ! There is something in 
 that," I soliloquized (mentally, be it under- 
 stood ; I did not talk aloud). " I know there 
 is, because it does not sound too sweet ; it is 
 not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, 
 Enjoyment : delightful sounds, truly ; but no 
 more than sounds for me ; and so hollow and 
 fleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen 
 to them. But Servitude ) that must be matter 
 of fact. Any one may serve : I have served 
 here eight years ; now all I want is to serve 
 elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own 
 will 1 Is not the thing feasible ] Yes, yes ; 
 the end is not so difficult, if I had only a brain 
 active enough to ferret out the means of at- 
 taining it." 
 
 I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said 
 brain ; it was a chilly night ; I covered my 
 shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded to 
 think again with all my might. 
 
 " What do I want^ A new place, in a new 
 house, among new faces, under new circum- 
 stances; I want this because it is of no use want- 
 ing any thing better. How do people do to get 
 a new place ? They apply to friends, I suppose : 
 I have no friends. There are many others who 
 have no friends, who must look about for them- 
 selves and be their cv.n helpers ; and what is 
 their resourced' 
 
 I could not tell ; nothing answered me ; I 
 then ordered my brain to find a response, and 
 quickly. It worked and worked faster ; I felt 
 the pulses throb in my head and temples ; but 
 for nearly an hour it worked in chaos, and no 
 result came of its efforts. Feverish with vain 
 labor, I got up and took a turn in the room; 
 undrew the curtain, noted a star or two, shiv- 
 ered with cold, and again crept to bed. 
 
 A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely drop 
 ped the required suggestion oa my pillow ; for 
 
34 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 as I lay down it came quietly and naturally to 
 my mind : " Those who want situations adver- 
 tise: you must advertise in the shire 
 
 Herald." 
 
 " Howl I know nothing about advertising." 
 
 Replies rose smooth and prompt now : 
 
 "You must inclose the advertisement and 
 the money to pay for it under a cover directed 
 to the Editor of the Herald ; you must put it, 
 the first opportunity you have, into the post at 
 Lowton ; answers must be addressed to J. E. 
 at the post-office there ; you can go and in- 
 quire in about a week after you send your let- 
 ter, if any are come, and act accordingly." 
 
 This scheme I went over twice, thrice ; it 
 ■was then digested in my mind ; I had it in a 
 clear, practical form ; 1 felt satisfied, and fell 
 asleep. 
 
 With earliest day, I was up. I had my ad- 
 vertisement written, inclosed, and directed be- 
 fore the bell rung to rouse the school ; it ran 
 thus : 
 
 " A young lady accustomed to tuition (had I 
 not been a teacher two years]) is desirous of 
 meeting with a situation in a private family 
 ■where the children are under fourteen (I thought 
 that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do 
 to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my 
 own age). She is qualified to teach the usual 
 branches of a good English education, together 
 with French, drawing, and music (in those days, 
 reader, this, now narrow catalogue of accom- 
 plishments, would have been held tolerably 
 comprehensive). Address J. E., Post-office, 
 Lowton, shire." 
 
 This document remained locked in my draw- 
 er all day ; after tea, I asked leave of the new 
 superintendent to go to Lowton, in order to per- 
 form some small commissions for myself and 
 one or two of my fellow-teachers ; permission 
 was readily granted ; I went. It was a walk 
 of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the 
 days were still long ; I visited a shop or two, 
 slipped the letter into the post-office, and came 
 back through heavy rain, with streaming gar- 
 ments, but with a relieved heart. 
 
 The succeeding week seemed long: it came 
 to an end at last, however, like all sublunary 
 things, and once more, toward the close of a 
 pleasant autumn day, I found myself afoot on 
 the road to Lowton. A picturesque track it 
 was, by the way ; lying along the side of the 
 beck and through the sweetest curves of the 
 dale ; but that day I thought more of the letters, 
 that might or might not be awaiting me at the 
 little burgh whither I was bound, than of the 
 charms of lea and water. 
 
 My ostensible errand on this occasion was to 
 get measured for a pair of shoes; so I dis- 
 charged that business first, and when it was 
 done I stepped across the clean and quiet little 
 street from the shoemaker's to the post-office : 
 it was kept hy an old dame, who wore horn 
 spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on 
 her hands. 
 
 " Are there any letters for J. E. 1" I asked. 
 
 She peered at me over her spectacles, and 
 then she opened a drawer, and fumbled among 
 its contents for a long time ; so long that my 
 hopes began to falter. At last, having held a 
 documoni before her glasses for nearly five 
 minutes, she presented it across the counter. 
 
 accompanying the act by another inquisitive and' 
 mistrustful glance — it was for J. E. 
 
 "Is there only one?" I demanded. 
 
 "There are no more," said she ; and I put 
 it in my pocket and turned my face homeward ; 
 I could not open it then : rules obhged me to be 
 back by eight, and it was already half-past 
 seven. 
 
 Various duties awaited me on my arrival ; I 
 had to sit with the girls during their hour of 
 study ; then it was my turn to read prayers, 
 to see them to bed ; afterward I supped with 
 the other teachers. Even when we finally re- 
 tired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce 
 was still my companion ; we had only a short 
 end of candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded 
 lest she should talk till it was all burned out ; 
 fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had 
 eaten produced a soporific eflTect ; she was al- 
 ready snoring, before I had finished undressing. 
 There still remained an inch of candle; I now 
 took out my letter, the seal was an initial F. ; 
 I broke it, the contents were brief 
 
 "If J. E., who advertised in the shire 
 
 Herald of last Thursday possesses the acquire- 
 ments mentioned, and if she is in a position 
 to give satisfactory references as to character 
 and competency, a situation can be offisred 
 her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, 
 under ten years of age ; and where the salary 
 is thirty pounds per annum. J. E. is request- 
 ed to send references, name, address, and all 
 particulars to the direction ; 
 
 " Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, 
 shire. 
 
 I examined the document long ; the writing 
 was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like 
 that of an elderly lady. This circumstance 
 was satisfactory ; a private fear had haunted 
 me that, in thus acting for myself and by ray 
 own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into 
 some scrape ; and, above all things, I wished 
 the result of my endeavors to be respectable, 
 proper, en regie. J now felt that an elderly lady 
 was no bad ingredient in the business I had on 
 hand. Mrs. Fairfax ! I saw her in a black 
 gown and widow's cap ; frigid, perhaps, but 
 not uncivil; a model of elderly English re-^ 
 spectability. Thornfield ! that, doubtless, was " 
 the name of her house, a neat, orderly spot, I 
 was sure ; though I failed in my effiaris to con- 
 ceive a correct plan of the premises. Mill- 
 cote, shire ; I brushed up my recollections 
 
 of the map of England ; yes, I saw it, both the 
 
 shire and the town. shire was seventy 
 
 miles nearer London than the remote county 
 where I now resided ; that was a recommend- 
 ation to me. I longed to go where there was 
 life and movement ; Mdlcote was a large man- 
 ufacturing town on the banks of the A ; a 
 
 busy place enoug; , doubtless; so much the 
 better, it would bt a complete change at least. 
 Not that my fancy ..as much captivated by 
 the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke, 
 "but," I argued, "Thornfield will, probably, be 
 a good way from the town." 
 
 Here the socket of the candle dropped, and 
 the wick went out. 
 
 Next day new steps were to be taken ; my 
 plans could no longer be confined to my own 
 breast ; I must impart them in order to achieve 
 their success. Having sought and obtained 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 35 
 
 an audience of the superintendent, during the 
 noontide recreation, I told her I had a prospect 
 of getting- a new situation, where the salary 
 would be double what 1 now received (for at 
 Lowood I only got £15 per annum); and re- 
 quested she would break the matter for me to 
 Mr. Brocklehurst or some of the committee, 
 and ascertain whether they would permit me to 
 mention them as references. She obligingly 
 consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. 
 The next day she laid the affair before Mr. 
 Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must 
 be written to, as she was my natural guardian. 
 A note was accordingly addressed to that lady, 
 who returned for answer, that " I might do as I 
 pleased ; she had long relinquished all inter- 
 ference in my affairs." This note went the 
 round of the committee, and, at last, after what 
 appeared to me most tedious delay, formal leave 
 was given me to better my condition if I could ; 
 and an assurance added, that, as I had always 
 conducted myself well, both as teacher and 
 pupil, at Lowood, a testimonial of character 
 and capacity, signed by the inspectors of that 
 institution, should forthwith be furnisl-ed me. 
 
 This testimonial I accordingly received in 
 about a week ; forwarded a copy of it to Mrs. 
 Fairfax, and got that lady's reply, stating that 
 she was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight 
 as the period for my assuming the post of gov- 
 erness in her house. 
 
 I now busied myself in preparations ; the 
 fortnight pas^d rapidly. I had not a very large 
 wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants ; 
 and the last day sufficed to pack my trunk, th-e 
 same I had brought with me eight years ago 
 from Gateshead. 
 
 The box was corded, the card nailed on. In 
 half an hour the carrier was to call for it to 
 take it to Lowton ; whither I myself was to 
 repair at an early hour the next morning to 
 meet the coach. I had brushed my black stuff 
 traveling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, 
 and muff; sought in all my drawers to see that 
 no article was left behind ; and now, having 
 nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to 
 rest. I could not ; though I had been on foot 
 all day, I could not now repose an instant ; I 
 was too much excited. A phase of my life 
 was closing to-night, a new one opening to- 
 morrow ; impossible to slumber in the interval, 
 I must watch feverishly while the change was 
 being accomplished. 
 
 " Miss," said a servant, who met me in the 
 lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled 
 spirit, " a person below wishes to see you." 
 
 "The carrier, no doubt," I thought, and ran 
 down stairs without inquiry. I was passing 
 the back parlor, or teacher's sitting-room, the 
 door of which was half open, to go to the 
 kitchen, when some one ran out : 
 
 '• It's her, I am sure ! I could have told her 
 any where !" cried the individual, who slopped 
 my progress and took my hand. 
 
 I looked ; I saw a woman attired like a well- 
 dressed servant, matronly, yet still young ; 
 very good looking, with black hair and eyes, 
 and lively complexion. 
 
 "Well, who is it!" she asked in a voice and, 
 with a smile I half recognized ; '• you've not 
 quite forgotten mc, I think, Miss Jane?" 
 
 In another second I was embracing and kiss- 
 
 ing her rapturously, "Bessie! Bessie! Bessie !" 
 that was all I said ; whereat she half laughed, 
 half cried, and we both went into the parlor. 
 By the fire stood a'little fellow three years old, 
 in plaid frock and trowsers. 
 
 " That is my little boy," said Bessie, directly. 
 
 "Then you are married, Bessie 1" 
 
 " Yes ; nearly five years since, to Robert 
 Leaven, the coachman ; and I've a little girl 
 besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane." 
 
 " And you don't live at Gateshead!" 
 
 "I live at the Lodge; the old porter has 
 left." 
 
 " Well, and how do they all get on ! Tell 
 me every thing about them, Bessie ; but sit 
 down first ; and, Bobby, come and sit on my 
 knee, will you!" but Bobby preferred sidling 
 over to his mother. 
 
 " You're not grown so very tall. Miss Jane, 
 nor so very stout," continued Mrs. Leaven. 
 " I dare say they've not kept you too well at 
 school ; Miss Reed is the head and shoulders 
 taller than you are, and Miss Georgiana would 
 make two of you in breadth." 
 
 " Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?" 
 
 " Very. She went up to London last win- 
 ter with her mamma, and there every body ad- 
 mired her, and a young lord fell in love wit i 
 her, but his relations were against the matct ; 
 and — what do you think! he and Miss Georgi- 
 ana made it up to run away, but they were 
 found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that 
 found them out ; I believe she was envious, 
 and now she and her sister lead a cat-and-dog 
 life together; they are always quarreling." 
 
 " Well, and what of John Reed V 
 
 " Oh, he is not doing so well as his mamma 
 could wish. He went to college, and he got — 
 plucked, I think they call it ; and then his un- 
 cles wanted him to be a barrister, and study 
 the law ; but, he is such a dissipated young man, 
 they will never make much of him, I think." 
 
 " What does he look like!" 
 
 " He is very tall ; some people call him a 
 fine-looking young man ; but he has such thick 
 lips." 
 
 "And Mrs. Reed!" 
 
 " Missis looks stout and well enough in the 
 face, but I think she's not quite easy in her 
 mind : Mr. John's conduct does not please her: 
 he spends a deal of money." 
 
 " Did she send you here, Bessie !" 
 
 " No, indeed ; but I have long wanted to see 
 you, and when I heard that there had been a 
 letter from you, and that you were going to an- 
 other part of the country, I thought I'd just set 
 off and get a look at you before you were quite 
 outof my reach." ' 
 
 " I am afraid you are disappointed in me, 
 Bessie." I said this laughing ; I perceived 
 that Bessie's glance, though it expressed re- 
 gard, dia in no shape denote admiration. 
 
 " No, Miss Jane, not exactly : you are gen- 
 teel enough ; you look like a lady, and it is as 
 much as ever I expected of you : you were no 
 beauty as a child." 
 
 I smiled at Bessie's frank answer ; I felt that 
 it was correct, but I confess I was not quite in- 
 different to its import. At eighteen most people 
 wish to please, and the conviction that they 
 have not an exterior likely to second that de- 
 sire brings any thing but gratification. 
 
'36 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " I dare say you are clever, though," contin- 
 ued Bessie, by way of solace " What can you 
 do 1 Can you play on the piano 1" 
 
 " A little." 
 
 There was one in the room ; Bessie went 
 and opened it, and then asked me to sit down 
 and give her a tune : I played a waltz or two 
 and she was charmed. 
 
 " The Miss Reeds could not play as well !" 
 Bald she, exultingly. " I always said you 
 would surpass them in learning ; and can you 
 drawl". 
 
 " That is one of my paintings over the chim- 
 ney-piece." It was a landscape in water-col- 
 ors, of which I had made a present to the su- 
 perintendent in acknowledgment of her obliging 
 mediation with the committee on my behalf ; 
 and which she had had framed and glazed. 
 
 " Well, that is beautiful. Miss Jane I It is as 
 fine a picture as any Miss Reed's drawing-mas- 
 ter could paint, let alone the young ladies 
 themselves, who could not come near it ; and 
 have you learned French 1" 
 
 " Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak 
 it." 
 
 " And you can work on muslin and canvas 1" 
 
 "lean." 
 
 " Oh, you are quite a lady. Miss Jane I I 
 knew you would be ; you will get on whether 
 your relations notice you or not. There was 
 something I wanted to ask you — have you ever 
 heard any thing from your father's kinsfolk, the 
 Eyres 1" 
 
 " Never in my life." 
 
 " Well, you know missis always said they 
 were poor and quite despicable ; and they may 
 be poor, but I believe they are as much gentry 
 as the Reeds are ; for one day, nearly seven 
 years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead, and 
 wanted 'to see you. Missis said you were at 
 school fifty miles off; he seemed so much dis- 
 appointed, for he could not s,tay — he was going 
 on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship 
 was to sail from London in a day or two. He 
 looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was 
 your father's brother." 
 
 " What foreign country was he going to, Bes- 
 sie"!" 
 
 " An island thousands of miles off, where 
 they make wine — the butler did tell me — " 
 
 " Madeira 1" 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 afterward a 'sneaking tradesman.' 
 My Robert believes he was a wine-mer- 
 chant." 
 
 " Very likely," I returned ; " or perhaps clerk 
 or agent to a wine-merchant." 
 
 Bessie and I conversed about old times an 
 hour longer, and then she was obliged to leave 
 H[ie. I saw her again for a few minutes the 
 next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting 
 for the coach. We parted finally at the door 
 of the Brocklehurst Arms there ; each went 
 her separate way — she set off for the brow of 
 Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which 
 was to take her back to Gateshead, I mounted 
 the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties 
 and a new life in the unknown environs of 
 Miflcote. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A NEW chapter in a novel is something like a 
 new scene in a play ; and when I draw up the 
 curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you 
 see a room in the George Inn at Millcote, with 
 such large-figured papering on the walls as inn 
 rooms have ; such a carpet, such furniture, such 
 ornaments on the mantle-piece, such prints, in- 
 cluding a portrait of George the Third, and an- 
 other of the Prince of Wales, and a representa- 
 tion of the death of Wolfe. All this is' visible 
 to you by the light of an oil-lamp hanging from 
 the ceihng, and by that of an excellent fire, near 
 which I sit in my cloak and bonnet ; my muff 
 and umbrella lie on the table, and I am warm- 
 ing away the numbness and chill contracted by 
 sixteen hours' exposure to the rawness of an 
 October day. I left Lowton at four o'clock 
 P.M., and the Millcote town-clock is now just 
 striking eight. 
 
 Reader, though I look comfortably accommo- 
 dated, I am not very tranquil in my mind ; I 
 thought when the coach stopped here there 
 would be some one to meet me ; I looked anx- 
 iously round as I descended the wooden steps 
 the "boots" placed for my convenience, ex- 
 pecting to hear my name pronounced and to 
 see some description of carriage waiting to 
 convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort 
 was visible ; and -when I asked a waiter if any 
 one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was 
 answered in the negative ; so I had no resource 
 but to request to be shown into a private room ; 
 and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts 
 and fears are troubling my thoughts. 
 
 It is a very strange sensation to inexperi- 
 enced youth to feel itself quite alone in the 
 world ; cut adrift from every connection, un- 
 certain whether the port to which it is bound 
 can be reached, and prevented by many imped- 
 iments from returning to that it has quitted. 
 The charm of adventure sweetens that sensa- 
 tion, the glow of pride warms it ; but then the 
 throb of fear disturbs it ; and fear with me be- 
 came predominant when half an hour elapsed 
 and still I was alone. I bethought myself to 
 ring the bell. 
 
 " Is there a place in this neighborhood called 
 Thornfield?" I asked of the waiter who answer 
 ed the summons. 
 
 " Thornfield ? don't know, ma'am ; I'll inquire 
 at the bar." He vanished, but reappeared in- 
 stantly. 
 
 "Is your name Eyre, miss?'' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Person here waiting for you." 
 
 " I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, 
 and hastened into the inn passage ; a man was 
 standing by the open door, and in the lamp- 
 lighted street, I dimly saw a one-horse convey- 
 ance." 
 
 " This will be your luggage, I suppose I" said 
 the man, rather abruptly, when he saw me, 
 pointing to my trunk in the passage. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a 
 sort of car, and then I got in ; before he shut 
 me up, I asked him how far it was to Thorn- 
 field. 
 
 " A matter of six miles." 
 
 " How long shall we be before we get there 1" 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 37 
 
 " Happen an hour and a half." 
 
 He fastened the car door, chmbed to his own 
 seat outside, and we set off. Our progress was 
 leisurely, and gave me ample time to reflect ; I 
 was content to be at length so near the end of 
 my journey ; and as I leaned back in the com- 
 fortable though not elegant conveyance, I med- 
 itated much at my ease. 
 
 "I suppose," thought I, "judging from the 
 plainness of the servant and carriage, Mrs. 
 Fairfax is not a very dashing person ; so much 
 the better ; I never lived among fine people but 
 once, and I was very miserable with them. I 
 wonder if she lives alone except this little girl ; 
 if so, and if she is in any degree amiable, I shall 
 surely be able to get on with her ; I will do my 
 best — it is a pity that doing one's best does not 
 always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took 
 that resolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleas- 
 ing ; but with Mrs. Reed I remember my best 
 was always spurned with scorn. I pray God 
 Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. 
 Reed ; but if she does, I am not bound to stay 
 with her ; let the worst come to the worst, I 
 can advertise again. How far are we on our 
 load now, I wonder 1" 
 
 I let down the window and looked out. Mill- 
 cote was behind us ; judging by the number of 
 its lights, it seemed a place of considerable 
 magnitude — much larger than Lowton. We 
 were now, as far as I could see, on a sort of 
 common ; but there were houses scattered all 
 over the district. I felt we were in a different 
 region to Lowood — more populous, less pictu- 
 resque ; more stirring, less romantic. 
 
 The roads were heavy, the night misty ; my 
 conductor let his horse walk all the way, and 
 the hour and a half extended, I verily believe, 
 to two hours ; at last he turned in his seat and 
 said : 
 
 " You're noan so far fro' Thornfield now." 
 
 Again 1 looked out — we were passing a 
 church ; I saw its low, broad tower against the 
 sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter ; I saw a 
 narrow galaxy of lights, too, on a hillside, 
 marking a village or hamlet. About ten min- 
 utes after, the driver got down and opened a 
 pair of gates ; we passed through, and they 
 clashed to behind us. We now slowly ascend- 
 ed a drive, and came upon the long front of a 
 house ; candle-light gleamed from one curtained 
 bow-window — all the rest were dark. The car 
 stopped at the front door ; it was opened by a 
 maid-servant ; I alighted and went in. 
 
 "Will you walk this way, ma'am 1" said the 
 girl ; and I followed her across a square hall 
 with high doors all round ; she ushered me into 
 a room, whose doulile illumination of fire and 
 candle at first dazzled me, contrasting as it did 
 with the darkness to which my eyes had been 
 for two hours inured ; wlien I could see, how- 
 ever, a cozy and agreeable picture presented 
 itself to my view. 
 
 A snug, small room ; a round table by a 
 cheerful tire ; an arm-chair, high-backed and 
 ,old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imagina- 
 ble little elderly lady, in widow's cap, black silk 
 gown, and snowy muslin apron — exactly like 
 what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less 
 stately and milder-looking. She was occupied 
 in knitting ; a large cat sat demurely at her 
 feet ; nothing, in short, was wanting to conipJete 
 
 the beau ideal of domestic comfort. A more re- 
 assuring introduction for a new governess could 
 scarcely be conceived ; there was no grandeur 
 to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass ; and 
 then, as I entered, the old lady got up and,^ 
 promptly and kindly came forward to meet me. , 
 
 "How do you do, my dear! I am afraid 
 you have had a tedious ride, John drives so 
 slowly ; you must be cold — come to the fire." 
 
 "Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose 1" said I. 
 
 " Yes, you are right ; do sit down." 
 
 She conducted me to her own chair, and 
 then began to remove my shawl and untie my 
 bonnet-strings ; I begged she would not give 
 herself so much trouble. 
 
 " Oh, it is no tronble ; I dare say your own 
 hands are almost numbed with cold. Leah, 
 make a little hot negus, and cut a sandwich or 
 two ; here are the keys of the store-room." 
 
 And she produced from her pocket a most 
 housewifely bunch of keys, and delivered them 
 to the servant. 
 
 " Now, then, draw nearer to the fire," she 
 continued. " You've brought your luggage 
 with you, haven't you, my dearl" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " I'll see it carried into your room," she said, 
 and bustled out. 
 
 " She treats me like a visitor," thought L 
 " I little expected such a reception ; I antici- 
 pated only coldness and stiffness ; this is not 
 like what I have heard of the treatment of gov- 
 ernesses ; but I must not exult too soon." 
 
 She returned ; with her own hands cleared 
 her knitting apparatus and a book or two from 
 the table, to make room for the tray which 
 Leah now brought, and then herself handed me 
 the refreshments. I felt rather confused at 
 being the object of more attention than I had.^ 
 ever J^efore received, and that, too, shown by( 
 my employer and superior ; but as she did not 
 herself seem to consider she was doing any 
 thing out of her place, I thought it better to 
 take her civilities quietly. 
 
 " Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss 
 Fairfax to-night 1" I asked, when I had partak- 
 en 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 1 Oh, you mean Miss Var- 
 ens ! Yarens is the name of your future pupil.'* 
 
 " Indeed 1 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 Yarens was con- 
 nected with her; but I recollected it was not 
 polite to ask too many questions ; besides, I 
 was sure to hear in time. 
 
 " I am so glad," she continued, as she sat 
 down opposite to me, and took the cat on her 
 knee, " I am so glad you are come ; it will be 
 quite pleasant living here now with a compan- 
 ion. To be sure it is pleasant at any time j 
 for Thornfield is a fine old hall, father neglect- 
 ed of late years, perhaps, but still it is a respect- 
 able place : yet, you know, in winter time, one 
 feels dreary quite alone, in the best quarters. I 
 say alone — Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and 
 John and his wife are very decent people ; but 
 then, you see, they are only servants, and one 
 
38 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 can't converse with thcin on terms of equality; 
 one must keep them at due distance, for fear of 
 losing one's authority. I'm sure last winter (it 
 was a severe one, if you recollect, and when it 
 did not snow, it rained and blew), not a creature 
 but the butcher and postman came to the house, 
 from November till February ; and I really got 
 quite melancholy with sitting night after night 
 alone ; I had Leah in to read to me some- 
 times ; but I don't think the poor girl liked the 
 task much ; she felt it confining. In spring 
 and summer one got on better ; sunshine and 
 long days make such a difference ; and then 
 just at the commencement of this autumn, lit- 
 tle Adela Varens came and her nurse : a child 
 makes a house alive all at once ; and now you 
 are here I shall be quite gay." 
 
 My heart really warmed to the worthy lady 
 as I heard her talk ; and I drew my chair a 
 little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere 
 ■wish that she might find my company as agree- 
 able as she anticipated. 
 
 " But I'll not keep you silting up late to- 
 night," said she ; " it is on the stroke of twelve 
 now, and you have been traveling all day : you 
 must feel tired. If you have got your feet well 
 "warmed I'll show you your bedroom. I've 
 had the room next to mine prepared for you ; 
 at is only a small apartment, but I thought you 
 "would like it better than one of the large front 
 chambers ; to be sure they have finer furniture, 
 but they are so dreary and solitary, I never 
 sleep in them myself." 
 
 I thanked her for her considerate choice, and 
 as I really felt fatigued with my long journey, 
 expressed my readiness to retire. She took 
 her candle, and 1 followed her from the room. 
 First she went to see if the hall-door was fast- 
 ened ; having taken the key from the lock, she 
 led the way up stairs. The steps and banis- 
 ters were of oak ; the stair-case window was 
 high and latticed : both it, and the long gallery 
 into which the bedroom doors opened, looked 
 as.if they belonged to a church rather than a 
 house. A very chill and vault-like air pervaded 
 the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless 
 ideas of space and solitude ; and I was glad 
 when finally ushered into my chamber, to find 
 it of small dimensions and furnished in ordi- 
 nary modern style. 
 
 When Mrs. Fairfax had bid me a kind good- 
 night, and I had fastened my door, gazed leis- 
 •urcly round, and in some measure effaced the 
 eerie impression made by that wide hall, that 
 dark and spacious stair-case, and that long, 
 cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little 
 Toom, I remembered that after a day of bodily 
 fatigue and mental anxiety, I was now at last 
 in safe haven. The impulse of gratitude swell- 
 ed my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside 
 and offered up thanks where thanks were due ; 
 not forgetting, ere I rose, to implore aid on my 
 further path, and the power of me/iting the 
 kindness which seemed so frankly offered me 
 before it was earned. My couch had no thorns 
 in it that night ; my solitary room no fears. At 
 once weary and content, I slept soon and 
 soundly ; when I awoke it was broad day. 
 
 The chamber looked such a bright little 
 ]ilace to me as the sun shone in between the 
 gay blue chintz window-curtains, showing pa- 
 pered walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the 
 
 bare planks and staineo plaster of Lowood, 
 that my spirits rose at the view. Externals 
 have a great effect on the young ; I thought 
 that a fairer era of life was beginning for me — 
 one that was to have its flowers and pleasures, 
 as well as its thorns and toils. My faculties, 
 roused by the change of scene, the new field 
 offered to hope, seemed all astir. I can not 
 precisely define what they expected, but it 
 was something pleasant : not perhaps that day 
 or that month, but at an indefinite future pe- 
 riod. 
 
 I rose ; I dressed myself with care : obliged 
 to be plain — for I had no article of attire that 
 was not made with extreme simplicity — I was 
 still by nature solicitous to be neat. It was not 
 my habit to be disregardful of appearance, or 
 careless of the impression I made ; on the con- 
 trary, I ever wished to look as well as I could, 
 and to please as much as my want of beauty 
 would permit. I sometimes regretted that I 
 was not handsomer : I sometimes wished to 
 have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and small 
 cherry mouth ; I desired to be tall, stately, and 
 finely developed in figure ; 1 felt it a misfortune 
 that I was so little, so pale, and had features 
 so irregular and marked. And why had I these 
 aspirations and these regrets'! It would be 
 difficult to say : I could not then distinctly say 
 it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, 
 natural reason too. However, when I had 
 brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my 
 black frock — which, Quaker-like as it was, at 
 least had the merit of fitting to a nicety — and 
 adjusted my clean white tucker,* I thought I 
 should do respectably enough to appear before 
 Mrs. Fairfax ; and that my new pupil would 
 not at least recoil from me with antipathy. 
 Having opened my chamber window, and seen 
 that I left all things straight and neat on the 
 toilet-table, I ventured forth. 
 
 Traversing the long and matted gallery, I 
 descended the slippery steps of oak ; then I 
 gained the hall ; I halted there a minute ; I 
 looked at some pictures on the walls (one I re- 
 member represented a grim man in a cuirass, 
 and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl 
 necklace) ; at a bronze lamp pendent on the 
 ceiling, at a great clock whose case was of 
 oak, curiously carved, and ebon black with 
 time and rubbing. Every thing appeared very 
 stately and imposing to me ; but then I was so 
 little accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door, 
 which was half of glass, stood open ; I stepped 
 over the threshold. It was a fine autumn 
 morning ; the early -sun shone serenely on 
 embrowned groves and still green fields ; ad- 
 vancing on to the lawn, I looked up, and sur- 
 veyed the front of the mansion. It was three 
 stories high, of proportions not vast, though 
 considerable ; a gentleman's manor-house, not 
 a nobleman's seat ; battlements around the top 
 gave it a picturesque look. Its gray front 
 stood out well from the back ground of a rook- 
 ery, whose cawing tenants were now on the 
 wing ; they flew over the lawn and grounds to 
 alight in a great meadow, from which these 
 were separated by a sunk fence, and where an 
 array of mighty old thorn-trees, strong, knotty, 
 and broad as oaks at once explained the ety- 
 mology of the mansion's designation Farther 
 off were hills ; not so lofty as those round 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 39 
 
 Lowood, nor so craggy, nor so like barriers of 
 separation from the living world ; but yet, 
 quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming 
 to embrace Thornlield witli ;i seclusion I had 
 not expected to find existent so near the stir- 
 ring locality of Millcote. A little hamlet whose 
 roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the 
 side of one of these hills ; the church of the 
 district stood nearer Thornfield : its old tower- 
 top looked over a knoll between the house and 
 gates. 
 
 I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and 
 1 pleasant fresh air, yet listening with delight to 
 the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the 
 wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking 
 what a great place it was for one lonely little 
 dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that 
 lady appeared at the door. 
 
 "What ! out already 1" said she. "I see 
 you are an early riser." I went up to her, and 
 was received with an affable kiss and shake of 
 the hand. 
 
 "How do you like Thornfield'!" she asked. 
 I told her I liked it very much. 
 
 "Yes," she said, " it is a pretty place ; but 
 I fear it will be getting out of order, unless 
 Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to 
 come and reside here permanently ; or, at 
 least, visit it rather oftener ; great houses and 
 fine grounds require the presence of the pro- 
 prietor." 
 
 "Mr. Rochester!" I exclaimed. "Who is 
 her' 
 
 " The owner of Thornfield," she responded 
 quietly. " Did you not know he was called 
 Rochester"' 
 
 Of course I did not — I had never heard of 
 him before ; but the old lady seemed to regard 
 his existence as a universally understood fact, 
 with which every body must be acquainted by 
 instinct. 
 
 " I thought," I continued, " Thornfield be- 
 longed to you." 
 
 " To me ! Bless you, child ! what an idea ! 
 To me 1 I am only the housekeeper — the 
 manager. To be sure, I am distantly related 
 to the Rochesters by the mother's side ; or, at 
 least, my husband was ; he was a clergyman, 
 incumbent of Hay — that little village yonder 
 on the hill — and that church near the gates 
 was his. The present Mr. Rochester's mother 
 was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my hus- 
 band ; but I never presume on the connection 
 — in fact, it is nothing to me ; I consider my- 
 self quite in the light of an ordinary house- 
 keeper : my employer is always civil, and I 
 expect nothing more." 
 
 " And the little girl — my pupil 1" 
 
 " She is Mr. Rochester's ward ; he commis- 
 sioned me to find a governess for her. He in- 
 tends to have her brought up in shire, I 
 
 believe. Here she comes with her ♦ bonne,' as 
 she calls her nurse." The enigma then was 
 explained : this affable and kind little widow 
 was no great dame, but a dependent like my- 
 ' self. I did not like her the worse for that ; on 
 the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever. 
 The equality between her and me was real ; 
 jiot the mere result of condescension on her 
 part ; so much the better — my position was all 
 the freer. 
 
 As I was meditating on this discovery, a 
 
 little girl, followed by her attendant, came run- 
 ning up the lawn. I looked at my pupil, who 
 did not, at first appear to notice me ; she was 
 quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, 
 slightly built, with a pale, small-featured face, 
 and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her 
 waist. 
 
 "Good morning, Miss Adela," said Mrs. 
 Fairfax. " Come and speak to the lady who is 
 to teach you, and to make you a clever womaa 
 some day." She approached. 
 
 " C'est la ma gouvernante V said she, point- 
 ing to me, and addressing her nurse, who an- 
 swered ; ' 
 
 "Mais oui, certainement." 
 
 "Are they foreigners?" I inquired, amazed 
 at hearing the French language. 
 
 " The nurse is a' foreigner, and Adela was 
 born on the continent ; and, I believe, never 
 left it till within six months ago. When she 
 first came here she could speak no English; 
 now she can make shift to talk it a little ; I 
 don't understand her, she mixes it so with 
 French; but you will make out her meaning 
 very well, I dare say." 
 
 Fortunately 1 had had the advantage of be- 
 ing taught French by a French lady ; and as I 
 had always made a point of conversing with 
 Madame Pierrot, as often as I could, and had, 
 besides, during the last seven years, learned a 
 portion of French by heart daily — applying my- 
 self to take pains with my accent, and imitat- 
 ing as closely as possible the pronunciation of 
 my teacher — I had acquired a certain degree 
 of readiness and correctness in the language, 
 and was not likely to be much at a loss with 
 Mademoiselle Adela. She came and shook 
 hands with me when she heard that I was her 
 governess ; and as I led her into breakfast, I 
 addressed some phrases to her in her owa 
 tongue ; she replied briefly at first, but after 
 we were seated at the table, and she had ex- 
 amined me some ten minutes with her large 
 hazel eyes, she suddenly commenced chattering 
 fluently. 
 
 " Ah !" cried she in French, " you speak my 
 language as well as Mr. Rochester does ; Icaa 
 talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie. 
 She will be glad ; nobody here understands 
 her ; Madame Fairfax is all English. Sophie 
 is my nurse ; she came with me over the sea 
 in a great ship with a chimney that smoked — 
 how it did smoke — and I was sick, and so was 
 Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr. Roch- 
 ester lay down on a sofa in a pretty room 
 called the salon, and Sophier and I had little 
 beds in another place. I nearly fell out of 
 mine ; it was like a shelf And, Mademoiselle 
 what is your name V 
 
 " Eyre — Jane Eyre." 
 
 "Aire! Bah! I can not say it. Well; our 
 ship stopped in the morning, before it was 
 quite daylight, at a great city — a huge city, 
 with very dark houses and all smoky ; not at 
 all like the pretty, clean town I came from ; 
 and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over 
 a plank to the land, and Sophie came after, 
 and we all got into a coach, which took us to a 
 beautiful large house, larger than this and finer, 
 called an hotel. We stayed there nearly a week; 
 I and Sophie used to walk every day in a great 
 green place full of trees, called the park ; and 
 
40 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 there were many children there besides me, 
 and a pond with beautiful birds in it, that I fed 
 with crumbs." 
 
 " Can you understand her when she runs on 
 so fasti" asked Mrs. Fairfax. 
 
 I understood her very well, for I had been 
 accustomed to the fluent tongue of Madame 
 Pierrot. 
 
 " I wish," continued the good lady, " you 
 would ask her a question or two about her 
 parents ; I wonder if she remembers them V 
 
 " Adeie," I inquired, " with whom did you 
 live when you were in that pretty, clean town 
 you spoke of!" 
 
 " I lived long ago with mamma ; but she is 
 gone to the Holy Virgin. Mamma used to 
 teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. 
 A great many gentlemen and ladies came to 
 see mamma, and I used to dance before them, 
 or to sit on their knees and sing to them ; f 
 liked it. Shall I let you hear me sing now V 
 
 She had finished her breakfast, so I permit- 
 ted her to give a specimen of her accomplish- 
 ments. Descending from her chair, she came 
 and placed herself on my knee ; then, folding 
 her little hands demurely before her, shaking 
 back her curls and lifting her eyes to the ceil- 
 ing, she commenced singing a song from some 
 opera. It was the strain of a forsaken lady, 
 who, after bewailing the perfidy of her lover, 
 calls pride to her aid ; desires her attendant to 
 deck her in her brightest jewels and richest 
 TObes, and resolves to meet the false one that 
 night at a ball, and prove to him, by the gayety 
 of her demeanor, how little his desertion has 
 affected her. 
 
 The subject seemed strangely chosen for an 
 infant singer ; but I suppose the point of the 
 exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and 
 jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood ; 
 and in very bad taste that point was ; at least, 
 I thought so. 
 
 Adele sang the canzonet tunefully enough, 
 and with the naivete of her age. This achiev- 
 ed, she jumped from my knee, and said, 
 *'Now, mademoiselle, I will repeat you some 
 poetry." 
 
 Assuming an attitude, she began " La Ligue 
 des Rats; fable de La Fontaine." She then 
 declaimed the little piece, with an attention to 
 punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice, 
 and an appropriateness of gesture, very unusual, 
 indeed, at her age, and which proved she had 
 been carefully trained. 
 
 " Was it your mamma who taught you that 
 piece"!" I asked. 
 
 " Yes, and she just used to say it in this way : 
 ' Qu'avez vous done "! lui dit un de ces rats ; 
 parlez !' She made me lift my hand — so — to 
 remind me to raise my voice at the question. 
 Now, shall I dance for you1" 
 
 " No, that will jjo ; but after your mamma 
 went to the Holy Virgin, as you say, with whom 
 did you live thenl" 
 
 " With Madame Frederic and her husband ; 
 she took care of me, but she is nothing related 
 to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so 
 fine a house as mamma. I was not long there. 
 Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go 
 and live witli him in England, and I said yes ; 
 for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Ma- 
 dame Frederic, and he was always kind to me 
 
 and gave me pretty dresses and toys ; but yoa 
 see he has not kept his word, for he has brought 
 me to England, and now he has gone back again 
 himself, and I never see him." 
 
 After breakfast, Adele and I withdrew to the 
 library, which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester 
 had directed should be used as the school-room. 
 Most of the books were locked up behind glass 
 doors ; but there was one book-case left opea,' 
 containing every thing that could be needed m 
 the way of elementary works, and several vol- 
 umes of light literature, poetry, biography, traT- 
 els, a few romances, &c. I suppose he had 
 considered that these were all the governess 
 would require for her private perusal ; and, in- 
 deed, they contented me amply for the present ; 
 compared with the scanty pickings I had now 
 and then been able to glean at Lowood, they 
 seemed to offer an abundant harvest of enter- 
 tainment and information. In this room, too, 
 there was a cabinet-piano, quite new, and of 
 superior tone ; also, an easel for painting, and 
 a pair of globes. 
 
 I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though 
 disinclined to apply ; she had not been used to 
 regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would 
 be injudicious to confine her too much at first ; 
 so, when I had talked to her a great deal, and 
 got her to learn a little, and when the morning 
 had advanced to noon, I allowed her to return 
 to her nurse. I then proposed to occupy ray- 
 self till dinner-time in drawing some little 
 sketches for her use. 
 
 As I was going up stairs to fetch my port 
 folio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax called to me . 
 " Your morning school-hours are over now, I 
 suppose," said she. Sh»j was in a room, the 
 folding-doors of which stood open. I went in 
 when she addressed me. It was a large, state- 
 ly apartment, with purple chairs and curtains, a 
 Turkey carpet, walnut-paneled walls, one vast 
 window rich in stained glass, and a lofty ceiling 
 nobly molded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some 
 vases of fine purple spar, which stood on a side- 
 board. 
 
 " What a beautiful room !" I exclaimed, as I 
 looked round ; for I had never before seen any 
 half so imposing. 
 
 " Yes, this is the dining-room. I have just 
 opened the window to let in a little air and sun- 
 shine, for every thing gets so damp in apart- 
 ments that are seldom inhabited ; the drawing- 
 room, yonder, feels like a vault." 
 
 She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to 
 the window, and hung, like it, with a Tyrian- 
 dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it 
 by two broad steps and looking through, I 
 thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy place — 
 so bright to my novice-eyes appeared tlie view- 
 beyond. Yet it was merely a very pretty draw- 
 ing-room, and within it a boudoir, both spread 
 with white carpets, on which seemed laid brill- 
 iant garlands of flowers ; both ceiled witb 
 snowy moldings of white grapes and vine- 
 leaves, beneath which glowed, in rich contrast, 
 crimson couches and ottomans ; while the or- 
 naments on the pale Parian mantle-piece were 
 of "sparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red ; and 
 between the windows large mirrors repeated 
 the general blending of snow and fire. 
 
 "In what order you keep these rooms, Mra.- 
 Fairfax !" said I. "No dust, no canvas cot- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 41 
 
 erings ; except that the air feels chilly, one 
 would think they were inhabited daily." 
 
 " Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester's 
 visits here are rare, they are always sudden 
 and unexpected ; and as I observed that it put 
 him out to find every thing swathed up, and to 
 have a bustle of arrangement on his arrival, I 
 thought it best to keep the rooms in readiness." 
 
 " Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious 
 sort of man?" 
 
 "Not particularly so; but he has a gentle- 
 man's tastes and habits, and he expects to have 
 things managed in conformity to them." 
 
 " Do you like him 1 Is he generally liked ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; the family have always been re- 
 spected here. Almost all the land in this neigh- 
 borhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to 
 the Rochesters time out of mind." 
 
 " Well, but, leaving his land out of the ques- 
 tion, do you like him ? Is he liked for him- 
 self?" 
 
 " / have no cause to do otherwise than like 
 him ; and I believe he is considered a just and 
 liberal landlord by his tenants, but he has never 
 lived much among them." 
 
 " But has he no peculiarities 1 What, in 
 short, is his character?" 
 
 " Oh ! his character is unimpeachable, I 
 suppose. He is rather peculiar, perhaps. He 
 has traveled a great deal, and seen a great deal 
 of the world, I should think. I dare say he is 
 clever, but I never had much conversation with 
 him." 
 
 "In what way is he neculiar?" 
 
 "I don't know— it is not easy to describe — 
 nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks 
 to you ; you can not be always sure whether he 
 is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or 
 the contrary ; you don't thoroughly understand 
 him — in short, at least, I don't ; but it is of no 
 consequence, he is a very good master." 
 
 This was all the account I got from Mrs. 
 Fairfax of her employer and mine. There are 
 people who seem to have no notion of sketch- 
 ing a character, or observing and describing 
 salient points, either in persons or things ; the 
 good lady evidently belonged to this class ; my 
 queries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. 
 Rochester was Mr. Rochester in her eyes — a 
 gentleman — a landed proprietor — nothing more. 
 She inquired and searched no farther, and evi- 
 dently wondered at my wish to gain a more 
 definite notion of his identity. 
 
 When we left the dining-room, she proposed 
 to show me over the rest of the house ; and I 
 followed her up stairs and down stairs, admir- 
 ing as I went, for all was well-arranged and 
 handsome. The large front chambers I thought 
 especially grand ; and some of the third story 
 rooms, though dark and low, were interesting 
 from their air of antiquity. The furniture once 
 appropriated to the lower apartments had from 
 time to time been removed here, as fashions 
 changed; and the imperfect light, entering by 
 their narrow casements, showed bedsteads of 
 a hundred years old ; chests, in oak or walnut, 
 ' looking, with their strange carvings of palm 
 branches and cherubs' heads, like types of the 
 Hebrew ark ; rows of venerable chairs, high- 
 backed and narrow ; stools, still more antiqua- 
 ted, on whose cushioned tops were yet apparent 
 traces of half effaced embroideries, wrought by 
 
 fingers that for two generations had been coffin- 
 dust. All these relics gave to the third story 
 of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a home of the 
 past — a shrine of memory. I liked the hush, 
 the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats in 
 the day ; but I by no means coveted a night's 
 repose on one of those wide and heavy beds — 
 shut in, some of them, with doors of oak ; 
 shaded, others, with wrought old English hang- 
 ings, crusted with thick work, portraying effi- 
 gies of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and 
 strangest human bemgs— all which would have 
 looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam of 
 moonlight. 
 
 "Do the servants sleep in these rooms?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " No ; they occupy a range of smaller apart- 
 ments to the back. No one ever sleeps here. 
 One would almost say that, if there were a 
 ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its 
 haunt." 
 
 " So I think. You have no ghost, then ?" 
 
 " None that I ever heard of," returned Mrs. 
 Fairfax, smiling. 
 
 "Nor any traditions of one — no legends or 
 ghost stories?" 
 
 " I believe not ; and yet it is said, the Roch- 
 esters have been rather a violent than a quiet 
 race in their time. Perhaps, though, that 
 is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves 
 now." 
 
 "Yes; 'after life's fitful fever they sleep 
 well,'" I muttered. "Where are you going 
 now, Mrs. Fairfax?" for she was moving 
 away. 
 
 " On to the leads ; will you come and see the 
 view from thence ?" I followed still, up a very 
 narrow stair-case to the attics, and thence by a 
 ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the 
 Hall. I was now on a level with the crow 
 colony, and could see into their nests. Lean- 
 ing over the battlements, and looking far down, 
 I surveyed the grounds laid out like a map ; the 
 bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the gray 
 base of the mansion ; the field, wide as a park, 
 dotted with its ancient timber; the wood, dun 
 and sere, divided by a path visibly overgrown, 
 greener with moss than the trees were with 
 foliage , the church at the gates, the road, the 
 tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day's 
 sun ; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky, 
 azure, marbled with pearly white. No feature 
 in the scene was extraordinary, but all was 
 pleasing. When I turned from it and repassed 
 the trap-door, I could scarcely see my way 
 down the ladder. The attic seemed black as a. 
 vault, compared with that arch of blue air to 
 which I had been looking up, and to that sun- 
 lighted scene of grove, pasture, and green hilJ, 
 of which the Hall was the center, and over 
 which I had been gazing with delight. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to 
 fasten the trap-door ; I, by dint of groping, 
 found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded 
 to descend the narrow garret stair-case. I lin- 
 gered in the long passage to which this led, 
 separating the front and back rooms of the third 
 story ; narrow, low, and dim, with Only one lit- 
 tle window at the far end, and looking, with 
 its two rows of small black doors all shut, like 
 a corridor in some Bluebeard's castle. 
 
 While I paced softly on, the last sound I ex- 
 
42 
 
 JANE EYRE 
 
 pected to hear in so still a region, a laugh, 
 struck my ear. It was a curious laugh ; dis- 
 tinct, formal, mirthless. I stopped ; the sound 
 ceased, only for an instant ; it began again, 
 louder ; for, at first, though distinct, it was very 
 low. It passed off in a clamorous peal that 
 seemed to wake an echo in every lonely cham- 
 ber ; though it originated but in one, and I 
 could have pointed out the door whence the ac- 
 cents issued. 
 
 "Mrs. Fairfax!" I called out; for I now 
 heard her descending the great stairsc " Did 
 you hear that loud laugh 1 Who is it V 
 
 " Some of the servants very likely," she an- 
 swered ; "perhaps Grace Poole." 
 
 "Did you hear if!" I again inquired. 
 
 " Yes, plainly : I often hear her ; she sews 
 in one of thpse rooms. Sometimes Leah is 
 with her ; they are frequently noisy together." 
 
 The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic 
 tone, and terminated in an odd murmur, 
 
 "Grace !" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax. 
 
 I really did not expect any Grace to answer ; 
 for the laugh was as tragic, as preternatural a 
 laugh as any I ever heard ; and, but that it was 
 high noon, and that no circumstance of ghbst- 
 liness accompanied the curious cachination, 
 but that neither scene nor season favored fear, 
 I should have been superstitiously afraid. How- 
 ever, the event showed me I was a fool for en- 
 tertaining a sense even of surprise. 
 
 The door nearest me opened, and a servant 
 came out — a woman of between thirty and for- 
 ty ; a set, square-made figure, red-haired, and 
 with a hard, plain face ; any apparition less 
 romantic or less ghostly could scarcely be con- 
 ceived. 
 
 "Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fair- 
 fax. " Remember directions !" Grace court- 
 esied silently and went in. 
 
 " She is a person we have to sew and assist 
 Leah in her housemaid's work," continued the 
 widow ; " not altogether unobjectionable in some 
 points, but she does well enough. By-the-by, 
 how have you got on with your new pupil this 
 morning V 
 
 The conversation, thus turned on Adele, con- 
 tinued till we reached the light and cheerful 
 region below. Adele came running to meet us 
 in the hall, exclaiming ; 
 
 "Mesdames, vous etes servies !" adding 
 " J'ai bien faim, raoi!" 
 
 We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in 
 Mrs. Fairfax's room. 
 
 :)HAPTER XII. 
 
 The promise of a smooth career, whioli my 
 first calm introduction to Thornfield Hall seem- 
 ed to pledge, was Sot belied on a longer ac- 
 quaintance with the place and its inmates. 
 Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appear- 
 ed, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of 
 competent education and average intelligence. 
 My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoil- 
 ed and indulged, and, therefgre, was sometimes 
 .wayward; but, as she was committed entirely 
 to my care, and no injudicious interference from 
 any quarter ever thwarted my plans for her im- 
 provement, she soon forgot her litltle freaks, 
 and became obedient and teachable. She had 
 
 no great talents, no marked traits of character 
 no peculiar development of feeling or taste 
 which raised her one inch above the ordinary 
 level of childhood ; but neither had she any de- 
 ficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She 
 made reasonable progress, entertained for me 
 a vivacious, though, perhaps, not very profound 
 affection, and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and 
 efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a 
 degree of attachment suflBcient to make us both 
 content in each other's society. 
 
 This, par parenthese, will be thought cool lan- 
 guage by persons who entertain solemn doc- 
 trines about the angelic nature of children, and 
 the duty of those charged with their education 
 to conceive for them an idolatrous devotion : 
 but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, 
 to echo cant, or prop up humbug ; I am merely 
 telling the truth. I felt a conscientious solici- 
 tude for Adele's welfare and progress, and a 
 quiet liking to her little self, just as I cherished 
 toward Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kind- 
 ness, and a pleasure in her society proportionate 
 to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the 
 moderation of her mind and cliaracter. 
 
 Any body may blame me who likes, when I 
 add, further, that, now and then, when I took 
 a walk by myself in the grounds — when I went 
 down to the gates and looked through them 
 along the road — or when, while Adele played 
 with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies 
 in the store-room, I climbed the three stair- 
 cases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and, hav- 
 ing reached the leads, looked out afar over se- 
 questered field and hill, and along dim sky-line : 
 that then I longed for a power of vision which 
 might overpass that limit ; which might reach 
 the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had 
 heard of but never seen : that then I desired 
 more of practical experience than I possessed ; 
 more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaint- 
 ance with variety of character, than was here 
 within my reach. I valued what was good in 
 Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in Adele ; 
 but I believed in the existence of other and 
 more vivid kinds of goodness, and what I be- 
 lieved in I wished to behold. 
 
 Who blames me ! Many, no doubt; and I 
 shall be called discontented. I could not help 
 it : the restlessness was in my nature ; if agi- 
 tated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole 
 relief was to walk along the corridor of the 
 third story, backward and forward, safe in the 
 silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my 
 mind's eye to dwell on whatever bright visions 
 rose before it — and certainly ihey were many 
 and glowing ; to let my heart be heaved by the 
 exultant movement wliich, while it swelled it 
 in trouble, expanded it with life ; and, best of 
 all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was 
 never ended — a tale my iinagination created, 
 and narrated continuously, quickened with all 
 of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and 
 had not in my actual existence. 
 
 It is vain to say human beings ought to be 
 satisfied with tranquillity : they must have ac- 
 tion ; and they will make it if Ihcy can not find 
 it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom 
 than mine, and millions are in silent revolt 
 against their lot. Nobody knows how many 
 rebellions, besides political rebellions, ferment in 
 the masses of life which people earth. Women 
 
JANE. EYRE. 
 
 43 
 
 are supposed to be very calm generally : but 
 women feel just as men feel ; they need exer- 
 cise for their faculties, and a field for their ef- 
 forts as much as their brothers do ; they suffer 
 from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stag- 
 nation, precisely as men would suffer ; and it is 
 narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow- 
 creatures to say that they ought to confine 
 themselves to making puddings and knitting 
 stockings, to playing on the piano and embroid- 
 ering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, 
 or laugh at them if they seek to do more or 
 learn more than custom has pronounced neces- 
 sary for their sex. 
 
 When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard 
 Grace Poole's laugh : the same — the same 
 peal, the same low, slow ha ! ha ! which, when 
 first heard, had thrilled me : I heard, too, her 
 eccentric murmurs ; stranger than her laugh. 
 There were days when she was quite silent ; 
 but there were others when I could not account 
 for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw 
 her : she would come out of her room with a 
 basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go 
 down to the kitchen and shortly return, gen- 
 erally (oh romantic reader, forgive me for tell- 
 ing the plain truth I) bearing a pot of porter. 
 Her appearance always acted as a damper to 
 the curiosity raised by her oral oddities ; hard- 
 featured and staid, she had no point to which 
 interest could attach. I made some attempts 
 to draw her into conversation, but she seemed 
 a person of few words : a monosyllabic reply 
 usually cut short every effort of that sort. 
 
 The other members of the household, viz., 
 John and his wife", Leah t|je housemaid, and 
 Sophie the French nurse, were decent people, 
 but in no respect remarkable : with Sophie I 
 used to talk French, and sometimes 1 asked her 
 questions about her native country ; but she 
 was not of a descriptive or narrative turn, and 
 generally gave such vapid and confused an- 
 swers as were calculated rather to check than 
 encourage inquiry. 
 
 October, November, December passed away. 
 One afternoon in. January, Mrs. Fairfax had 
 begged a holyday for Adele, because she had a 
 cold ; and, as Adele seconded the request with 
 an ardor that reminded me how precious occa- 
 sional holydays had been to me in my own 
 childhood, I accorded it, deeming that I did 
 well in showing pliability on the point. It was 
 a fine, calm day, though very cold ; I was tired 
 of sitting still in the library through a whole 
 long morning : Mrs. Fairfax had just written a 
 letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put 
 on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered to 
 carry it to Hay ; the distance, two miles, 
 would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. 
 Having seen Adele comfortably seated in her 
 little chair by Mrs. Fairfax's parlor fireside, and 
 given her her best wax doll (which I usually 
 kept enveloped m silver paper in a drawer) to 
 play with, and a story-book for change of 
 amusement ; and having replied to her " Re- 
 venez bientdt, ma bonne amie, ma chere Ma- 
 demoiselle Jeannette" with a kiss, I set out. 
 
 The ground was hard, the air was still, my 
 Toad was lonely ; I walked fast till I got warm, 
 and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyze 
 the species of pleasure brooding for me in the 
 hour and situation. It was three o'clock ; the 
 
 church-bell tolled as I passed under the belfry ; 
 the charm of the hour lay in its approaching 
 dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming 
 sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane 
 noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and 
 blackberries in autumn, and even now pos- 
 sessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws; 
 but whose best winter delight lay in its utter 
 solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air 
 stirred, it made no sound here ; for there was 
 not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and 
 the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were 
 as still as the white, worn stones which cause- 
 wayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, 
 on each side, there were only fields, where no 
 cattle now browsed ; and the little brown 
 birds which stirred occasionally in the hedge 
 looked like single russet leaves that had for- 
 gotten to drop. 
 
 This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay: 
 having reached the middle, I sat down on a 
 stile which led thence into a field. Gathering 
 my mantle about me and sheltering my hands 
 in my muff, I did not feel the cold, though it 
 froze keenly — as was attested by a sheet of 
 ice covering the causeway, where a little 
 brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after 
 a rapid thaw some days since. From my seat 
 I could look down on Thornfield : the gray and 
 battlemented hall was the principal object'in the 
 vale below me ; its woods and dark rookery 
 rose against the west. I lingered till the sun 
 went down among the trees, and sunk crim- 
 son and clear behind them. I turned eastward. 
 
 On the hill-top above me sat the rising 
 moon ; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening 
 momently : she looked over Hay, which, half 
 lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its 
 few chimneys ; it was y€t a mile distant, but 
 in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its 
 thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, felt the flow 
 of currents ; in what dales and depths I could 
 not tell : but there were many hills beyond 
 Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their 
 passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the 
 tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough of the 
 most remote. 
 
 A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings 
 and whisperings, at once so far away and so 
 clear : a positive tramp, tramp ; a metallic 
 clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wander- 
 ings ; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, 
 or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in 
 dark and strong on the foreground, efface the 
 aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon and 
 blended clouds, where tint melts into tint. 
 
 The din was on the causeway : a horse was 
 coming ; the windings of the lane yet hid it, 
 but It approached. 1 was just leaving the stile; 
 yet as the path was narrow, I sat still to let it 
 go by. In those days I was young, and all 
 sorts of fancies, bright and dark, tenanted my 
 mind : the memories of nursery stores were 
 there among other rubbish ; and when they 
 recurred, maturing youth added to them a 
 vigor and vividness beyond what childhood 
 could give. As this horse approached, and as 
 I watched for it to appear through the dusk, 
 I remembered certain of Bessie's tales wherein 
 figured a North of England spirit, called a 
 " Gytra.sh ;" which, in the form of horse, mule, 
 or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and some- 
 
44 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 times came upon belated travelers, as this 
 horse was now coming upon me. 
 
 It was very near, but not yet in sight,. when, 
 in addition to the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush 
 under the hedge, and close down by the hazel 
 stems glided a great dog, whose black and 
 white color made him a distinct object against 
 the trees. It was exactly one mask of Bessie's 
 " Gytrash" — a lion-like creature with long hair 
 and a huge head : it passed me. however, 
 quietly enough ; not staying to look up, with 
 strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half 
 expected it would. The horse followed — a tall 
 steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the 
 human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing 
 ever rode the " Gytrash:" it was always alone; 
 and goblins, to my notions, though they might 
 tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could 
 scarce covet shelter in the commonplace 
 human form. No " Gytrash" was this— only a 
 traveler taking the short cut to Millcote. He 
 passed, and I went on ; a few steps, and I 
 turned : a sliding sound and an exclamation of 
 "What the deuce is to do now?" and a clatter- 
 ing tumble, arrested my attention. Man and 
 horse were down ; they had slipped on the 
 sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The 
 dog came bounding back, and seeing his master 
 in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, 
 barked till the evening hills echoed the sound ; 
 which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. 
 He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then 
 he ran up to me ; it was all he could do — there 
 was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed 
 him, and walked down to the traveler, by this 
 time struggling himself free of his steed. His 
 efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not 
 be much hurt ; but I asked him the question — 
 " Are you injured, sir V' 
 I think he was swearing, but am not certain ; 
 however, he was pronouncing some formula 
 which prevented him from replying to me di- 
 rectly. 
 
 " Can 1 do any thing V I asked again. ' 
 "You must just stand on one side," he 
 answered as he rose, first to his knees, and 
 then to his feet. I did ; whereupon began a 
 heaving, stamping, clattering process, accom- 
 panied by a barking and baying, which removed 
 me effectually some yards distance ; but I 
 would not be driven quite away till I saw the 
 event. This was finally fortunate ; the horse 
 was re-established, and the dog was silenced 
 with a " Down, Pilot !" The traveler now 
 stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying 
 whether they were sound ; apparently some- 
 thing ailed them, for he halted to the stile 
 whence I had just risen, and sat down. 
 
 I was in the mood for being useful, or at 
 least officious, I think, for I now drew near 
 him again. 
 
 " If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can 
 fetch some one, either from Thornfield Hall or 
 from Hay." 
 
 " Thank you ; I shall do : I have no broken 
 bones — only a sprain ;" and again he stood up 
 and tried his foot, but the result extorted an 
 involuntary " Ugh !" 
 
 Somelhmg of daylight still lingered, and the 
 moon was waxing bright ; I could see him 
 plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding- 
 cloak, fur-collared, and sieel-clasped ; its de- 
 
 tails were not apparent, but I traced the general 
 points of middle height, and considerable breadth 
 of chest. He had a dark face, with stern feat- 
 ures and a heavy brow ; his eyes and gathered 
 eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now ; 
 he was past youth, but had not reached mid- 
 dle age : perhaps he might be thirty-five. I 
 felt no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had 
 he been a handsome, heroic-looking young 
 gentleman, I should not have dared to stand 
 thus questioning him against his will, and offer- 
 ing my services unasked. I had hardly ever 
 seen a handsome youth ; never in my life 
 spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence 
 and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, 
 fascination ; hut had I met those qualities in- 
 carnate in masculine shape,, I should have 
 known instinctively that they neither had nor 
 could have sympathy with any thing in me, 
 and should have shunned them as one would 
 fire, lightning, or any thing else that is bright 
 but antipathetic. 
 
 If even this stranger had smiled and been 
 good-humored to me when I addressed him ; 
 •if he had put off my offer of assistance gayly 
 and with thanks, I should have gone on my 
 way and not felt any vocation to renew in- 
 quiries ; but the frown, the roughness of the 
 traveler set me at my ease ; I retained my 
 station when he waved to me to go, and an- 
 nounced — 
 
 " I can not think of leaving you, sir, at so 
 late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I see you 
 are fit to mount your horse." 
 
 He looked at me when I said this : he had 
 hardly turned his eyes in my direction before. 
 
 " I should think you ought to be at home 
 yourself," said he, "if you have a home in this 
 neighborhood ; where do you come from ?" 
 
 " From just below ; and I am not at all afraid 
 of being out late when it is moonlight : I will 
 run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you 
 wish it — indeed, I am going there -to post a 
 letter." 
 
 "You live just below — do you mean at that 
 house with the battlements V pointing to Thorn- 
 field Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary 
 gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from 
 the woods, that, by contrast with the western 
 sky, now seemed one mass of shadow, 
 " Yes, sir." 
 " Whose house is it?" 
 " Mr. Rochester's." 
 " Do you know Mr. Rochester i" 
 "No, I have never seen him. ' 
 " He is not resident then !" 
 "No." 
 
 "Can you tell me where he is^" 
 " I can not." 
 
 " You are not a servant at the Hall, of course* 
 You are — " He stopped, ran his eye over 
 my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: 
 a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; 
 neither of them half fine enough fur a lady's 
 maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I 
 was : I helped him. 
 " I am the governess." 
 " Ah, the governess !" he repeated ; "deuce 
 take me if I had not forgotten ! The govern- 
 ess !" and again my raiment underwent scruti- 
 ny. In two minutes he rose from the stile ; his 
 face expressed pain when he tried to move 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 45 
 
 " I can not commission you to fetch help," he 
 said, " but you may help me a little yourself, if 
 you will be so kind." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "You have not an umbrella that I can use as 
 a stick 1" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Try to get hold of my horse's bridle and 
 '.lead him to me ; you are not afraid 1" 
 
 I should have been afraid to touch a horse 
 when alone, but when told to do it, I was dis- 
 posed to obey. I put down my muff on the 
 stile, and went up to the tall steed ; I endeav- 
 ored to catch the t)i-idle, but it was a spirited 
 thing, and would not let me come near its 
 head ; I made effort on effort, though in vain : 
 meantime, I was mortally afraid of its tramp- 
 ling fore-feet. The traveler waited and watched 
 for some time, and at last he laughed. 
 
 " I see," he said, " the mountain will never 
 be brought to Mahomet, so all you can do is 
 to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain ; I must 
 beg of you to come here." 
 
 I came. " Excuse me," he continued ; " ne- 
 cessity compels me to make you useful." He 
 laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning 
 on me with some stress, limped to his horse. 
 Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it 
 directly, and sprung to his saddle, grimacing 
 grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched 
 his sprain. 
 
 " Now," said he, releasing his under lip from 
 a hard bite, "just hand me my whip; it lies 
 there under the hedge." 
 
 I sought it and found, it. 
 
 " Thank you ; now make haste with the let- 
 ter to Hay, and return as fast as you can." 
 
 A touch of a 'spurred heel made his horse 
 first start and rear, and then bound away ; the 
 dog rushed in his traces ; all three vanished 
 
 " Like heath that in the wildernesr; 
 The wild wind whirls away." 
 
 I took up my muff and walked on. The inci- 
 dent had occurred and was gone for me ; it was 
 an incident of no moment, no romance, no in- 
 terest in a sense ; yet it marked with change 
 one single hour of a monotonous life. My help 
 had been needed and claimed ; I had given it ; 
 I was pleased to have done something ; trivial, 
 * transitory though the deed was, it was yet an 
 active thing, and I was weary of an existence 
 all passive. The new face, too, was like a new 
 picture introduced to the gallery of memory ; 
 and it was dissimilar to all the others hanging 
 there ; firstly, because it was masculine ; and 
 . secondly, because it was dark, strong and stern. 
 I had it still before me when I entered Hay, 
 and slipped the letter into the post-office ; I saw 
 it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home. 
 When I came to the stile I stopped a minute, 
 looked round and listened, with an idea that a 
 horse's hoofs might ring on the ckuseway again, 
 and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like 
 Newfoundland dog, might be again apparent ; I 
 saw only the hedge and a pollard vvillpw before 
 me, rising up still and straight to meet the 
 moonbeams ; I heard only the faintest waft of 
 wind, roaming fitful among the trees round 
 Thornfield, a mile distant ; and when I glanced 
 down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, 
 traversing the hall-front, caught a light kindling 
 
 in a window : it reminded me that I was late, 
 and I hurried on. 
 
 I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass 
 its threshold was to return to stagnation ; to 
 cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome 
 stair-case, to seek my own lonely little room, 
 and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and 
 spend the long winter evening with her and 
 her only, was to quell wholly the faint excite- 
 ment wakened by my walk — to slip again over 
 my faculties the viewless fetters of a uniform 
 and too still existence ; of an existence whose 
 very privileges of security and ease I was be- 
 coming incapable of appreciating. What good 
 it would have done me at that time to have 
 been tossed in the storms of an uncertain, 
 struggling life, and to have been taught by 
 rough and bitter exjterience to long for the calm 
 amid which I now repined ! Yes, just as 
 much good as it would do a man tired of sitting 
 still in a " too easy chair" to take a long walk ; 
 and just as natural was the wish to stir, under 
 my circumstances, as it would be under his. 
 
 I lingered at the gates ; I lingered on the 
 lawn ; I paced backward and forward on the 
 pavement ; the shutters of the glass door were 
 closed ; I could not see into the interior ; and 
 both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the 
 gloomy house — from the gray hollow filled with 
 rayless cells, as it appeared to me — to that sky 
 expanded before me — a blue sea absolved from 
 taint of cloud ; the moon ascending it in solemn 
 march ; her orb seeming to look up as she left 
 the hill-tops, from behind which she had come, 
 far and farther below her, and aspired to the 
 zenith, midnight-dark in its fathomless depth 
 and measureless distance ; and for those trem- 
 bling stars that followed her course, they made 
 my heart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed 
 them. Little things recall us to earth; the 
 clock struck in the hall ; that suflSced — I turned 
 from moon and stars, opened a side-door and 
 went in. 
 
 The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lighted 
 only by the high- hung bronze lamp ; a warm 
 glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the 
 oak stair-case. This ruddy shine issued from 
 the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door 
 stood open and showed a genial fire in the 
 grate, glancing on marble hearth and brass fire- 
 irons, and revealing purple draperies and pol- 
 ished furniture in the most pleasant radiance. 
 It revealed, too, a group near the mantle-piece ; 
 I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely become 
 aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, among 
 which I seemed to distinguish the tones of 
 Adele, when the door closed. 
 
 I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax's room ; there 
 was a fire there, too, but no candle, and no 
 Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright 
 on the rug and gazing with gravity at the blaze, 
 I beheld a great black and white, long-haired 
 dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was 
 so like it that I went forward and said, " Pilot." 
 and the thing got u|i and came to me and snuff- 
 ed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his 
 great tail ; but he looked an eerie creature to 
 be alone with, and I could not tell whence he 
 had come. I rung the bell, for I wanted a can- 
 dle, and I wanted, too, to get an account of this 
 visitant. Leah entered. 
 
 "What dog is thisi" 
 
46 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " He came with master." 
 " With whoml"' 
 
 " With master — Mr. Rochester — he is just 
 arrived." 
 
 " Indeed — and is Mrs. Fairfax with him V 
 " Yes, and Miss Adela — they are in the 
 dining-room, and John is gone for a surgeon, 
 for master has had an accident — his horse fell 
 and his ankle is sprained." 
 
 " Did the horse fall in Hay-lane 1" 
 " 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 up stairs 
 to take off my things. 
 
 CHAPTER. XHL 
 
 Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon's 
 orders, went to bed early that night ; nor did 
 he rise soon next morning. When he did come 
 down it was to attend to business ; his agent 
 and some of his tenants were arrived, and 
 waiting to speak with him. 
 
 Adele and I had now to vacate the library ; 
 it would be in daily requisition as a reception- 
 room for callers. A fire was lighted in an apart- 
 ment up stairs, and there I carried our books, 
 and arranged it for the future school-room. I 
 discerned in the course of the morning that 
 Thornfield Hall was a changed place ; no lon- 
 ger silent as a church, it echoed every hour or 
 two to a knock at the door or a clang of the 
 bell ; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and 
 new voices spoke in different keys below ; a 
 rill from the outer world was flowing through 
 It — it had a master ; for my part, I liked it better. 
 
 Adele was not easy to teach that day ; she 
 could not apply, she kept running to the door 
 and looking over the banisters to see if she 
 could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester ; then she 
 coined pretexts to go down stairs, in order, as 
 I shrewdly suspected, to visit the library, 
 where I knew she was not wanted ; then, 
 when I got a little angry, and made her sit still, 
 she continued to talk incessantly of her " ami. 
 Monsieur Edouard Fairfax tie Rochester,'" as 
 she dubbed him (I had not before heard his 
 prenomens), and to conjecture what presents 
 he had brought her : for it appears he had inti- 
 mated the night before that, when his luggage 
 came from Millcote, there would be found 
 among it a little box m whose contents she 
 had an interest. 
 
 "Et cela doit signifier," said she, "qu'il y 
 aura la dedans un cadeau pour moi,ct pent etre 
 pour vous, aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a 
 parle de vous : il m' a dcmande le nom de ma 
 gouvernante, et si elle n' etait pas une petite 
 personne, assez mince et un peu pale. J"ai dit 
 que oui : carc'est vrai, n' est-ce pas, mademoi- 
 selle !" 
 
 I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Faj^r- 
 fax's parlor ; the afternoon was wild arid 
 snowy, and we passed it in the school-room. 
 At dark I allowed Adele to put away books and 
 work, and to run down stairs ; for, from the 
 
 comparative silence below, and from the cessa- 
 tion of appeals to the door-bell, I conjectured 
 that Mr. Rochester was now at liberty. Left 
 alone, I walked to the window, but nothing was 
 to be seen thence : twilight and snow-flakes to- 
 gether thickened the air and hid the very shrub* 
 on the lawn. I let down the curtain and went 
 back to the fireside. 
 
 In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not 
 unlike a picture I remember to have seen of 
 the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine, when 
 Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by her en- 
 trance the fiery mosaic I had been piecing to- 
 gether, and scattering, too, some heavy, unwel- 
 come thoughts that were beginning to throng 
 on my solitude. 
 
 " Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and 
 your pupil would take tea with him in the 
 drawing-room this evening," said she ; " he 
 has been so much engaged all day that he 
 could not ask to see you before." 
 
 '• When IS his tea-time V I inquired. 
 
 " Oh, at six o'clock : he keeps early hours in 
 the country. You had better change your frock 
 now : I will go with you and fasten it. Here is 
 a candle." 
 
 "Is it necessary to change my frock !'" 
 
 " Yes, you had better. I always dress lor the 
 evening when Mr. Rochester is here." 
 
 This additional ceremony seemed somewhat 
 stately ; however, I repaired to my room, and, 
 with Mrs. Fairfax's aid, replaced my black 
 stuff dress by one of black silk, the best and 
 the only additional one I had, except one of 
 light gray, which, in my Lowood notions of the 
 toilet, I thought too fine to be worn, except on 
 first-rate occasions. 
 
 " You want a brooch," sard Mrs. Fairfax. I 
 had a single little pearl ornament which Miss 
 Temple gave me as a parting keepsake ; I put 
 it on, and then we went down stairs. Unused 
 as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to 
 appear, thus formally summoned, in Mr. Roches- 
 ter's presence. I let Mrs. Fairfax precede me 
 into the dining-room, and kept in her shade as 
 we crossed that apartment ; and, passing the 
 arch, whose curtain was now dropped, entered 
 the elegant recess beyond. 
 
 Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, 
 and two on the mantle-piece ; basking in the 
 light and heat of a superb fire lay Pilot ; Adele 
 knelt near him. Half reclined on a couch ap- 
 peared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by 
 the cushion ; he was looking at Adele and the 
 dog ; the fire shone full on his face. I knew 
 my traveler, with his broad and jetty eyebrows, 
 his square forehead, made squarer by the hori- 
 zontal sweep of his black hair. I recognized 
 his decisive nose, more remarkable for charac- 
 ter than beauty, his full nostrils, denoting, 1 
 thought, choler ; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw 
 — yes, all three were very grim, and no mis- 
 take. His shape, now divested of cloak, I per- 
 ceived harmonized in squareness with his phys- 
 iognomy : I suppose it was a good figure in the 
 athletic sense of the term, broad-chested and 
 thin-flanked, though neither tall nor graceful. 
 
 Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the 
 entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and myself; but it ap- 
 peared he was not in the mood to notice us, for 
 he never lifted his head as we approached. 
 
 " Here is Miss Eyre, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 47 
 
 in her quiet way. He bowed, still not taking 
 his eyes from the group of the dog and child. 
 
 " Let Miss Eyre be seated," said he ; and 
 there was something in the forced, stiff bow, in 
 the impatient, yet formal tone, which seemed 
 further to express, "What the deuce is it to 
 me whether Miss Eyre be there or not 1 At 
 this moment I am not disposed to accost her." 
 
 I sat down quite disembarrassed. A recep- 
 tion of finished politeness would probably have 
 confused me : I could not have returned or re- 
 paid it by answering grace and elegance on my 
 part : but harsh caprice laid me under no obli- 
 gation ; on the contrary, a decent quiescence, 
 under the freak of manner, gave me the advan- 
 tage. Besides, the eccentricity of the proceed- 
 ing was piquant : I felt interested to see how 
 he would go on. 
 
 He went on as a statue would ; that is, he 
 neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Fairfax seem- 
 ed to think It necessary that some one should 
 be amiable, and she began to talk. Kindly, as 
 usual — and, as usual, rather trite — she con- 
 doled with him on the pressure of business he 
 had had all day, on the annoyance it must have 
 been to him with that painful sprain ; then she 
 commended his patience and perseverance in 
 going through with it. 
 
 " Madam, I should like some tea," was the 
 sole rejoinder she got. She hastened to ring 
 the bell ; and, when the tray came, she pro- 
 ceeded to arrange the cups, spoons, &c., with 
 assiduous celerity. I and Adele went to the 
 table ; but the master did not leave his couch. 
 
 "Will you hand Mr. Rochester's cup!" said 
 Mrs. Fairfax to me ; " Adele, might, perhaps 
 spill it." 
 
 I did as requested. As he took the cup from 
 my hand, Adele, thinking the moment propi- 
 tious for making a request in my favor, cried 
 out : 
 
 " N'est-ce-pas, Monsieur, qu'il y a un cadeau 
 pour Mademoiselle Eyre, dans voire petit 
 coffreV' 
 
 "Who talks of cadeaux !" said he gruffly; 
 "did you expect a present. Miss Eyre! Are 
 you fond of presents V and he searched my 
 face with eyes that I saw were dark, irate, and 
 piercing. 
 
 "I hardly know, sir ; I have little experience 
 of them ; they are generally thought pleasant 
 things." 
 
 " Generally thought ! But what do you 
 think r' 
 
 '• I should be obliged to take time, sir, before 
 I could give you an answer worthy of your ac- 
 ceptance ; a present has many faces to it, has 
 it not \ and one should consider all before pro- 
 nouncing an opinion as to its nature." 
 
 "Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated 
 as Adele ; she demands a ' cadeau,' clamorous- 
 ly the moment she sees me — you beat about 
 the bush." 
 
 " Because I have less confidence in my de- 
 serts than Adele has ; she can prefer the claim 
 of old acquaintance, and the right, too, of cus- 
 tom ; for she says you have always been in the 
 habit of giving her playthings ; but if I had to 
 make out a case I should be puzzled, since I 
 am a stranger and have done nothing to entitle 
 me to an acknowledgment." 
 
 " Oh, don't fall back on overmodesty ! I 
 
 have examined Adele, and find you have takea 
 great pains with her ; she is not bright, she has 
 no talents, yet in a short time she has made 
 much improvement." 
 
 " Sir, you have now given me my ' cadeau •,' 
 I am obliged to you ; it is the meed teachers 
 most covet ; praise of their pupils' progress." 
 
 "Humph !" said Mr. Rochester, and he took 
 his tea in silence. 
 
 "Come to the fire," said the master, when 
 the tray was taken away and Mrs. Fairfax had 
 settled into a corner with her knitting ; while 
 Adele was leading me by the hand round the 
 room, showing me the beautiful books and or- 
 naments oh the consoles and chiffonieres. We 
 obeyed, as in duty bound. Adele wanted to 
 take a seat on my knee, but she was ordered 
 to amuse herself with Pilot. 
 
 " You have been resident in my house three 
 months 1" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And you came from — 1" 
 
 "From Lowood school in shire." 
 
 "Ah! a charitable concern. How long were 
 you there V 
 
 " Eight years." 
 
 " Eight years ! you must be tenacious of life. 
 I thought half the time in such a place would 
 have done up any constitution ! No wonder 
 you have rather the look of another world. I 
 marveled where you had got that sort of face. 
 When you came on me in Hay-lane last night,. 
 I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and had 
 half a mind to .demand whether you had be- 
 witched my horse; I am not sure yet. Who 
 are your parents?" 
 
 " I have none." 
 
 " Nor ever had, I suppose ; do you remember 
 themV' 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I thought not. And so you were waiting 
 for your people when you sat on that stile 1" 
 
 "For, whom, sir"!" 
 
 "For the men in green; it was a proper 
 moonlight evening for them. Did I break 
 through one of your rings, that you spread that 
 damned ice on the causeway !" 
 
 I shook my head. " The men in green all 
 forsook England a hundred years ago," said I, 
 speaking as seriously as he had done. " And 
 not even in Hay-lane or the fields about it could 
 you find a trace of them. I don't think either 
 summer or harvest or winter moon will ever 
 shine on their revels more." 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and 
 with raised eyebrows seemed wondering what 
 sort of talk this was. 
 
 "Well," resumed Mr. Rochester, "if you 
 disown parents, you must have some sort of 
 kinsfolk — uncles and aunts ! 
 
 " No ; none that I ever saw." 
 
 " And your homel" 
 
 " I have none." 
 
 " Where do your brothers and sisters live?" 
 
 " I have no brothers or sisters." 
 
 " Who recommended you to come here?" 
 
 " I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered 
 my advertisement." 
 
 " Yes," said the good lady, who now knew 
 what ground we were upon, " and I am daily 
 thankful for the choice Providence led me to 
 make. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable coin- 
 
48 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 panion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to 
 Adele." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself to give her a charac- 
 ter," returned Mr. Rochester ; "eulogiums will 
 not bias me — I shall judge for myself She be- 
 gan by felling my horse." 
 
 "Sirl" said Mrs. Fairfax. 
 
 " I have to tlvahk her for this sprain." 
 
 The widow looked bewildered. 
 
 " Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town 1 " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Have you seen much society?" 
 
 " None but (he pupils and teachers of Lo- 
 ■wood, and now the inmates of Thornfield." 
 
 " Have you read much 1" 
 
 " Only such books as fell in my way ; and 
 they have not been numerous or very learn- 
 ed." 
 
 "You have lived the life of a nun ; no doubt 
 you are well drilled in religious forms ; Brock- 
 lehurst, who, I understand, directs Lowood, is 
 a parson, is he not V 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And you girls probably worshiped him as a 
 convent full of religieuses would worship their 
 director." 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 " You are very cool ! No ! What ! a novice 
 not worship her priest 1 That sounds blasphe- 
 mous." 
 
 " 1 disliked Mr. Brocklehurst ; and I was not 
 alone in the feeling. He is ^ harsh man — at 
 once pompous and meddling ; he cut off our 
 hair, and, for economy's sake, bought us bad 
 needles and thread, with which we could hardly 
 sew." 
 
 " That was very false economy," remarked 
 Mrs. Fairfax, who now again caught the drift 
 of the dialogue. 
 
 " And was that the head and front of his of- 
 fending?" demanded Mr. Rochester. 
 
 " He starved us when he had the sole super- 
 intendence of the provision department, before 
 the committee was appointed ; and he bored 
 us with long lectures once a-week, and with 
 evening readings from books of his own indit- 
 ing, about sudden deaths and judgments, which 
 made us afraid to go to bed." 
 
 " What age were you when you went to Lo- 
 wood 1" 
 
 " About ten." 
 
 " And you stayed there eight years ; you are 
 now, then, eighteen?" 
 
 I assented. 
 
 " Arithmetic, you see, is useful ; without its 
 aid I should hardly have been able to guess 
 your age. It is a point difficult to fix where 
 the features and countenance are so much at 
 variance as in your case. And now, what did 
 you learn at Lowood ? Can you play V 
 
 " A little." 
 
 " Of course ; that is the established answer. 
 Go into the library — I mean, if you please. 
 (Excuse my tone of command ; I am used to 
 say ' Do this,' and it is done ; I can not alter 
 my customary habits for one new inmate.) Go, 
 then, into the library ; take a candle with you, 
 leave the door open, sit down to the piano, and 
 play a tune." 
 
 I departed, obeying his directions. 
 
 "Enough !" he called out in a few minutes. 
 " You play a little, 1 see ; like any other English 
 
 school-girl ; perhaps rather better than some 
 but not well." 
 
 I closed the piano, and returned. Mr. Roch- 
 ester continued : 
 
 " Adele showed me some sketches this moro- 
 ing, which she said were yours. I don't know 
 whether they were entirely of your doing ; 
 probably a master aided you?" 
 
 "No, indeed !" I interjected. 
 
 " Ah ! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your 
 portfolio, if you can vouch for its contents being 
 original ; but don't pass your word unless you 
 are certain — I can recognize 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 wheel- 
 ed it to his couch. Adele and Mrs. Fairfax 
 drew near to see the pictures. 
 
 " No crowding," said Mr. Rochester ; " take 
 the drawings from my hand as I finish with 
 them ; but don't push your faces up to mine." 
 
 He deliberately scrutinized each sketch and 
 painting. Three he laid aside ; the others, 
 when he had examined them, he swept from 
 him. 
 
 " Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fair- 
 fax," said he, " and look at them with Adele ; 
 you" (glancing at me) " resume your seat, and 
 answer my questions. I perceive these pictures 
 were done by the one hand : was that hand 
 yours?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And when did you find time to do them? 
 Theyhave taken much time, and some thought." 
 
 " I did them in the last two vacations I spent 
 at Lowood, when I had no other occupation." 
 
 " Where did you get your copies ?" 
 
 " Out of my head." 
 
 " That head I see now on your shoulders ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Has it other furniture of the same kind 
 within ?" 
 
 " I should think it may have : I should hope 
 — better." 
 
 He spread the pictures before him, and again 
 surveyed them alternately. 
 
 While he is so occupied, I will tell you, read 
 er, what they are : and first, I must premise 
 that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects 
 had, indeed, risen vividly on my mind. As I 
 saw them with the spiritual eye, before I at- 
 tempted to embody them, they were striking ; 
 but my hand would not second my fancy, and 
 in each case it had wrought out but a pale por- 
 trait of the thing I had conceived. 
 
 These pictures were in water-colors. The 
 first represented clouds low and livid, rolling 
 over a swelled sea : all the distance was in 
 eclipse ; so, too, was the foreground, or, rather, 
 the nearest billows, for there was no land. One 
 gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged 
 mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and large, 
 with wings flecked with foam ; its beak held a 
 gold bracelet, set with gems, that I had touched 
 with as brilliant tints as my pallet could yield, 
 and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could 
 impart. Sinking below the bird and mast, a 
 drowned corpse glanced through the green wa- 
 ter ; a fair arm was the only limb clearly visi- 
 ble, whence the bracelet had been washed or 
 torn. 
 
JANE EYRE 
 
 49 
 
 The second picture contained for foreground 
 only tiie dim peak of a hill, with grass and some 
 leaves slanted as if by a breeze. Beyond and 
 above spread an expanse of sky, dark-blue as 
 at twilight : rising into the sky, was a woman's 
 shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk 
 and soft as I could combine. The dim forehead 
 was crowned with a star ; the lineaments be- 
 low. were seen as through the suffusion of va- 
 por; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair 
 streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn 
 by storm or by electric travail. On the neck 
 lay a pale reflection, like moonlight ; the same 
 faint luster touched the train of thin clouds from 
 which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening 
 Star. ' 
 
 The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg 
 piercing a polar winter sky ; a muster of north- 
 ern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, 
 along the horizon. Throwing these into dis- 
 tance, rose, in the foreground, a head, a colos- 
 sal head, inclined toward the iceberg, and rest- 
 ing against it. Two thin hands, joined under 
 the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before 
 the lower features a sable veil ; a brow quite 
 bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and 
 fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness 
 of despair, alone were visible. Above the tem- 
 ples, amid wreathed turban folds of black dra- 
 pery, 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 Avas "The likeness of a Kingly 
 Crown ;" what it diademed was •' the shape 
 which shape had none." 
 
 " Were you happy when you painted these 
 pictures 1" asked Mr. Rochester, presently. 
 
 " I was absorbed, sir : yes, and I was happy. 
 To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of 
 the keenest pleasures I have ever known." 
 
 " That is not saying much. Your pleasures, 
 by your own account, have been few ; but I 
 dare say yon did exist in a kind of artist's 
 dreamland while you blent and arranged these 
 strange tints. Did you sit at them long each 
 day?" 
 
 " I had nothing else to do, because it was the 
 vacation, and I sat at them from morning till 
 noon, and from noon till night : the length of 
 the midsummer days favored my inclination to 
 apply." 
 
 "And you felt self-satisfied with the result 
 of your ardent labors 1" 
 
 " Far from it. I was tormented by the con- 
 trast between my idea and my handiwork : in 
 each case I had imagined something which I ' 
 was quite powerless to reahze." 
 
 " Not quite : you have secured the shadow of 1 
 your thought ; but no more, probably. You had 
 not enough of the artist's skill and science to 
 give it full being : yet the drawings are, for a 
 school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they 
 are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star 
 you must have seen in a dream. How could 
 you make them look so clear, and yet not at 
 ^all brilliant ■? for the planet above quells their 
 ' rays. And what meaning is that in their sol- 
 emn depth 1 And who taught you to paint 
 wind 1 There is a high gale in that sky, and 
 on this hill-top. Where did you see Latmos I 
 for that is Latmos. There, put the drawings 
 
 away 
 
 D 
 
 I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio 
 when, looking at his watch, he said, abruptly, 
 
 " It is nine o'clock : what are you about, Miss 
 Eyre, to let Adele sit up so long 1 Take her to 
 bed." 
 
 Adelo went to kiss him before quitting the 
 room ; he endured the caress, but scarcely 
 seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have 
 done, nor so much. 
 
 "I wish you all good-night, now," said he, 
 making a movement of the hand toward the 
 door, in token that he was tired of our company, 
 and wished to dismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded 
 up her knitting ; I took my portfolio : we court- 
 esied 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 re- 
 joined her in her room, after putting Adele to 
 bed. 
 
 "Well, ishel" 
 
 " I think so : he is very changeful and abrupt." 
 
 " True ; no doubt he may appear so to a 
 stranger, but I am so accustomed to his man- 
 ner, I never think of it ; and then, if he has pe- 
 culiarities of temper, allowance sh»uld be 
 made." 
 
 "WhyV 
 
 " Partly, because it is his nature — and we 
 can none of us help our nature ; and partly, he 
 has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass hira, 
 and make his spirits unequal." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 " Family troubles, for one thing." 
 
 " But he has no family." 
 
 " Not now ; but he has had, or, at least, rel- 
 atives. He lost his elder brother a few years 
 since." 
 
 "His eWcr brother?" 
 
 " Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not 
 been very long in possession of the property : 
 only about nine years." 
 
 "Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he 
 so very fond of his brother as to be still incon- 
 solable for his loss?" 
 
 " Why, no ; perhaps not. I believe there 
 were some misunderstandings between them. 
 Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to 
 Mr. Edward; and perhaps he prejudiced his 
 father against him. The old gentleman was 
 fond of money, and anxious to keep the family 
 estate together. He did not like to diminish 
 the property by division, and yet he was anxious 
 that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to 
 keep up the consequence of the name ; and 
 soon after he was of ago, some steps were tak- 
 en that were not quite fair, and made a great 
 deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. 
 Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into 
 what he considered a painful position, for the 
 sake of making his fortune : what the precise 
 nature of that position was I never clearly 
 knew, but his spirit could not brook what he 
 had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving : 
 he broke with his family, and now for many 
 years he has led an unsettled kind of life. I 
 don't think he has ever been resident at Thorn- 
 field 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 cli 
 place." 
 
 " Why should he shun it 1" 
 
60 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ■■ " Perhaps lie thinks it gloomy." 
 
 The answer was evasive — I should have 
 liked something clearer ; but Mrs. Fairfax either 
 could not, or would not, give me more explicit 
 information of the origin and nature of Mr. 
 Rochester's trials. She averred they were a 
 mystery to herself, and that what she knew 
 was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, 
 indeed, that she wished me to drop the subject, 
 which I did accordingly. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Fob several subsequent days I saw little of 
 Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he seemed 
 much engaged with business, and in the after- 
 noon, gentlemen from Miilcote or the neighbor- 
 hood called, and sometimes stayed to dine with 
 him. When his sprain was well enough to ad- 
 mit of horse exercise, he rode out a good deal, 
 probably to return these visits, as he generally 
 did not come back till late at night. 
 
 During this interval, even Adele was seldom 
 sent for to his presence, and all my acquaint- 
 ance with him was confined to an occasional 
 rencounter in the hall, on the stairs, or in the 
 gallery ; when he would sometimes pass me 
 haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging my 
 presence fey a distant nod or a cool glance, and 
 sometimes bow and smile with gentlemanlike 
 affability. His changes of mood did not offend 
 me, because I saw that I had nothing to do with 
 their alternation : the ebb and flow depended 
 on causes quite disconnected with me. 
 
 One day he had had company to dinner, and 
 had sent for my portfolio, in order, doubtless, 
 to exhibit its contents : the gentlemen went 
 away early, to attend a public meeting at Mill- 
 cote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me ; but the 
 night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester 
 did not accompany them. Soon after they 
 were gone, he rung the bell : a message came 
 that I and Adele were to go down stairs. I 
 brushed Adole's hair and made her neat, and 
 having ascertained that I was myself in my usu- 
 al Quaker trim, where there was nothing to 
 retouch — all being too close and plain, braided 
 locks included, to admit of disarrangement — we 
 descended, Adele wondering whether the -petit 
 coffre was at length come : for, owing to some 
 mistake, its arrival had hitherto been delayed. 
 She was gratified ; there it stood, a little car- 
 ton, on the table when we entered the dining- 
 room. She appeared to know it by instinct. 
 
 "Ma boite ! ma boite!" exclaimed she, run- 
 ning toward it. 
 
 " Yes — there is your ' boite' at last ; take it 
 into a corner, you genuine daughter of Paris, 
 and amuse yourself with disemboweling it," 
 said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. 
 Rochester, proceeding from the depths of an 
 immense easy-chair at the fireside. " And 
 mind," he continued, " don't bother me with 
 any details of the anatomical process, or any 
 notice of the condition of the eutrails : let your 
 operation be conducted in silence — tiens-toi 
 tranquille, enfant ; comprends-tu V 
 
 Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning ; 
 she had already retired to a sofa with her 
 treasure, and was busy untying the cord which 
 secured the lid. Having removed this impedi- 
 
 ment, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of 
 tissue paper, she merely exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, Ciel ! Que c'est beaul" and then re- 
 mained absorbed in ecstatic contemplation. 
 
 " Is Miss Eyre, there !" now demanded the 
 master, half-rising from his seat to look round 
 to the door, near which I stood. 
 
 " Ah ! well ; come forward ; be seated here." 
 He drew a chair near his own. " I am not fond 
 of the prattle of children," he continued ; " for, 
 old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant asso- 
 ciations connected with their lisp. It would be 
 intolerable to me to pass a whole evening ttte cL 
 tete with a brat. Don't draw that chair farther 
 off. Miss Eyre ; sit down exactly were I placed 
 it — if you please, that is. Confound these ci- 
 vilities ! I continually forget them. Nor do I 
 particularly affect simple-minded old ladies. 
 By the by, I must have in mine ; it won't do to 
 neglect her : she is a Fairfax, or wed to one ; 
 and blood is said to be thicker than water." 
 
 He rung and dispatched an invitation to Mrs. 
 Fairfax, who soon arrived, knitting basket in 
 hand . 
 
 " Good-evening, madam ; I sent to you for a 
 charitable purpose ; I have forbidden Adele to 
 talk to me about her presents, and she is burst- 
 ing with repletion ; have the goodness to serve 
 her as auditress and interlocutrice ; it will be 
 one of the most benevolent acts you ever per- 
 formed." 
 
 Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax 
 than she summoned her to her sofa, and there 
 quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the 
 ivory, the waxen contents of her " boite," 
 pouring out, meantime, explanations and rap- 
 tures in such broken English as she was mis- 
 tress of 
 
 " Now I have performed the part of a good 
 host," pursued Mr. Rochester, "put my guests 
 into the way of amusing each other, I ought to 
 be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. 
 Miss Eyre, draw your chair still a little farther 
 forward ; you are yet too far back : I can not 
 see you without disturbing my position in this 
 comfortable chair, which I have no mind to 
 do." 
 
 I did as I was bid, though I would much 
 rather have remained somewhat in the shade ; 
 but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of 
 giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to 
 obey him promptly. 
 
 We were, as I have said, in the dining-room ; 
 the luster, which had been lighted for dinner, 
 filled the room with a festal breadth of light ; 
 the large fire was all red and clear ; the purple 
 curtains hung rich and ample before the lofly 
 window and loftier arch ; every thing was still, 
 save the subdued chat of Adele (she dared not 
 speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the 
 beating of winter rain against the panes. 
 
 Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask- 
 covered chair, looked different lo what I had 
 seen him look before — not quite so stern ; much 
 less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, 
 and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine or 
 not, I am not sure, but I think it very proba- 
 ble. He was, in short, in his after-dinner 
 mood — more expanded and genial, and also 
 more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid 
 temper of the morning ; still, he looked pre- 
 ciously grim, cushioning his massive head 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 51 
 
 against the swelling back of his chair, and re- 
 ceiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn 
 features, and in his great, dark eyes — for he 
 had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too — 
 not without a certain change in their depths 
 sometimes, which, if it was not softness, re- 
 minded you, at least, of that feeling. 
 
 He had been looking two minutes at the fire, 
 and I had been looking the same length of time 
 at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my 
 gaze fastened on his physiognomy. 
 
 " You examine me. Miss Eyre," said he ; 
 " do you think me handsome !" 
 
 I should, if I had deliberated, have replied 
 to this question by something conventionally 
 vague and polite ; but the answer somehow 
 slipped from my tongue before I was aware. 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! By my word ! there is something 
 singular about you," said he; "you have the 
 air of a little nonnette ; quaint, quiet, grave, and 
 simple as you sit with your hands before you, 
 and your eyes generally bent on the carpet 
 (except, by the by, when they are directed 
 piercingly to my face, as just now, for in- 
 stance) ; and when one asks you a question, 
 or makes a remark to which you are obliged to 
 reply, you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if 
 not blunt, is at least brusque. What do you 
 mean by it V 
 
 " Sir, I was too plain ; I beg your pardon. I 
 ought to have replied that it was not easy to 
 give an impromptu answer to a question about 
 appearances ; that tastes differ ; that beauty 
 is of little consequence, or something of that 
 sort." 
 
 " You ought to have replied no such thing. 
 Beauty of little consequence, indeed ! And so, 
 under pretense of softening the previous out- 
 rage, of stroking and soothing me into placidi- 
 ty, you stick a sly penknife under my ear! 
 Go on ; what fault do you find with me, pray 1 
 I suppose I have all my limbs and all my feat- 
 ures like any other man •"' 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first 
 answer. I intended no pointed repartee ; it 
 was only a blunder." 
 
 "Just so; I think so; and you shall be an- 
 swerable for it. Criticise me ; does my fore- 
 haed not please youl" 
 
 He lifted up the sable waves of hair which 
 lay horizontally over his brow, aud showed a 
 solid enough mass of intellectual organs ; but 
 an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of 
 benevolence should have risen. 
 " Nov^, ma'am, am I a fool 1" 
 " Far from it, sir. You would perhaps think 
 me rude if I inquired, in return, whether you 
 are a philanthropist 1' 
 
 " There again ! Another stick of the pen- 
 knife, when she pretended to pat my head ; 
 and that is because I said I did not like the so- 
 ciety of children and old women (low be it 
 spoken '.). No, young lady, I am not a general 
 philanthropist ; but I bear a conscience ;" and 
 he pointed to the prominences which are said 
 to indicate that faculty — and which, fortunate- 
 ly for him, were sufficiently conspicuous ; giv- 
 ing, indeed, a marked breadth to the upper part 
 of his head ; " and besides, I once had a kind of 
 rude tenderness of heart. When I was as old 
 3 you, I was a feeling fellow enough ; partial 
 
 to the unfledged, unfostered, and unlucky ;. but 
 fortune has knocked me about since ; she has 
 even kneaded me with her knuckles, and now I 
 flatter myself I am hard and tough as an In- 
 dia-rubber ball, pervious, though, through a 
 chink or two still, and with one sentient point 
 in the middle of the lump. Yes ; does that 
 leave hope for me !" 
 " Hope of what, sir !" 
 
 " Of my final retransformation from India- 
 rubber back to flesh V 
 
 " Decidedly he has had too much wine," I 
 thought, and I did not know what answer to 
 make to his queer question ; how could I tell 
 whether he was capable of being retrans- 
 formed 1 
 
 " You look very much puzzled. Miss Eyre ; 
 and though you are not pretty any more than t 
 am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you ; 
 besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those 
 searching eyes of yours away from my physi- 
 ognomy, and busies them with the worsted 
 flowers of the rug — so puzzle on. Young lady, 
 I am disposed to be gregarious and communi- 
 cative to-night." 
 
 With this announcement he rose from his 
 chair, and stood, leaning his arm on the marble 
 mantle-piece ; in that attitude his shape was 
 seen plainly, as well as his face ; his unusual 
 breadth of chest, disproportionate almo.st to 
 his length of limb. I am sure most people 
 would have thought him an ugly man ; yet 
 there was so much unconscious pride in his 
 port ; so much ease in his demeanor ; such a 
 look of complete indifference to his own ex- 
 ternal appearance ; so haughty a reliance on 
 the power of other qualities, intrinsic or ad- 
 ventitious, to atone for the lack of mere per- 
 sonal attractiveness, that, in looking at him, 
 one inevitably shared the indifference ; and 
 even, in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in 
 the confidence. 
 
 " I am disposed to be gregarious and com- 
 municative to-night," he repeated; "and that 
 is why I sent for you. The fire and the chan- 
 delier were not sufficient company for me ; nor 
 would Pilot have been, for none of these can 
 talk. Adele is a degree better, but still far be- 
 low the mark ; Mrs. Fairfax ditto ; you, I am 
 persuaded, can suit me if you will ; you puzzled 
 me the first evening I invited you down here. 
 I have almost forgotten you since ; other ideas 
 have driven yours from my head ; but to-night 
 I am resolved to be at ease— to dismiss what 
 importunes, and recall what pleases. It would 
 please ine now to draw you out — to learn more 
 of you — therefore speak." 
 
 Instead of speaking, I smiled ; and not a very 
 complaisant or submissive smile either. 
 " Speak," he urged. 
 " What about, sir !" 
 
 " Whatever you like. I leave both the choice 
 of subject and the manner of treating it en- 
 tirely to yourself." 
 
 Accordingly I sat and said nothing. " If he 
 expects me to talk, for the mere sake of talking 
 and showing off, he will find he has addressed 
 himself to the wrong person," I thought. 
 " You are dumb. Miss Eyre." 
 I was dumb still. He bent his head a little 
 toward me, and with a single hasty glance 
 seemed to dive into my eyes 
 
52 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Stubborn r* he said, 'and annoyed. Ah, 
 it is consistent. I put my request in an absurd, 
 almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg your 
 pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish 
 to treat you like an inferior ; that is (correcting 
 himself), I claim only such superiority as must 
 result from twenty years' difference in age, and 
 a century's advance in experience. This is 
 legitimate, et j'y tiens, as Adele would say ; 
 and it is by virtue of this superiority, and this 
 alone, that I desire you to have the goodness to 
 talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts, 
 which are galled with dwelling on one point — 
 cankering as a rusty nail." 
 
 He had deigned an explanation — almost an 
 apology. I did not feel insensible to his conde- 
 scension, and would not seem so. 
 
 " I am willing to amuse you if I can, sir — 
 quite willing ; but I can not introduce a topic, 
 because how do I know what will interest you 1 
 Ask me questions, and I will do my best to an- 
 swer them." 
 
 " Then, in the first place, do you agree with 
 me that I have a right to be a little masterful — 
 abrupt — periiaps exacting, sometimes, on the 
 grounds I stated :- namely, that I am old enougli 
 to be your father, and that I have battled through 
 a varied experience with many men of many 
 nations, and roamed over half the globe, while 
 you have lived quietly with one set of people 
 in one house!" 
 
 " Do as you please, sir." 
 
 "That is no answer ; or, rather, it is a very 
 irritating, because a very evasive one : reply 
 clearly." 
 
 " I don't think, sir, you have a right to com- 
 mand me, merely because you are older than 
 I, or because you have seen more of the world 
 than I have ; your claim to superiority depends 
 on the use you have made of your time and 
 experience." 
 
 " Humph ! promptly spoken. But I won't 
 allow that, seeing that it would never suit my 
 case, as I have made an inditferent, not to say, 
 a bad use of both advantages. Leaving su- 
 periority out of the question, then, you must 
 still agree to receive my orders now and then, 
 without being piqued or hurt by the tone of 
 command — will you 1" 
 
 I smiled. I thought to myself Mr. Roches- 
 ter is peculiar. He seems to forget that he pays 
 me £30 per annum for receiving his orders. 
 
 *'The smile is very well," said he, catch- 
 ing instantly the passing expression ; " but 
 speak, too." 
 
 " I was thinking, sir, that very few masters 
 would trouble themselves to inquire whether or 
 not their paid subordinates were piqued and hurt 
 by their orders." 
 
 " Paid subordinates ! What ! you are my 
 paid subordinate, are you 1 Oh, yes, I had for- 
 gotten the salary ! Well, then, on that merce- 
 nary ground, will you agree to let me hector a 
 little 1" 
 
 "No, sir, not on that ground; but on the 
 ground that you did forget it, and that you care 
 whether or not a dependent is comfortable in 
 his dependency, I agree heartily." 
 
 " And will you consent to dispense with a 
 great many conventional forms and phrases, 
 without thinking that the omission arises from 
 insolence'" 
 
 " I am sure, sir, I should never mistake in- 
 formality for insolence : one, I rather like ; the 
 other, nothing free-born would submit to, even 
 for a salary." 
 
 " Humbug ! Most things free-born will sub- 
 mit to any thing for a salary ; therefore, keep 
 to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of 
 which you are intensely ignorant. However, 
 I mentally shake hands with you for your an- 
 swer, despite its inaccuracy ; and as much for 
 the manner in which it was said, as for the sub- 
 stance of the speech ; the manner was frank 
 and sincere ; one does not often see such a 
 manner : no, on the contrary, affectation or 
 coldness, or stupid, coarse-minded misappre- 
 hension of one's meaning are the usual rewards 
 of candor. Not three in three thousand raw 
 school-girl-governesses would have answered 
 me as you have just done. Bilt I don't mean 
 to flatter you ; if you are cast in a different 
 mold to the majority, it is no merit of yours ; 
 Nature did it. And then, after all, I go too fast 
 in my conclusions ; for what I yet know, you 
 may be no better than the rest ; you may have 
 intolerable defects to connterbalance your few 
 good points." 
 
 " And so may you," I thought. My eye met 
 his as the idea crossed my mind. He seemed 
 to read the glance, answering as if its import 
 had been spoken, as well as imagined : 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are right," said he ; "I have 
 plenty of faults of my own ; I know it, and I 
 don't wish to palliate them, I assure you. God 
 wot I need not be too severe about others. I 
 have a past existence, a series of deeds, a color 
 of life to contemplate within my own breast, 
 which might well call my sneers and censures 
 from my neighbors to myself I started, or, ra- 
 ther (for, like other defaulters, I like to Jay 
 half tlie blame on ill fortune and adverse cir- 
 cumstances), was thrust on to a wrong tack at 
 the age of one-and-twenty, and have never re- 
 .covered the right course since ; but I might 
 have been very different ; I might have been as 
 good as you — wiser — almost as stainless. I 
 envy you your peace of mind, your clean con- 
 science, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, 
 a memory without blot or contamination must 
 be an exquisite treasure — an inexhaustible 
 source of pure refreshment ; is it notl" 
 
 " How was your memory when you were 
 eighteen, sir?" 
 
 " All right, then — limpid, salubrious ; no gush 
 of bilge-water had turned it to fetid puddle. I 
 was your equal at eighteen — quite your equal. 
 Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good 
 man. Miss Eyre, one of the better end, and you 
 see I am not so. You would say you don't see 
 it ; at least, I flatter myself I read as much in 
 your eye (beware, by the by, what you express 
 with that organ, I am quick at interpreting its 
 language). Then, take my word for it, I am 
 not a villain ; you are not to suppose that — not 
 to attribute to me any such bad eminence ; but, 
 owing, I verily believe, rather to circumstances 
 than to my natural bent, I am a trite, common- 
 place sinner, haokneyed in all the poor, petty 
 dissipations, with which the rich and worthless 
 try to put on life. Do you wonder that I avow 
 this to you ? Know, that in the course of your 
 future life you will often find yourself elected 
 the involuntarv confident of your acquaintances' 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 53 
 
 secrets. People will instinctively find out, as 
 I have done, that it is not your forte to talk of 
 yourself, but to listen while others talk of them- 
 selves ; they will feel, too, that you listen with 
 no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion, but 
 with a kind of innate sympathy — not the less 
 comforting and encouraging because it is very 
 ■unobtrusive in its manifestations." 
 
 " How do you know 1 how can you guess all 
 this, sir?" 
 
 " I know it well : therefore I proceed almost 
 as freely as if I were writing my thoughts in a 
 diary. You would say, I should have been 
 superior to circumstances ; so I should — so I 
 should ; but you see I was not. When fate 
 wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain 
 cool : I turned desperate ; then I degenerated. 
 Now, when any vicious simpleton excites my 
 disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I can not flatter 
 Btiyself that I am better than he : I am forced 
 to confess that he and I are on a level. I wish 
 I had stood firm — God knows I do ! Dread 
 remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss 
 Eyre : remorse is the poison of life." 
 
 "Repentance is said to be its cure, sir." 
 
 " It is not its cure. Reformation may be its 
 cure ; and I could reform — I have strength yet 
 for that — if— but where is the use of thinking 
 of it, hampered, burdened, "Cursed as I am 1 
 Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied 
 me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life ; 
 and I will get it cost what it may." 
 
 " Then you will degenerate still more, sir." 
 
 "Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get 
 sweet fresh pleasure? And I may get it as 
 sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee 
 gathers on the moor." 
 
 " It will sting — it will taste bitter, sir." 
 
 ♦' How do you know 1 you never tried it. 
 How very serious — how very solemn you look ; 
 and you are as ignorant of the matter as this 
 cameo head (taking one from the mantle-piece) ! 
 You have no right to preach to me, you Neo- 
 phyte, that have not passed the porch of life 
 and are absolutely unacquainted with its mys- 
 teries." 
 
 "I only remind you of your own words, sir ; 
 you said error brought remorse, and you pro- 
 nounced remorse the poison of existence." 
 
 "And who talks of error now? I scarcely 
 think the notion that flittered across my brain 
 was an error. I believe it was an inspiration 
 rather than a temptation ; it was very genial, 
 very soothing, I know that. Here it comes 
 again ! It is no devil, I assure you : or if it be, 
 it has put on the robes of an angel of light. I 
 think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks 
 its entrance to my heart." 
 
 " Distrust it, sir : it is not a true angel." 
 
 "Once more, how do you know? 'By what 
 instinct do you pretend to distinguish between 
 a fallen seraph of the abyss, and a messenger 
 from the eternal throne — between a guide and 
 a seducer?" 
 
 " I judged by your countenance, sir, which 
 was troubled, when you said the suggestion had 
 returned upon you. I feel sure it will work 
 you more misery if you listen to it." 
 
 "Not at all — it bears the most gracious 
 message in the world : for the rest, you are 
 not my conscience-keeper, so don't make your- 
 self uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wanderer !" 
 
 He said this as if he spoke to a vision, view- 
 less to any eye but his own ; then folding his 
 arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, 
 he seemed to inclose in their embrace the in- 
 visible being. 
 
 " Now," he continued, again addressing me, 
 "I have received the pilgrim— a disguised 
 deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done 
 me good; my heart was a sort of charnel ; it 
 will now be a shrine." 
 
 " To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you 
 at all ; I can not keep up the conversation, be- 
 cause it has got out of my depth. Only one 
 thing I know ; you said you were not as good 
 as you should like to be, and that you regretted 
 your own imperfection— one thing I can com- 
 prehend : you intimated that to have a sullied 
 memory was a perpetual bane. It seems to 
 me, that if you tried hard, you would in time 
 find it possible to become what you yourself 
 would approve ; and that if from this day you 
 began with resolution to correct your thoughts 
 and actions, you would, in a few y.ears, hav» 
 laid up a new and stainless store of recollec- 
 tions, to which you might revert with pleasure." 
 
 " Justly thought, rightly said. Miss Eyre ; 
 and at this moment, I am paving hell with 
 energy." 
 
 " Sir?" 
 
 " I am laying down good intentions, which I 
 believe durable as flint. Certainly, my asso- 
 ciates and pursuits shall be other than they 
 have been." 
 
 "And better?" 
 
 " And better — as much better as pure ore is 
 than foul dross. You seem to doubt me ; I 
 don't doubt myself; I know what my aim is, 
 what my motives are ; and, at this moment I 
 pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes 
 and Persians, that both are right." 
 
 " They can not be, sir, if they require a new 
 statute to legalize them." 
 
 "They are, Miss Eyre, though they abso- 
 lutely require a new statute ; unheard-of com- 
 binations of circumstances demand unheard-of 
 rules." 
 
 "That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir ; be- 
 cause one can see at once that it is liable to 
 abuse." 
 
 " Sententious sage l so it is ; but I swear by 
 my household gods not to abu-se it." 
 
 " You are human and fallible." 
 
 " I am ; so are you — what then 1" 
 
 "The human and fallible should not arrogate 
 a power with which the divine and perfect 
 alone can be safely intrusted." 
 
 "What power?" 
 
 " That of saying of any strange, unsanction- 
 ed line of action, ' Let i\; be right.' " 
 
 " ' Let it be right' — the very words ; you 
 have pronounced them." 
 
 "May it be right, then," I said as I rose; 
 deeming it useless to continue a discourse which 
 was all darkness to me ; and, besides, sensible 
 that the character of my interlocutor was be- 
 yond my penetration : at least, beyond its 
 present reach ; and feeling the uncertainty 
 ilie vague sense of insecurity, which accom- 
 panies a conviction of ignorance. 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 " To put Adele to bed : it is past her bed- 
 time." 
 
64 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " You are afraid of me, because I talk like a 
 Sphynx." 
 
 "Your language is enigmatical, sir; but 
 though I am bewildered, I am certainly not 
 afraid." 
 
 "You arc afraid — your self-love dreads a 
 blunder." 
 
 " In that sense I do feel apprehensive — I have 
 no wish to talk nonsense." 
 
 "If you did, it would be in such a grave, 
 quiet manner, I should mistake it for sense. 
 Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre ! Don't trouble 
 yourself to answer — I see, you laugh rarely ; 
 but you can laugh very merrily ; believe me, 
 you are not naturally austere, any more than I 
 am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraint 
 still clings to you somewhat ; controlling your 
 features, muffling your voice, and restricting 
 your limbs ; and you fear in the presence of a 
 man and a brother — or father, or master, or 
 what you will — to smile too gayly, speak too 
 freely, or move too quickly ; but in time, I think 
 you will learn to be natural with me, as I find 
 it impossible to be conventional with you ; and 
 then your looks and movements will have more 
 vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. 
 I see, at intervals, the glance of a curious 
 sort of bird through the close-set bars of the 
 cage ; a vivid, restless, resolute captive is 
 there ; were it but free, it would soar cloud- 
 high. You are still bent on going V 
 " It has struck nine, sir." 
 " Never mind ; wait a minute : Adele is not 
 ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, 
 with my back to the fire, and my face to the 
 room, favors observation. While talking to 
 you, I have occasionally watched Adele (I 
 have my own reasons for thinking her a curious 
 study, reasons that I may — nay that I shall im- 
 part to you some day) ; she pulled out of her 
 box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk 
 frock ; rapture lighted her face as she unfolded 
 it ; coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her 
 brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. 
 ' II faut que je I'essaie I' cried she ; 'et a I'in- 
 stant meme !' and she rushed out of the room. 
 She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing 
 process ; in a few minutes she will re-enter ; 
 and I know what I shall sec, a miniature of 
 Cehne Varens, as she used to appear on the 
 
 boards at the rising of ; but never mind 
 
 that. However, my tenderest feelings arc about 
 to receive a shock ; such is my presentiment ; 
 stay, now, to see whether it will be realized." 
 Ere long, Adole's little foot was heard trip- 
 ping across the hall. She entered, transformed 
 as her guardian had predicted. A dress of 
 rose-colored satin, very short, and as full in 
 the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the 
 brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath 
 of rosebuds circled her forehead ; her feet 
 were dressed in silk stockings and small white 
 satin sandals. 
 
 "Est-ce que ma robe va bienl" cried she, 
 bounding forward; "et mes souliersT et mes 
 bas 1 Tencz-je crois que je vais danser !" 
 
 And spreading out her dress, she chasseed 
 across the room; till, having reached Mr. 
 Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before 
 him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at 
 his feet, exclaiming — 
 
 " Monsieur, je vous rcmercie mille fois de 
 
 votre bonle ;" then rising, she added, " C'est 
 comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce-p >s, 
 monsieur?" 
 
 " Pre-cise-ly 1" was the answer; " and 'com- 
 me cela,' she charmed my English gold out of 
 my British breeches' pocket. I have been 
 green, too. Miss Eyre — ay, grass-green : not a 
 more vernal tint freshens you now than once 
 freshened me. My Spring is gone, however ; 
 but it has left me that French floweret on my 
 iiands ; which, in some" moods, I would fain 
 be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence 
 it sprung ; having found that it was of a sort 
 which nothing but gold dust could manure, 1 
 have but half a liking to the blossom ; es- 
 pecially when it looks so artificial, as just now. 
 I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman 
 Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins, 
 great or small, by one good work. I'll explain 
 all this some day. Good-night.'" 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Mk. Rochester did, on a future occasion, 
 explain it. 
 
 It was one afternoon, when he chanced to 
 meet me and Adele in the grounds, and while 
 she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he 
 asked me to walk up and down a long beech 
 avenue within sight of her. 
 
 He then said that she was the daughter of a 
 French opera dancer, Celine Varens, toward 
 whom he had once cherished what he called a 
 " grande passion." This passion Celine had 
 professed to return with even superior ardor. 
 He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was ; 
 he believed, as he said, that she preferred his 
 " taille d'athlote" to the elegance of the Apollo 
 Belvidere. 
 
 " And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered 
 by this preference of the Gallic sylph for her 
 British gnome, that I installed her in a hotel ; 
 gave her a complete establishment of servants, 
 a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &;c. 
 In short, I began the process of ruining myself 
 in the received style — like any other spoony. 
 I had not, it seems, the originality to chalk out 
 a new road to shame and destruction, but trod 
 the old track with stupid exactness not to de- 
 viate an inch from the beaten center. I had — as 1 
 deserve to have — the fate of all other spoonies. 
 Happening to call one evening, when GcUne 
 did not expect me, I found her out ; but it was 
 a warm night, and I was tired with strolling 
 through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir ; 
 happy to breathe the air consecrated so lately 
 by her presence. No — I exaggerate ; I never 
 thought there was any consecrating virtue 
 about her: it was rather a sort of pastile per- 
 fume she had left — a scent of musk and amber, 
 than an odor of sanctity. I was just beginning 
 to stifle with the fumes of conservatory liowert- 
 and sprinkled essences, when I bethought my- 
 self to open the window and step out on to tine 
 balcony. It was moonlight, and gas-light be- 
 sides, and very still and serene. The balcony 
 was furnished with a chair or two ; I sat down, 
 took out a cigar— I will take one now, if you 
 will excuse me." 
 
 Here ensued a pause, filled up by the pro- 
 ducing and lighting of a cigar ; havmg placed 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 55 
 
 it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah 
 incense on the freezing and sunless air, he 
 went on. 
 
 " I liked bonbons, too, in those days, Miss 
 Eyre, and I was croquant — (overlook the bar- 
 barism) croquant chocolate comfits, and smoking 
 alternately, watching, meantime, the equipages 
 that rolled along the fashionable street toward 
 the neighboring opera-house, when in an ele- 
 gant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of 
 English horses, and distinctly seen in the brill- 
 iant eity-night, I recognized the 'voiture' I 
 had given Celine. She was returning; of 
 course my heart thumped with impatience 
 against the iron rails I leaned upon. The car- 
 riage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel 
 door ; my flame (that is the very word for an 
 opera inamorata) alighted : though muffled in 
 a cloak — an unnecessary incumbrance, by the 
 by, on so warm a June evening — I knew her 
 instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from 
 the skirt of her dress, as she skipped from the 
 carriage-step. Bending over the balcony, I was 
 about to murmur ' Mon Ange' — in a tone, of 
 course, which should be audible to the ear of 
 love alone — when a figure jumped from the 
 carriage after her, cloaked also ; but that was a 
 spurred heel which had rung on the pavement, 
 and that was a hatted head which now passed 
 wnder the arched porte cochcrc of the hotel. 
 
 "You never felt jealousy did you. Miss Eyvel 
 Of course not : I need not ask you ; because 
 you never felt love. You have both sentiments 
 yet to experience : your soul sleeps ; the shock 
 is yet to be given which shall waken it. You 
 think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as 
 that in which your youth has hitherto slid 
 away. Floating on with closed eyes and 
 muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bris- 
 tling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear 
 the breakers boil at their base. But I tell you 
 — and you may mark my w'ords — you will come 
 some day to a craggy pass of the channel, 
 where the whole of life's stream will be broken 
 up into whirl and tumult, foam and noise : 
 either you will b^ dashed to atoms on crag- 
 points, or lifted up and borne on by some 
 master wave into a calmer current — as I am 
 now. 
 
 " I like this day ; I like that sicy of steel ; 
 I like the sternness and stillness of the world 
 under this frost. I like Thornfield ; its an- 
 tiquity ; its retirement ; its old crow-trees and 
 thorn-trees ; its gray fa<^ade, and lines of dark 
 windows reflecting that metal welkin : and yet 
 how long have I abhorred the very thought of 
 it ; shunned it like a great plague-house ! How 
 I do still abhor—" 
 
 He ground his teeth and was silent'; he ar- 
 rested his step and struck his boot against the 
 hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to 
 have him in its grip, and to hold him so tightly 
 that he could not advance. 
 
 We were ascending the avenue when he 
 thus paused ; the hall was before us. Lifting 
 his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a 
 glare such as I never saw before or since. 
 Pain, shame, ire — impatience, disgust, detesta- 
 *tion — seemed momentarily to hold a quivering 
 conflict in the large pupil dilating under his 
 ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which 
 should be paramount ; but another feeling rose 
 
 and triumphed : something hard and cynical, 
 self-willed and resolute : it settled his passion 
 and petrified his countenance. He went on. 
 
 " During the moment I was silent, Miss 
 Eyre, I was arranging a point with my destiny. 
 She stood there, by that beech-trunk — a hag 
 like one of those who appeared to Macbeth 
 on the heath of Forres. ' You like Thornfield'?' 
 she said, lifting her finger ; and then she wrote 
 in the air a memento, which ran in lurid hiero- 
 glyphics all along the house-front, between the 
 upper and lower row of windows. ' Like it 
 if you can I Like it if you dare '.' 
 
 "'I will like it,' said I. 'I dare like it;' 
 and (he subjoined moodily) I will keep my 
 word ; I will break obstacles to happiness, to 
 goodness — yes, goodness. I wish to be a better 
 man than I have been ; than I am ; as Job's 
 leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the 
 habergeon, hinderances which others count as 
 iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and 
 rotten wood." 
 
 Adele here ran before him with her shuttle- 
 cock. "Away!" he cried harshly; "keep at 
 a distance, child ; or go in to Sophie !" Con- 
 tinuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I 
 ventured to recall him to the point whence he 
 had abruptly diverged. 
 
 " Did you leave the balcony, sir," I asked, 
 "when Mademoiselle Varens entered T' 
 
 I almost expected a rebufT for this hardly 
 well-timed question ; but, on the contrary, 
 waking out of his scowling abstraction, he 
 turned his eyes toward me, and the shade 
 seemed to clear ofi' his brow. 
 
 " Oh, I had forgotten Celine ! Vv'ell, to re- 
 sume. When I saw my charmer thus come in 
 accompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a 
 hiss, and the green snake of jealousy, rising 
 on undulating coils from the moonlit balconj', 
 glided within my waistcoat and eat its way in 
 two minutes to my heart's core. Strange 1" 
 lie exclaimed, suddenly starting again from the 
 point. " Strange that 1 should choose you for 
 the confident of all this, young lady ; passing 
 strange that you should listen to me quietly, 
 as if.it were the most usual thing in the world 
 for a man like me to tell stories of his opera- 
 mistresses to a quaint, inexperienced girl like 
 you ! But the last singularity explains the 
 tirst, as I intimated once before : you, with 
 your gravity, considerateness. and caution were 
 made to be the recipient of secrets. Besides, , 
 I know what sort of a mind I have placed in 
 communication with my own— I know it is one 
 not liable to take infection : it is a peculiar mind ; 
 it is a unique one. Happily I do not mean to 
 harm it : but if I did, it would not take harm 
 from me. The more you and I converse the 
 better : for while I can not blight you, you 
 may refresh me." After this digression he 
 proceeded. 
 
 "I remained in the balcony. 'They will 
 come to her boudoir no doubt,' thought I : 'let 
 me prepare an ambush.' So, putting my hand 
 in through the open window, I drew the curtain 
 over it, leaving only an opening through which 
 I could take observations ; then I closed the 
 casement, all but a chink just wide enough to 
 furnish an outlet to 'lovers' whispered vows.' 
 then I stole back to my chair ; and as I resumed 
 it the pair came in. My eye was quickly at the 
 
66 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 aperture. Celine's chambermaid entered, light- 
 ed a lamp, left it on the table and withdrew. 
 The couple were thus revealed to me clearly ; 
 both removed their cloaks, and there was ' the 
 Varans' shining in satin and jewels — my gifts 
 of course — and there was her companion in an 
 officer's uniform ; and I knew him for a young 
 roue of a vicomte — a brainless and vicious 
 youth whom I had sometimes met in society, 
 and had never thought of hating because I de- 
 spised him so absolutely. On recognizing him, 
 the fang of the snake — ^jealousy, was instantly 
 broken ; because at the same moment my love 
 for Celine sunk under an extinguisher. A 
 woman who could betray me for such a rival 
 was not worth contending for ; she deserved 
 only scorn ; less, however, than I, who had been 
 her dupe." 
 
 They began to talk ; their conversation eased 
 me completely : frivolous, mercenary, heartless, 
 and senseless, it was rather calculated to weary 
 than enrage a listener. A card of mine lay on 
 the table ; this being perceived brought my 
 name under discussion. Neither of them pos- 
 sessed energy or wit to belabor me soundly ; 
 but they insulted me as coarsely as they could 
 in their little way : especially Celine ; who even 
 waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects 
 — deformities she termed them. Now it had 
 been her custom to lanch out into fervent ad- 
 miration of what she called my 'beaute male ;' 
 wherein she differed diametrically from you, 
 who told me point-blank at the second inter- 
 view, that you did not think me handsome. 
 The contrast struck me at the time, and— ^" 
 
 Adele here came running up again. 
 
 " Monsieur, John has just been to say that 
 your agent has called and wishes to see you." 
 
 " Ah ! in that case I must abridge. Opening 
 the window, I walked in upon them ; liberated 
 Celine from my protection ; gave her notice to 
 vacate her hotel ; offered her a purse for im- 
 mediate exigencies ; disregarded screams, hys- 
 terics, prayers, protestations, convulsions ; 
 made an appointment with the vicomte for a 
 meeting at the Bois dc Boulogne. Next morn- 
 ing I had the pleasure of encountering him ; 
 left a bullet in one of his poor, etiolated arms, 
 feeble as the wing of a chicken in the pip, and 
 then thought I had done with the whole crew. 
 But, unluckily, the Varens, six months before, 
 had given me this fillette Adele, who she af- 
 firmed was my daughter ; and perhaps she may 
 be, though I see no proofs of such grim pater- 
 nity written in her countenance ; Pilot is more 
 like me than she. Some years after I had bro- 
 ken with the mother, she abandoned her child 
 and ran away to Italy with a musician, or 
 singer. I acknowledged no natural claim on 
 Adele's part to be supported by me ; nor do I 
 now acknowledge any, for I am not her father ; 
 but hearing that she was quite destitute, I e'en 
 took the poor thing out of the slime and mud 
 of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up 
 clean in the wholesome soil of an English coun- 
 try garden. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it ; 
 but now you know that it is the illegitimate off- 
 spring of a French opera girl, you will perhaps 
 think differently of your post and protegee ; you 
 •will be commg to mc some day with notice that 
 you have found another place — that you beg 
 me to look out for a new governess, &c.— eh ?" 
 
 " No — Adele is not answerable for either her 
 mother's faults or yours ; I have a regard for 
 her, and now that I know she is, in a sense, 
 parentless — forsaken by her mother and dis- 
 owned by you, sir— I shall cling closer to her 
 than before. How could I possibly prefer the 
 spoiled pet of a wealthy family, who would hate 
 her governess as a nuisance, to a lonely little 
 orphan, who leans toward her as a friend ?" 
 
 " Oh, that is the light in which you view it! 
 Well, I must go in now ; and you too ; it dark- 
 ens." 
 
 But I stayed out a few minutes longer with 
 Adele and Pilot — ran a race with her, and play- 
 ed a game of battledore and shuttlecock. 
 When we went in and I had removed her bon- 
 net and coat, I took her on my knee, kept her 
 there an hour, allowing her to prattle as she 
 liked, not rebuking even some little freedoms 
 and trivialities into which she was apt to stray 
 when much noticed ; and which betrayed in her 
 a superficiality of character, inherited probably 
 from her mother, hardly congenial to an En- 
 glish mind. Still she had her merits ; and I 
 was disposed to appreciate all that was good in 
 her to the utmost. I sought in her countenance 
 and features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but 
 found none ; no trait, no turn of expressioii 
 announced relationship. It was a pity ; if she 
 could but have been proved to resemble him, 
 he would have thought more of her. 
 
 It was not till after I had withdrawn to my 
 own chamber for the night, that I steadily re- 
 viewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me. 
 As he had said, there was probably nothing at 
 all extraordinary in the substance of the nar- 
 rative itself: a wealthy Englishman's passion 
 for a French dancer, and her treachery to him, 
 were every-day matters enough, no doubt, in 
 society ; but there was something decidedly 
 strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had 
 suddenly seized him, when he was in the act 
 of expressing the present contentment of his 
 mood, and his newly-revived pleasure in the 
 old hall and its environs. I meditated wonder 
 ingly on this incident ; but gradually quitting 
 it, as I found it for the present inexplicable, I 
 turned to the consideration of my master's 
 manner to myself The confidence he had 
 thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute 
 to my discretion ; I regarded and accepted it 
 as such. His deportment had now for some 
 weeks been more uniform toward me than 
 at first. I never seemed in his way ; he did 
 not take fits of chilling hauteur ; when he met 
 me unexpectedly the encounter seemed wel- 
 come ; he had always a word and sometimes a 
 smile for me ; when summoned by formal in- 
 vitation to his presence, I was honored by a 
 cordiality of reception that made me feel 1 
 really possessed the power to amuse him, and 
 that these evening conferences were sought as 
 much for his pleasure as for my benefit. 
 
 I, indeed, talked comparatively little ; but I 
 heard him talk with relish. It was his nature 
 to be communicative ; he liked to open to a 
 mind unacquainted with the world, glimpses of 
 its scenes and ways (I do not mean its corrupt 
 scenes and wicked ways, but such as derived* 
 their interest from the great scale on vvhicl* 
 they were acted, ihe strange novelty by which 
 they were characterized); and I -had a keen 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 57 
 
 delight in receiving the now ideas he offered, 
 in imagining the new pictures he portrayed, and 
 following him in thought through the new re- 
 gions he disclosed ; never startled or troubled 
 by one noxious allusion. 
 
 The ease of his manner freed me from pain- 
 ful restraint ; the friendly frankness, as correct 
 as cordial, with which he treated me, drew me 
 to him. I felt at times, as if he were my rela- 
 tion, rather than my master, yet he was impe- 
 rious sometimes still, but I did not mind that, I 
 saw it was his way. So happy, so gratified did 
 1 become with this new interest added to life, 
 that I ceased to pine after kindred : my thin 
 crescent-destiny seemed to enlarge, the blanks 
 of existence were filled up, my bodily health 
 improved ; I gathered iiesh and strength. 
 
 And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my 
 eyes 1 No, reader : gratitude, and many asso- 
 ciations, all pleasurable and genial, made his 
 face the object I best liked to see ; his pres- 
 ence in a room was more cheering than the 
 brightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his 
 faults, indeed, I could not, for he brought them 
 frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, 
 harsh to inferiority of every description ; in 
 my secret soul I knew that his great kindness 
 to me was balanced by unjust severity to oth- 
 ers. He was moody, too, unaccountably so ; 
 I more than once, when sent for to read to 
 him, found him sitting in his library alone, with 
 his head bent on his folded arms ; and, when 
 he looked up, a morose, almost a malignant, 
 scowl blackened his features. But I believe 
 that his moodiness, his harshness, and his for- 
 mer faults of morality (I say former, for now 
 he seemed corrected of them) had their source 
 in some cruel cross of fate. I believed he 
 was naturally a man of better tendencies, high- 
 er principles, and purer tastes than such as 
 circumstances had developed, education in- 
 stilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there 
 "Were excellent materials in him, though for the 
 present they hung together somewhat spoiled 
 and tangled. I can not deny- that I grieved for 
 his grief, whatever that was, and would have 
 given EQUch to assuage it. 
 
 Though I had now extinguished my candle 
 and was laid down in bed, I could not sleep, 
 for thinking of his look when he paused in the 
 avenue, and told how his destiny had risen up 
 before him and dared him to be happy at Thorrl^ 
 field. 
 
 "WhynotV'I asked myself: "what alien- 
 ates him from the house T Will he leave it 
 again soon 1 Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom 
 stayed here longer than a fortnight. at a time, 
 and he has now been resident eight weeks. If 
 he does go the change will be doleful. Suppose 
 he should be absent, spring, summer, and au- 
 tumn, how joyless sunshine and fine davs will 
 seem !" 
 
 I hardly know whether I had slept or not af- 
 ter this musing ; at any rate I started wide 
 awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar 
 and lugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just 
 above me. I wished I had kept my candle 
 burning : the night was drearily dark, my spirits 
 were depressed. I rose and sat up in bed, lis- 
 tening. The sound was hushed. 
 
 I tried again to sleep, but my heart beat anx- 
 iously, ray inward tranquillity was broken. The 
 
 clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just 
 then it seemed my chamber-door was touched, 
 as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a 
 way along the dark galle/y outside. I said, 
 "Who is there'!" Nothing answered. I was 
 chilled with fear. 
 
 All at once I remembered that it might be 
 Pilot ; who, when the kitchen-door chanced to 
 be left open, not unfrequently found his way 
 up to the threshold of Mr. Rochester's cham- 
 ber ; I had seen him lying there myself in the 
 mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat ; I 
 laid down. Silence composes the nerves, and 
 as an unbroken hush now reigned again through 
 the whole house, I began to feel the return of 
 slumber. But it was not fated that I should 
 sleep that night. A dream had scarcely ap- 
 proached my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared 
 by a marrow-freezing incident enough. 
 
 This was a demoniac laugh ; low, suppressed, 
 and deep, muttered, as it seemed, at the very 
 keyhole of my chamber-door. The head of 
 my bed was near the door, and I thought at 
 first the goblin-laugher stood at my bedside, 
 or, rather, crouched by my pillow ; but I rose, 
 looked round, and could see nothing ; while, as 
 I still gazed, the unnatural sound was reitera- 
 ted, and I knew it came from behind the pan- 
 els. My first impulse was to rise and fasten 
 the bolt ; my next, again to cry out, " Who is 
 there 1" 
 
 Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, 
 steps retreated up the gallery toward the third 
 story stair-case ; a door had lately been made to 
 shut in that stair-case ; I heard it open and 
 close, and all was still. 
 
 "Was that Grace Poole 1 and is she pos- 
 sessed with a deviH" thought I. Impossible 
 now to remain longer by myself, I must go to 
 Mrs. Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a 
 shawl ; I withdrew the bolt and opened the 
 door with a trembling hand. There was a can- 
 dle burning just outside, left on the matting in 
 the gallery. I was surprised at this circum- 
 stance, but still more was I amazed to perceive 
 the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke ; and, 
 while looking to the right hand and left, to find 
 whence these \)\x\e wreaths issued, I became 
 further aware of a strong smell of burning. 
 
 Something creaked ; it was a door ajar : and 
 that door was Mr. Rochester's, and the smoke 
 rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no 
 more of Mrs. Fairfax ; I thought no more of 
 Grace Poole or the laugh ; in an iilstant I was 
 within the chamber. Tongues of flame darted 
 round the bed ; the curtains were on fire. In 
 the midst of blaze and vapor, Mr. Rochester lay 
 stretched motionless, in deep sleep. 
 
 "Wake ! wake !" I cried — I shook him, but 
 he only murmured and turned ; the smoke had 
 stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost; 
 the very sheets were kindling. I rushed to his 
 basin and ewer ; fortunately, one was wide 
 and the other deep, and both were filled with 
 water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed^nd 
 its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought 
 my own water-jug, baptised the couch afresh, 
 and by God's aid, succeeded in extinguishing 
 the flames which were devouring it. 
 
 The hiss of the quenched element, the break 
 age of a pitcher which I flung from my hand 
 when I bad emptied it, and above all, tbe splash 
 
58 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 of the shower-bath 1 had liberally bestowed, 
 roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was 
 now dark, I knew he was awake ; because I 
 heard him fulminating strange anathemas at 
 finding himself lying in a pool of water. 
 
 " Is there a flood V he cried. 
 
 " No, sir," I answered ; " but there has been 
 a fire ; get up, do, you are quenched now ; I 
 will fetch you a candle " 
 
 '• In the name of all the elves in Christendom, 
 is that Jane Eyre 1" he demanded. " What 
 have you done with me, witch, sorceress 1 
 Who is in the room besides you ! Have you 
 plotted to drown me 1" 
 
 " I will fetch you a candle, sir ; and in Heav- 
 en's name, get up. Somebody has plotted some- 
 thing ; you can not too soon find out who and 
 what It is.'' 
 
 "There — I am up now; but at your peril 
 you fetch a candle yet ; wait two minutes till I 
 get into some dry garments, if any dry there be 
 — yes, here is my dressing-gown, now run !" 
 
 I did run ; I brought the candle which still 
 remained in the gallery. He took it from my 
 hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all 
 blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched, 
 the carpet round swimming in water. 
 
 " What is it 1 and who did it V he asked. 
 
 I briefly related to him what had transpired ; 
 the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery ; 
 the step ascending to the third story ; the 
 smoke — the smell of fire which had conducted 
 me to his room ; in what state I had found 
 matters there, and how I had deluged him with 
 all the water I could lay hands on. 
 
 He listened very gravely ; his face, as I went 
 on, expressed more concern than astonishment ; 
 he did not immediately speak when I had con- 
 cluded. 
 
 " Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax 1" I asked. 
 
 " Mrs. Fairfax 1 No — what the deuce would 
 you call her for 1 What can she do 1 Let her 
 sleep unmolested." 
 
 "Then. I will fetch Leah, and wake John and 
 his wife." 
 
 " Not at all ; just be still. You have a shawl 
 on ; if you are not warm enough, you may take 
 my cloak yonder ; wrap it about you, and sit 
 down in the arm-chair ; there — I will put it on. 
 Now place your feet on the stool, to keep them 
 out of the wet. I am going to leave you a few 
 minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain 
 where you are till I return ; be as still as a 
 mouse. I must pay a visit to this second story. 
 Don't move, remember, or call any one." 
 
 He went ; I watched the light withdraw. He 
 passed up the gallery very softly, unclosed the 
 stair-case door with as little noise as possible, 
 shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I 
 was left in total darkness. I listened for some 
 noise, but heard nothing. A very long time 
 elapsed. I grew weary ; it was cold, in spite 
 of the cloak ; and then I did not see the use of 
 staying, as I was not to rouse the house. I 
 was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester's 
 displeasure, by disobeying his orders, when the 
 light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery- 
 wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the 
 matting. " I hope it is he," thought I, " and 
 not something worse." 
 
 He re-entered pale and very gloomy. " I 
 have found it all out," said "he, selling his 
 
 candle down on the wash-stand ; " it is as I 
 thought." 
 
 " How, sir r' 
 
 He made no reply, but stood with his arms 
 folded, looking on the ground. At the end of a 
 few minutes he inquired, in rather a peculiar 
 tone — 
 
 " I forget whether you said you saw any 
 thing when you opened your chamber-door." 
 
 "No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground." 
 
 "But you heard an odd laugh 1 You have 
 heard that laugh before I should think, or some- 
 thing like iti" 
 
 "Yes, sir; there is a woman who sews here, 
 called Grace Poole — she laughs in that way. 
 She is a singular person." 
 
 "Just so. Grace Poole r you have guessed 
 it. She is, as you say, singular — very. Well, 
 I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am 
 glad that you are the only person, besides my- 
 self, acquainted with the precise details of to- 
 night's incident. You are no talking fool ; say 
 nothing about it. I will account for this state 
 of afl'airs (pointing to the bed) : and now return 
 to your own room. I shall do very well on the 
 sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It 
 is near four ; in two hours the servants will be 
 up." 
 
 " Good-night then, sir," said I, departing. 
 
 He seemed surprised — very inconsistently so, 
 as he had just told me to go. 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed, "are you quitting 
 me already ; and in that way 1" 
 
 " You said I might go, sir." 
 
 " But not without taking leave ; not without 
 a word or two of acknowledgment and good 
 will ; not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. 
 Why, you have saved my life ! snatched me 
 from a horrible and excruciating death ! and 
 you walk past me as if we were mutual stran- 
 gers ! At least shake hands." 
 
 He held out his hand ; I gave him mine : he 
 took it first in one, then in both his own. 
 
 " You have saved my life ; I have a pleasure 
 in owing you so immense a debt. I can not 
 say more. Nothing else that has being would 
 have been tolerable to me in the character of 
 creditor for such an obligation ; but you. it is 
 different — I feel your benefits no burden, Jane." 
 
 He paused ; gazed at me ; words almost visi- 
 ble trembled on his lips — but his voice was 
 checked. 
 
 " Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, 
 benefit, burden, obligation in the case." 
 
 " I knew," he continued, " you would do me 
 good in some way, at some time ; I saw it in 
 your eyes when I first beheld you ; their ex- 
 pression and smile did not — (again he, stopped) 
 — did not (he proceeded, hastily) strike delight 
 to my very inmost heart so for nothing. Peo- 
 ple talk of natural sympathies ; I have heard 
 of good genii ; there are grains of truth in the 
 wildest fable. My cherished preserver, good- 
 night !" 
 
 Strange energy w'as 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 icill go ;" 
 
 " I am cold, sir." 
 
 " Cold ? Yes— and standing in a pool. Go 
 then. .Tane : go !" But he still retained my 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 59 
 
 hand, and I could not free it. I bethought my- 
 self of an expedient. 
 
 " I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir," 
 said I. 
 
 " Well, leave me :" he relaxed his fingers, 
 and I was gone. 
 
 I regained my couch, but never thought of 
 sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on 
 a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of 
 trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought 
 sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a 
 shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah ; and now 
 and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, 
 bore my spirit triumphantly toward the bourne ; 
 but I could not reach it, even in fancy — a coun- 
 teracting 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. Roches- 
 ter on the day which followed this sleepless 
 night ; I wanted to hear his voice again, yet 
 feared to meet his eye. During the early part 
 of the morning, I momentarily expected his 
 coming. He was not in the frequent habit of 
 '. entering the school- room ; but he did step in for 
 a few minutes sometimes, and I had the impres- 
 sion that he was sure to visit it tliat day. 
 
 But the morning passed just as usual ; noth- 
 ing happened to interrupt the quiet course of 
 ;e's studies ; only, soon after breakfast, I 
 ..•■.ird some bustle in the neighborhood of Mr. 
 Rochester's chamber, Mrs. Fairfax's voice, and 
 Leah's, and the cook's — that is, John's wife — and 
 even John's own gruff tones. There were ex- 
 clamations of " What a mercy master was not 
 burned in his bed !" "It is always dangerous 
 to keep a candle lit at night." " How provi- 
 ; dential that he had presence of mind to think 
 ' of the water-jug!"' "I wonder he waked no- 
 I body !" " It is to be hoped he will not take 
 cold with sleeping on the library sofa," &c. 
 
 To much confabulation succeeded a sound of 
 scrubbing and setting to rights ; and when I 
 passed the room, in going down stairs to din- 
 ner, I saw through the open door that all was 
 again restored to complete order, only the bed 
 was stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up 
 in the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glass 
 dimmed with smoke. I was about to address 
 her, for I wished to know what account had 
 been given of the affair ; but, on advancing, I 
 saw a second person in the chamber — a woman 
 sitting on a chair by the bedside, and sewing 
 rings to new curtains. That woman was no 
 other than Grace Poole. 
 
 Tliere she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as 
 usual, in her brown stuff gown, her check apron, 
 white handkerchief, and cap. She was intent 
 on her work, in which her whole thoughts 
 seemed absorbed ; on her hard forehead, and in 
 ber commonplace features, was nothing either 
 of the paleness or desperation one would have 
 expected to see marking the countenance of a 
 woman who had attempted murder, and whose 
 intended victim had followed her last night to 
 her lair, and, as I believed, charged her with the 
 crime she wished to perpetrate. I was amazed 
 
 — confounded. She looked up while I still gazed 
 at her ; no start, no increase or failure of color 
 betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt, or fear 
 of detection. She said, " Good morning, miss," 
 in her usual phlegmatic and brief manner ; and^ 
 taking up another ring and more tape, went on 
 with her sewing. 
 
 "I will put her to' some test," thought I ; 
 " such absolute impenetrability is past compre- 
 hension." 
 
 " Good morning, Grace," I said. "Has any 
 thing happened here"! I thought I heard tho 
 servants all talking together a while ago." 
 
 " Only master had been reading in his bed 
 last night; he fell asleep with his candle lit, 
 and the curtains got on fire ; but, fortunately, 
 he awoke before the bed-clothes or the wood- 
 work caught, and contrived-to quench the flame 
 with the water in the ewer." 
 
 "A strange affair !" I said, in a low voice ; 
 then, looking at her fixedly — " Did Mr. Roch- 
 ester wake nobody 1 Did bo one bear him: 
 movel" 
 
 She again raised her eyes to me, and this 
 time there was something of consciousness in 
 their expression. She seemed to examine me 
 warily ; then she answered — 
 
 " The servants sleep so far off, you know,' 
 miss, they would not be likely to hear. Mrs. 
 Fairfax's room and yours are the nearest to 
 master's ; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard noth- 
 ing. When people get elderly, they often sleep 
 heavy." She paused, and then added, with a 
 sort of assumed indifference, but still in a mark- 
 ed and significant tone, " But you are young, 
 miss, and I should say a light sleeper ; perhaps 
 you may have heard a noise V\ 
 
 " I did," said I, dropping my voice, so tha 
 Leah, who was still polishing the panes, could 
 not hear me ; " and at first I thought it was 
 Pilot; but Pilot can not laugh ; and I am cer- 
 tain I heard a laugh, and a strange one." 
 
 She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it 
 carefully, threaded her needle vi'ith a steady hand, 
 and then observed, with perfect composure — 
 
 "It is hardly likely master would laugh, I 
 should think, miss, when he was in such dan- 
 ger ; you must have been dreaming." 
 
 " I was not dreaming," I said, with some 
 warmth, for her brazen coolness provoked me. 
 Again she looked at me, and with the same 
 scrutinizing and conscious eye. 
 
 " Have you told master that you heard a 
 laugh"" she inquired. 
 
 " I have not had the opportunity of speaking 
 to him this morning." 
 
 " You did not think of opening your door 
 and looking out into the gallery 1" she further 
 asked. 
 
 She appeared to be cross-questioning me — 
 attempting to draw from me information una- 
 wares ; the idea struck me that if she discover- 
 ed I knew or suspected her guilt, she would be 
 playing off some of her malignant pranks on 
 me ; I thought it advisable to be on my guard. 
 
 " On the contrary," said I, " I bolted my 
 door." 
 
 " Then you are not in the habit of bolting 
 your door every night before you get into bed V 
 
 Fiend ! she wants to know my habits, that 
 she may lay her plans accordingly I Indigna- 
 tion again prevailed over prudence. I replied, 
 
60 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 sharply, " Hitherto I have often omitted to fas- 
 ten the bolt— I did not think it necessary. I 
 was not aware any danger or annoyance was to 
 be dreaded at Thornfield Hall ; but in future 
 (and I laid marked stress on the words) I shall 
 take good care to make all secure before I ven- 
 ture to lie down." 
 
 " It will be wise so to do," was her answer. 
 " This neighborhood is as quiet as any I know, 
 and I never heard of the Hall being attempted 
 by robbers since it was a house ; though there 
 are hundreds of pounds' worth of plate in the 
 plate-closet, as is well known. And, you see, 
 for such a large house there are very few ser- 
 vants, because master has never lived here 
 much ; and when he does come, being a bache- 
 lor, he needs little waiting on ; but I always 
 think it best to err on the safe side ; a door is 
 soon fastened, and it is as well to have a drawn 
 bolt between one and any mischief that may be 
 about. A deal of people, miss, are for trusting 
 all to Providence ; but I say Providence will 
 not dispense with the means, though he often 
 blesses them when they are used discreetly." 
 And here she closed her harangue — a long one 
 for her, and uttered with the demureness of a 
 Quakeress. 
 
 I still stood absolutely dumbfoundered at what 
 appeared to rae her miraculous self-possession 
 and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the cook 
 entered. 
 
 " Mrs. Poole," said she, addressing Grace, 
 " the servants' dinner will soon be ready ; will 
 you come down ?" 
 
 " No ; just put my pint of porter and a bit of 
 pudding on a tray, and I'll carry it up stairs " 
 
 "You'll have some meaf!" 
 
 " Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese — that's 
 all." 
 
 "And the sago-" 
 
 " Never mind it, at present ; I shall be com- 
 ing down before tea-time ; I'll make it myself" 
 
 ThiD cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. 
 Fairfax was waiting for me ; so I departed. 
 
 I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the 
 curtain conflagration during dinner, so much 
 was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the 
 enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still 
 more in pondering the problem of her position 
 at Thornfield ; in questioning why she had not 
 been given into custody that morning, or at the 
 very least dismissed from her master's service. 
 He had almost as much as declared his convic- 
 tion of her criminality last night ; what myste- 
 rious cause withheld him from accusing herl 
 Why had he enjoined me to secresyl It was 
 strange — a bold, vindictive, and haughty gen- 
 tleman seemed somehow in the power of one 
 of the meanest of his dependents ; so much in 
 her power that even when she lifted her hand 
 against his life he dared not openly charge her 
 "With the attempt, much less punish her for it. 
 
 Had Grace been young and handsome, I 
 should have been tempted to think that tender- 
 er feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. 
 Rochester in her behalf; but, hard- favored and 
 matronly as she was, the idea could not be ad- 
 mitted. "Yet," I reflected, "she has been 
 young once — her youth would be cotemporary 
 ■with her master's ; Mrs. Fairfax told me, once, 
 she had lived here many years. I don't think 
 she caa ever have been pretty ; but, for aught I 
 
 know, she may possess originality and strength 
 of character to compensate for the want of per- 
 sonal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an ama- 
 teur of the decided and eccentric ; Grace is 
 eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a 
 freak very possible to a nature so sudden and 
 headstrong as his) has dehvered him into her 
 power, and she now exercises over his actions 
 a secret influence, the result of his own indis- 
 cretion, which he can not shake ofl', and dare 
 not disregard 1" But, having reached this point 
 of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat figure, 
 and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred 
 so distinctly to my mind's eye, that I thought, 
 " No ; impossible ! my supposition can not be 
 correct. Yet," suggested the secret voice 
 which talks to us in our own hearts, " you are 
 not beautiful, either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester 
 approves you ; at any rate, you have often felt 
 as if he did ; and last night — remember his 
 words ; remember his look ; remember his 
 voice !" 
 
 I well remembered all; language, glance, 
 and tone seemed at the moment vividly renew- 
 ed. I was now in the school-room ; Adele 
 was drawing ; I bent over her and directed her 
 pencil. She looked up with a sort of start. 
 
 " Qu'avez-vous, mademoiselle 1" said she; 
 " Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille, et vos 
 joues sont rouges, mais rouges comme des ce- 
 rises !" 
 
 "I am hot, Adele, with stooping!" She 
 went on sketching, I went on thinking. 
 
 I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful 
 notion I had been conceiving respecting Grace 
 Poole — it disgusted me. I compared myself 
 with her, and found we were different. Bes- 
 sie Leaven had said I was quite a lady, and 
 she spoke truth — I was a lady. And now I 
 looked much better than I did when Bessie saw 
 me — I had more color and more flesh ; more 
 life, more vivacity ; because I had brighter 
 hopes and keener enjoyments. 
 
 " Evening approaches," said I, as I looked 
 toward the window. " I have never heard Mr. 
 Rochester's voice or step in the house to-day ; 
 but surely I shall see him before night ; I fear- 
 ed the meeting in the morning, now I desire it, 
 because expectation has been so long baffled 
 that it is grown impatient." 
 
 When dusk actually closed, and when Adele 
 left me to go and play in the nursery with So- 
 phie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for 
 the bell to ring below ; I listened for Leah com- 
 ing up with a message ; I fancied sometimes I 
 heard Mr. Rochesters own tread, and I turned 
 to the door, expecting it to open and admit him. 
 The door remained shut ; darkness only came 
 in through the window. Still it was not late ; 
 he often sent for me at seven and eight o'clock, 
 and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be 
 wholly disappointed to-night, when I had so 
 many things to say to him ! I wanted again 
 to introduce the subject of Grace Poole, and to 
 hear what he would answer; I wanted to ask 
 him plainly if he really believed it was she who 
 had made last night's hideous attempt j and, if 
 so. why he kept her wickedness a secret. It 
 little mattered whether my ctinosity irritated 
 him ; I knew the pleasure of vexing and sooth 
 ing him by turns ; it was one I chiefly delighted 
 in, and a sure instinct always prevented me 
 
//yi- /n.^r^y^- 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 61 
 
 from going too far ; beyond the verge of provo- 
 cation I never ventured-^on the extreme brink 
 I liked well to try my skill. Retaining every 
 minute form of respect, every propriety of my 
 station, I could still meet him in "argument 
 vrithout fear or uneasy restraint : this suited 
 both liim and me. 
 
 A tread creaked on the stairs at last ; liCah 
 made her appearance, but it was only to inti- 
 mate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax's room. 
 Thither I repaired, glad at least to go down 
 stairs, for that brought me, I imagined, nearer 
 to Mr. Rochester's presence. 
 
 " You must want your tea," said the good 
 lady, as I joined her, " you ate so little at din- 
 ner. I am afraid," she continued, "you are 
 not well to-day ; you look flushed and feverish." 
 
 " Oh, quite well ! I never felt better." 
 
 " Then you must prove it by evincing a good 
 appetite ; will you fill the tea-pot while I knit 
 off this needle 1" Having completed her task, 
 she rose to draw down the blind, which she 
 had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of 
 making the most of daylight, though dusk was 
 now fast deepening into total obscurity. 
 
 " It is fair to-night," said she, as she looked 
 through the panes, " though not starlight. Mr. 
 Rochester has, on the whole, had a favorable 
 day for his journey." 
 
 " Journey ! Is Mr. Rochester gone any where 1 
 I did not know he was out." 
 
 " Oh, he set off the moment he had break- 
 fasted. " He is gone to the Leas, Mr. Eshton's 
 place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I 
 believe there is quite a party assembled there ; 
 Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, 
 and others." 
 
 " Do you expect him back tonight 1" 
 
 " No, nor to-morrow either ; I should think 
 he is very likely to stay a week or more ; when 
 these fine, fashionable people get together, they 
 are so surrounded by elegance and gayety, so 
 well provided with all that can please and en- 
 tertain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gen- 
 tlemen, especially, are often in request on such 
 occasions, and Mr. Rochester is so talented 
 and so lively in society, that I believe he is a 
 general favorite ; the ladies are very fond of 
 him, though you would not think his appearance 
 calculated to recommend him particularly in 
 their eyes ; but I suppose his acquirements and 
 abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, 
 make amends for any little fault of look." 
 
 " Are there ladies at the Leas 1" 
 
 "There are Mrs. Eshton and her three 
 daughters — very elegant young ladies indeed ; 
 and there are the honorable Blanche and Mary 
 Ingram ; most beautiful women, I suppose. In- 
 deed, I have seen Slanche, six or seven years 
 since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She 
 came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr. 
 Rochester gave. You should have seen the 
 dining-room that day — how richly it was deco- 
 rated, how brilliantly lighted up ! I should think 
 there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present — 
 all of the first county-families ; and Miss In- 
 gram was considered the belle of the evening." 
 
 " You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax : what 
 was she like 1" 
 
 "Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors 
 were thrown open ; and, as it was Christmas- 
 time, the servants were allowed to assemble in 
 
 ttie hall, to hear some of the ladies sing and 
 play. Mr. Rochester would have me to come 
 in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watch- 
 ed them. I never saw a more splendid scene : 
 the ladies were magnificently dressed ; most of 
 them — at least most of the younger ones — look- 
 ed handsome ; but Miss Ingram was certainly 
 the queen." , 
 
 " And what was she likeV 
 
 " Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders ; long, 
 graceful neck ; olive complexion, dark and clear ; 
 noble features ; eyes rather like Mr. Roches- 
 ter's — large and black, and as brilliant as her 
 jewels. And then she had such a fine head of 
 hair, raven-black, and so becomingly arranged : 
 a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the 
 longest, the glossiest curls I ever saw. She 
 was dressed in pure white ; an amber-colored 
 scarf was passed over her shoulder and across 
 her breast, tied at the side, and descending in 
 long, fringed ends below her knee. She wore 
 an amber-colored flower, too, in her hair; it 
 contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls." 
 
 " She was greatly admired, of course 1" 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and not only for her beauty, 
 but for her accomplishments. She was one of 
 the ladies who sang ; a gentleman accompanied 
 her on the piano. .She and Mr. Rochester sung 
 a duet." 
 
 " Mr. Rochester ! I was hot aware he could 
 sing." 
 
 " Oh ! he has a fine bass voice, and an ex- 
 cellent taste for music." 
 
 " And Miss Ingram : what sort of a voice had 
 she?" ■ 
 
 " A very rich and powerful one : she sang de- 
 lightfully ; it was a treat to listen to her ; and 
 she played afterward. I am no judge of music, 
 but Mr. Rochester is ; and I heard him say her 
 execution was remarkably good." 
 
 " And this beautiful and accomplished lady is 
 not yet married V 
 
 " It appears not. I fancy neither she nor her 
 sister have very large fortunes. Old Lord In- 
 gram's estates .were chiefly entailed, and tho 
 eldest son came in for every thing almost." 
 
 " But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gen- 
 tleman has taken a fancy to her : Mr. Roches- 
 ter, for instance. He is rich, is he not 1" 
 
 " Oh ! yes. But, you see, there is a consid- 
 erable difference in age : Mr. Rochester is near 
 forty ; she is but twenty-five." 
 
 "What of that? More unequal matches are 
 made every day." 
 
 " True ; yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. 
 Rochester would entertain an idea of the sort. 
 But you eat nothing : you have scarcely tasted 
 since you began tea." 
 
 " No ; I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let 
 me have another cupl" 
 
 I was about again to revert to the probability 
 of a union between Mr. Rochester and the beau- 
 tiful Blanche : but AdMe came in, and the con- 
 versation was turned into another channel. 
 
 When once more done, I reviewed the in 
 formation I had got ;i looked into my heart, ex 
 amined its thoughts a id feelings, and endeavor 
 ed to bring back with a strict hand such as had 
 been straying through imagination's boundless 
 and trackless waste, nto the safe fold of com 
 mon sense. 
 
 Arraigned at my i-w^ri bar, Memory haviog 
 
6fl 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, senti- 
 ments I had been cherishing since last night — 
 of the general state of mind in which I had in- 
 dulged for nearly a fortnight past ; Reason hav- 
 ing come forward and told, in her own quiet 
 way, a plain, unvarnished tale, sliowing how I 
 had rejected the real and rabidly devoured the 
 ideal ; I pronounced judgment to this effect : 
 
 That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never 
 breathed the breath of life : that a more fantas- 
 tic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet 
 lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar. 
 
 " Fou," I said, " a favorite with Mr. Roches- 
 ter 1 You gifted with the power of pleasing 
 him? You of importance to him in any wayl 
 Go ! your folly sickens me. And you have de- 
 rived pleasure from occasional tokens of pref- 
 erence — equivocal tokens shown by a gentle- 
 man of family, and a man of the world, to a 
 dependent and a novice. How dared you 1 
 Poor stupid dupe ! Could not even self-inter- 
 est make you wiser 1 You repeated to your- 
 self this morning the brief scene of last night 1 
 Cover your face and be ashamed ! He said 
 something in praise of your eyes, did he 1 Blind 
 puppy ! Open their bleared lids and look on 
 your own accursed senselessness ! It does 
 good to no woman to be flattered by her supe- 
 rior, who can not possibly intend to marry her ; 
 and it is madness iri all women to let a secret 
 love kindle within them, which, if unreturned 
 and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it ; 
 and, if discovered and responded to, must lead, 
 igms faluus-Yike, into miry wilds whence there 
 is no extrication. 
 
 " Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence : 
 to-morrow, place the glass before you, and draw 
 m chalk your own picture, faithfully ; without 
 softening one defect : omit no harsh line, smooth 
 away no displeasing irregularity; write under 
 it, ' Portrait of a governess, disconnected, poor, 
 and plain.' 
 
 " Afterward, take a piece of smooth ivory — 
 you have one prepared in your drawing-box: 
 take your pallet, mix your freshest, finest, 
 clearest tints ; choose your most delicate cam- 
 el-hair pencils ; delineate carefully the loveliest 
 face you can imagine ; paint it in your softest 
 shades and sweetest hues, according to the de- 
 scription given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche In- 
 gram : remember the raven ringlets, the orien- 
 tal eye ; what ! you revert to Mr. Rochester's 
 as a model ! Order ! No, snivel ! no senti- 
 ment I no regret ! I will endure only sense 
 and resolution. Recall the august yet harmo- 
 nious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust : 
 let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and 
 the delicate hand ; omit neither diamond ring 
 nor gold bracelet ; portray faithfully the attire, 
 aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf 
 and golden rose — call it 'Blanche, an accom- 
 plished lady of rank.' 
 
 " Whenever, in future, you should chance to 
 fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take 
 out these two pictures and compare them ; say, 
 ' Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble 
 lady's love, if he chose ta strive for it ; is it 
 likely he would waste a serious thought on this 
 indigent and insignificant plebeian 1 ' 
 
 " I'll do it," I resolved ; and having framed 
 this determination, I grew .jalm, and fell asleep. 
 
 I kept my word. An ho ur or two sufficed to 
 
 sketch my own portrait in crayons ; and in less 
 than a fortnight I had oompleted an ivory min- 
 iature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. It 
 looked a lovely face enough, and when com- 
 pared with the real head in chalk, the contrast 
 was as great as self-control could desire. I 
 derive<l benefit from the task : it had kept my 
 head and hands employed, and had given force 
 and fixedness to the new impressions I wished 
 to stamp indelibly on my heart. 
 
 Ere long I had reason to congratulate myself 
 on the course of wholesome discipline to which 
 I had thus forced my feelings to submit : thanks . 
 to it, I v/as able to meet subsequent occurrences 
 with a decent calm : which, had they found me 
 unprepared, I should, probably, have been un- 
 equal to maintain even externally. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A WEEK passed, and no news arrived of Mr. 
 Rochester : ten days, and still he did not come. 
 Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised 
 if he were to go straight from the Leas to Lon- 
 don, and thence to the continent, and not show 
 his face again at Thornfield for a year to come : 
 he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner 
 quite as abrupt and unexpected. When I heard 
 this I was beginning to feel a strange chill and 
 failing at the heart. I was actually permitting 
 myself to experience a sickening sense of dis- 
 appointment : but rallying my wits, and recol- 
 lecting my principles, 1 at once called my 
 sensations to order ; and it was wonderful how 
 I got over the temporary blunder — how I cleared 
 up the mistake of supposing Mr. Rochester's 
 movements a matter in which I had any cause 
 to take a vital interest. Not that I humbled 
 myself by a slavish notion of inferiority : on the 
 contrary, I just said, 
 
 " You have nothing to do with the master of 
 Thornfield, further than to receive the salary- 
 he gives you for teaching his protegee, and to 
 be grateful for such respectful and kind treat- 
 ment as, if you do your duty, you have a right 
 to expect at his hands. Be sure that is the 
 only tie he seriously acknowledges between you 
 and him : so don't make him the object of your 
 fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so 
 forth. He is not of your order : keep to your 
 caste ; and be too self-respecting to lavish the 
 love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, 
 where such a gift is not wanted and would be 
 despised." 
 
 I went on with my day's business tranquilly; 
 but, ever and anon, vague suggestion kept wan- 
 dering across my brain of reasons why I should 
 quit Thornfield ; and I kept involuntarily fram- 
 mg advertisements and pondering conjectures 
 about new situations : these thoughts I did not 
 think it necessary to check ; they might germi- 
 nate and bear fruit if they could. 
 
 Mr. Rochester had been absent upward of a 
 fortnight, when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a 
 letter. 
 
 " It is from the master," said she, as she 
 looked at the direction. "Now I suppose we 
 shall know whether we are to expect his return 
 or not." 
 
 And while she broke the seal and perused the 
 document, I went on taking my coffee (we were 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 63 
 
 at breakfast), it was hot, and I attributed to that 
 circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose 
 to my face. Why my hand shook, and why I 
 involuntarily spilled half the contents of my cup 
 into my saucer, I did not choose to consider. 
 
 " Well — I sometimes think we are too quiet ; 
 but we run a chance of being busy enough now, 
 for a little while at least," said Mrs. Fairfax, 
 still holding the note before her spectacles. 
 
 Ere I permitted myself to request an expla- 
 nation, I tied the string of Adele's pinafore, 
 which happened to be loose : having helped her 
 also to another bun and refilled her mug with 
 milk, I said, nonchalantly, 
 
 " Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, 
 I suppose 1" 
 
 " Indeed he is — in three days, he says ; that 
 will be next Thursday ; and not alone either. 
 I don't know how many of the fine people at 
 the Leas are coming with him ; he sends direc- 
 tions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared ; 
 and the library and drawing-rooms are to be 
 cleaned out ; and I am to get more kitchen 
 hands from the George Inn, at Millcote, and 
 from wherever else I can ; and the ladies will 
 bring their maids and the gentlemen their 
 valets ; so we shall have a full house of it." 
 And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and 
 hastened away to commence operations. 
 
 The three days were, as she had foretold, 
 busy enough. I had thought all the rooms at 
 Thornfield beautifully clean and well-arranged ; 
 but it appears I was mistaken. Three women 
 were got to help ; and such scrubbing, such 
 brushing, such washing of paint and beating 
 of carpets, such taking down and putting up 
 of pictures, such polishing of mirrors and lus- 
 ters, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, and 
 airing of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I 
 never beheld, either before or since. Adele 
 ran quite wild in the midst of it : the prepara- 
 tions for company and the prospect of their ar- 
 rival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies. She 
 would have Sophie to look over all her " toi- 
 lettes" as she called frocks ; to furbish up any 
 that were "passees," and to air and arrange 
 the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper 
 about m the front chambers, jumping on and off 
 the bedsteads, and lie on the matresses and 
 piled-up bolsters and pillows before the enor- 
 mous fires roaring in the chimneys. From school 
 duties she was exonerated — Mrs. Fairfax had 
 pressed me into her service, and I was all day 
 in the store-room, helping (or hindering) her 
 and the cook ; learning to make custards and 
 cheesecakes, and French pastry, to truss gaaie 
 and garnish dessert-dishes. 
 
 The party were expected to arrive on Thurs- 
 d£^ afternoon, in time for dinner at six. During 
 the intervening period I had no time to nurse 
 chimera ; and, I believe, I was as active and 
 gay as any body— Adele e.xcepted. 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 por- 
 tents, and dark conjectures. This was when 
 I chanced to see the third story stair-case door 
 (which of late had always been kept locked) 
 open slowly, and give passage to the form of 
 Grace Poole, m prim cap, white apron, and 
 handkerchief — when I watched her glide along 
 the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list | 
 
 slipper ; when I saw her look into the bustling, 
 topsy-turvy bedrooms — ^just say a word, per- 
 haps, to the charwomen about the proper way 
 to polish a grate, or clean a marble mantle-piece, 
 or take stains from papered walls, and then pass 
 on. She would thus descend to the kitchen 
 once a-day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate 
 pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her 
 pot of porter with her, for her private solace, 
 m her own gloomy upper haunt. Only one 
 hour in the twenty-four did she pass with her 
 fellow-servants below ; all the rest of her time 
 was spent in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber 
 of the second story ; there she sat and sewed 
 — and probably laughed drearily to herself — as 
 companionless as a prisoner in his dungeon. 
 
 The strangest thing of all was, that not a 
 soul in the house, except me, noticed her hab- 
 its, or seemed to marvel at them ; no one dis- 
 cussed her position or employment, no one 
 pitied her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed, 
 overheard a part of a dialogue between Leah 
 and one of the charwomen, of which Grace 
 formed the subject. Leah had been saying 
 something I had not caught, and the charwom- 
 an remarked : 
 
 " She gets good wages, I guess 1" 
 
 " Yes," said Leah ; " I wish I had as good : 
 not that mine are to complain of — there's no 
 stinginess at Thornfield — but they're not one- 
 fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives. And she 
 is laying by : she goes every quarter to the 
 bank at Millcote. I should not wonder but she 
 has saved enough to keep her independent if 
 she liked to leave, but I suppose she's got used 
 to the place, and then she's not forty yet, and 
 strong and able for any thing. It is too soon 
 for her to give up business." 
 
 " She's a good hand, I dare say," said the 
 charwoman. 
 
 " Ah ! she understands what she has to do ; 
 nobody better," rejoined Leah, significantly ; 
 " and it is not every one could fill her shoes, 
 not for all the money she gets." 
 
 "That it is not !" was the reply. "I won- 
 der whether master — " 
 
 The charwoman was going on, but here 
 Leah turned and perceived me, and she in- 
 stantly gave her companion a nudge. 
 
 "Doesn't she know?" I heard the woman 
 whisper. 
 
 Leah shook her head, and the conversation 
 was, of course, dropped. All I had gathered 
 from it amounted to this, that there was a mys- 
 tery at Thornfield, and that from participation 
 in that mystery I was purposely excluded. 
 
 Thursday came : all work had been complet- 
 ed the previous evening, carpets were laid 
 down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white 
 counterpanes spread, toilet-tables arranged, fur- 
 niture rubbed, flowers piled in vases ; both 
 chambers and saloons looked as fresh and 
 bright as hands could make them. The hall, 
 too, was scoured, and the great carved clock, 
 as well as the steps and banisters of the 
 stair-case, were polished to the brightness of 
 glass ; in the dining-room, the sideboard flash- 
 ed 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 
 
64 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 gold watch ; for it was her part to receive the 
 company — to conduct the ladies to their rooms, 
 &c. Adcle, too, would be dressed, though I 
 thought she had little chance of being intro- 
 duced to the party, that day at least. How- 
 ever, to please her, I allowed Sophie to apparel 
 her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For 
 myself, I had no need to make any change ; I 
 should not be called upon to quit my sanctum 
 of the school-room, for a sanctum it was now 
 become to me, " a very pleasant refuge in time 
 of trouble." 
 
 It had been a mild, serene, spring day : one 
 of those days which toward the end of March 
 or the beginning of April, rise shining over the 
 earth as heralds of summer. It was drawing 
 to an end now, but the evening was even warm, 
 and I sat at work in the school-room with the 
 window open. 
 
 "It gets late,'' said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in 
 rustling state. " I am glad I ordered dinner an 
 hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned, 
 for it is past six now. I have sent John down 
 to the gates to see if there is any thing on the 
 road : one can see a long way from thence in 
 the direction of Millcote." She went to the 
 window. "Here he is !" said she. "Well, 
 John (leaning out), any news 1" 
 
 " They're coming, ma'am," was the ansvi'er. 
 "They'll be here in ten minutes." 
 
 Adele flew to the window. I followed, tak- 
 ing care to stand on one side, so that, screened 
 by the curtain, I could see without being seen. 
 
 The ten minutes John had given seemed 
 very long, but at last wheels were heard ; four 
 equestrians galloped up the drive, and after 
 them came two open carriages. Fluttering 
 veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles ; 
 two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-look- 
 ing gentlemen ; the third was Mr. Rochester, 
 on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding 
 before him ; at his side rode a lady, and he and 
 she were the first of the party. Her purple rid- 
 ing-habit almost swept the ground, her veil 
 streamed long on the breeze, mingling with its 
 transparent folds, and gleaming through them 
 iilione rich raven ringlets. 
 
 "Miss Ingram!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, 
 and away she hurried to her post below. 
 
 The cavalcade, following the sweep of the 
 drive, quickly turned the angle of the house, 
 and I lost sight of it. Adi'le now petitioned to 
 go down, but I took her on my knee and gave 
 her to understand that she must not on any 
 account think of venturing in sight of the 
 ladies, either now or at any other time, .unless 
 expressly sent for, that Mr. Rochester would 
 be very angry, &c. " Some natural tears she 
 shed" on being told this ; but as I began to look 
 very grave, she consented at last to wipe 
 ihem. 
 
 A joyous stir was now audible in the hall ; 
 gentlemen's deep tones, and ladies silvery ac- 
 cents blent harmoniously together, and distin- 
 guishable above all, though not loud, was the 
 sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield 
 Hall, welcoming his fair and gallant guests un- 
 der his roof Then light steps ascended the 
 stairs, and there was a tripping through the 
 gallery, and soft, cheerful laughs, and opening 
 and closing doors, and, for a lime, a hush. 
 "Elles changcnt de toilettes," said Ad^le, 
 
 who, listening attentively, had followed ^ery 
 movement ; and she sighed. 
 
 " Chez maman," said she, "quand il y avait 
 du monde, je les suivais partout, au salon et 
 a leurs chambres ; souvent je regardais les 
 femmes de chambrecoiffer et habiller les dames, 
 et c'6tait si amusant : comme cela on apprend." 
 
 "Don't you feel hungry, Ad^le?" 
 
 " Mais oui, mademoiselle : voila cinq ou six 
 heures que nous n'avons pas mange." 
 
 "Well now, while the ladies are in their 
 rooms, I will venture down and get you some- 
 thing to eat." 
 
 And issuing from my asylum with precaution, 
 I sought a back stairs which conducted directly 
 to the kitchen. All in that region was fire and 
 commotion ; the soup and fish were in the last 
 stage of projection, and the cook hung over 
 crucibles in a frame of mind and body threaten- 
 ing spontaneous combustion. In the servants' 
 hall two coachmen and three gentlemen's gen- 
 tlemen stood or sat round the fire ; the Abigails 
 I suppose were up stairs with their mistresses, 
 the new servants that had been hired from 
 Millcote were bustling about every where. 
 Threading this chaos, I at last reached the lar- 
 der ; there I took possession of a cold chicken, 
 a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two, and 
 a knife and fork ; with this booty I made a 
 hasty retreat. I had regained the gallery, and 
 was just shutting the back door behind me, 
 when an accelerated hum warned me that the 
 ladies were about to issue from their chambers. 
 I could not proceed to the school-room without 
 passing some of their doors, and running the 
 risk of being surprised with my cargo of victu- 
 alage, so I stood still at this end, which, being 
 windowless, was dark, quite dark now, for the 
 sun was set and twilight gathering. 
 
 Presently the chambers gave up their fair 
 tenants one after another : each came out gayly 
 and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous 
 through the dusk. For a moment they stood 
 grouped together at the other extremity of the 
 gallery, conversing in a key of sweet subdued 
 vivacity : they then descended the stair-case, 
 almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls 
 down a hill. Their collective appearance had 
 left on me an impression of high-born elegance, 
 such as I had never before received. 
 
 I found Ad^le peeping through the school- 
 room door, which she held ajar. " What beau- 
 tiful ladies !" cried she, in English. " Oh, I 
 wish I might go to them ! Do you think Mr. 
 Rochester will send for us by and by, after 
 dinner 1" 
 
 " No, indeed, I don't ; Mr. Rochester has 
 something else to think about. Never mind 
 the ladies to-night ; perhaps, you will see them 
 to-morrow : here is your dinner." 
 
 She was really hungry, so the chicken and 
 tarts served to divert her attention for a time. 
 It was well I secured this forage ; or both ohe, 
 I, and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share of 
 our repast, would have run a chance of getting 
 no dinner at all : every one down stairs was 
 too much engaged to think of us. The dessert 
 was not carried out till after nine, and at ten, 
 footmen were still running to and fro with 
 trays and cofllce-cups. I allowed .Adi^le to sit 
 up much later than usual ; for she declared she 
 could not possibly go to sleep while the doors 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 65 
 
 kept opening and shutting below, and people 
 bustling about. Besides, she added, a message 
 might possibly come from Mr. Rochester when 
 she was undressed ; " et alors quel dommiage !" 
 I told her stories as long as she would listen 
 to them ; and then, for a change, I took her out 
 into the gallery. The hail lamp was now lighted, 
 and it amused her to look over the balustrade 
 and watch the servants passing backward and 
 forward. When the evening was far advanced, 
 a sound of music issued from the drawing- 
 room, whither the piano had been removed ; 
 Adtile and I sat down on the top step of the 
 stairs to listen. Presently a voice blent with 
 the rich tones of the instrument : it was a lady 
 wiio sang, and very sweet her notes were. 
 The solo over, a duet followed, and then a 
 glee : a joyous conversational murmur filled up 
 the intervals. I listened long : suddenly I dis- 
 covered that my ear was wholly intent on ana- 
 lyzing the mingled sounds, and trying to dis- 
 criminate amid the confusion of accents those 
 of Mr. Rochester ; and when it caught them, 
 which it soon did, it foUnd a further task in 
 framing the tones, rendered by distance inar- 
 ticulate, into words. 
 
 The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adele, 
 whose head leaned agamst my shoulder ; her 
 eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up in 
 my arms and carried her off to bed. It was 
 near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought 
 their chambers.' 
 
 The next day was as fine as its predecessor ; 
 it was devoted by the party to an excursion to 
 some site in the neighborhood. Tlicy set out 
 early in the forenoon, some on horseback, the 
 rest in carriages ; I witnessed both the depart- 
 ure and the return. Miss Ingram, as before, 
 was the only lady equestrian ; and, as before, 
 Mr. Rochester galloped at her side : the two 
 rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out 
 this circumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was 
 standing at the window with m,e. 
 
 "You said it was not likely tliey should 
 think of being married," said I ;" but you see 
 Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of 
 the other ladies." 
 
 " Yes ; I dare say.: no doubt he admires her." 
 " And she him," I added ; " look how she 
 leans her head toward him as if she were con- 
 versing confidentially ! I wish I could see her 
 face ; I have never had a glimpse of it yet." 
 
 " You will see her this evening ;" answered 
 Mrs. Fairfax. " I happened to remark to Mr. 
 Rochester how much Ad^le wished to be intro- 
 duced to the ladies, and he said : ' Oh let her 
 come into the drawing-room aficr dinner; and 
 request Miss Eyre to accompany her.' " 
 
 " Yes — he said that from mere politeness ; I 
 need not go, I am snre," I answered. 
 
 " Well — I observed to him that as you were 
 unused to company,.! did not think you would 
 like appearing before so gay a party — all stran- 
 gers ; and he replied, in his quick way, ' Non- 
 sense ! If she objects, tell her it is my partic- 
 ular wish ; and if she resists, say I shall come 
 and fetch her in case of contumacy.' " 
 
 " I will not give him that trouble," I an- 
 swered. " I will go, if no better may be ; but 
 I don't like it. Shall you be there, Mrs. Fair- 
 fax!" 
 
 " No ; I pleaded ofl^, and he admitted my 
 • E 
 
 plea. I'll tell you hou lo luanage oo oj iv 
 avoid the embarrassment of Tnaking a formal 
 entrance, which is the most disagreeable part 
 of the business. You must go into the draw- 
 ing-room while it is empty, before the ladies 
 leave the dining-table ; choose your seat in 
 any quiet nook you like ; you need not stay 
 long after the gentlemen come in, unless you 
 please ; just let Mr. Rochester see you are 
 there and then slip away — nobody will notice 
 you." 
 
 " Will these people remain long, do you 
 think r' 
 
 " Perhaps two or three weeks ; certainly not 
 more. After the Easter recess, Sir George 
 Lynn, who was lately elected member for 
 Millcote, will have to go up to town and take 
 his seat ; I dare say Mr. Rochester will accom- 
 pany him ; it surprises me that he has already 
 made so protracted a stay at Thornfield." 
 
 It was with some trepidation that I perceived 
 the hour approach when I was lo repair with 
 my charge to the drawing-room. Adele' had 
 been in a state of ecstasy all day, after hearing 
 she was to be presented to the ladies in the 
 evening ; and it was not till Sophie commenced 
 the operation of dressing her, that she sobered 
 down. Then the importance of the process 
 quickly steadied her ; and by the time she had 
 her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping 
 clusters, her pink satin frock put on, her long 
 sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, she 
 looked as grave as any judge. No need to 
 warn her not to disarrange her attire ; when 
 she was dressed, she sat demurely down in 
 her little chair, taking care previously to lift up 
 the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, 
 and assured me she would not stir thence till I 
 was ready. This I quickly was ; my best 
 dress (the silver-gray one, purchased for Miss 
 Temple's wedding and never worn since) was 
 soon put on ; my hair was soon smoothed ; my 
 sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. 
 We descended. 
 
 Fortunately there was another entrance to 
 the drawing-room than that through the saloon 
 where they were all seated at dinner. We 
 found the apartment vacant ; a large fire burn- 
 ing silently on the marble hearth, and wax can- 
 dles shining in bright solitude, amid the ex- 
 quisite flowers with which the tables were 
 adorned. The crimson curtain hung before 
 the arch ; slight as was the separation this 
 drapery formed from the parly in the adjoining 
 saloon, they spoke in so low a key that noth 
 ing of their conversation could be distinguished 
 beyond a soothing murmur. 
 
 Adele, who appeared to be still under the in- 
 fluence of a most solemnizing impression, sat 
 down without a word oa the foolstool I pointed 
 out to her. I retired to a window-seat, and 
 taking a book from a table near, endeavored lo 
 read. Adele brought her stool to my feet ; ere 
 long she touched my knee. 
 
 " What is it, Ad^ler' 
 
 " Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendre une 
 seule de ces fleurs magnifiques, mademoiselle T 
 Seulement pour completer ma toilette." 
 
 " You think too much of your ' toilette,' 
 Ad^le ; but you may have a flower." And I 
 took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her 
 sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfac 
 
t 
 
 60 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 tion, as if her cup of happiness were now full. 
 I turned my face away to conceal a smile I 
 could not suppress ; there was someihing lu- 
 dicrous as well as painful in the little Pari- 
 sienne's earnest and innate devotion to matters 
 of dress. 
 
 A soft sound of rising now became audible ; 
 the curtain was swept back from the arch ; 
 through it appeared the dining-room, with its 
 lighted luster pouring down light on the silver 
 and glass of a magnificent dessert-service cover- 
 ing a long table ; a band of ladies stood in the 
 opening ; they entered, and the curtain fell be- 
 hind them. 
 
 There were but eight ; yet, somehow, as they 
 flocked in, they gave the impression of a much 
 larger number. Some of them were very tall ; 
 many were dressed in white; and all had a 
 sweeping amplitude of array that seemed to 
 magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the 
 moon. I rose and courtesied to them ; one or 
 two bent their heads in return ; the others only 
 stared at me. 
 
 They dispersed about the room ; reminding 
 me, by the lightness and buoyancy of their 
 movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. 
 Some of them threw themselves in half-reclin- 
 ing positions on the sofas and ottomans ; some 
 bent over the tables and e.xamined the flowers 
 and books ; the rest gathered in a group round 
 the fire — all talked in. a low but clear tone 
 which seemed habitual to them. I knew their 
 names afterward, and may as well mention 
 them now. 
 
 First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her 
 daughters. She had evidently been a hand- 
 some woman, and was well preserved still. 
 Of her daughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather 
 little ; naive, and childlike in fece and manner, 
 and piquant in form ; her white muslin dress 
 and blue sash became her well. The second, 
 Louisa, was taller and more elegant in figure ; 
 with a very pretty face, of that order the French 
 term " minois chitfone ;" both sisters were fair 
 as lilies. 
 
 Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage 
 of about forty ; very erect, very haughty-looking, 
 rrichly dressed in a satin robe of changeful 
 sheen ; her dark hair shone glossily under the 
 shade of an azure plume, and within the circlet 
 of a band of gems. 
 
 Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy ; but, I 
 thought, more ladylike. She had a slight fig- 
 ure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her 
 black satin dress, her scarf of rich foreign lace, 
 and her pearl ornaments, pleased me better 
 than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame. 
 
 But the three most distinguished — partly, 
 ' perhaps, because the tallest figures of the band 
 — were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her 
 daughters, Blanche and Mary. They were all 
 three of the loftiest stature of woman. The 
 dowager might be between forty and fifty ; her 
 sliape was still fine ; her hair (by candle light at 
 least) still black ; her teeth, too, were still 
 apparency perfect. Most people would have 
 termed lier a splendid woman of her age ; and 
 so she was, no doubt, physically speaking; but 
 then there was an expression of almost insup- 
 portable hauglitinrss in her bearing and counte- 
 nance. .She had Roman features and a double 
 chin, disappearing into a throat like a pilla^; 
 
 these features appeared to me not only inflated 
 and darkened, but even furrowed with pride ; 
 and the^chin was sustained by the same prin- 
 ciple, in a position of almost preternatural erect- 
 ness. She had, likewise, a fierce and a hard 
 eye ; it reminded me of Mrs. Reed's ; she 
 mouthed her words in speaking ; her voice was 
 deep, its inflections very pompous, very dog- 
 matical — very intolerable, in short. A crimson 
 velvet robe, and a shawl turban of some gold- 
 wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I supposo 
 she thought) with a truly imperial dignity. ' 
 
 Blanche and Mary were of equal stature — 
 straight and tall as poplars. Mary was too 
 slim for her height ; but Blanche was molded 
 like a Diana. I regarded her, of course, with* 
 special interest. First, I wished tp see whether 
 her appearance accorded with Mrs. Fairfax's 
 description ; secondly, whether it at all resem- 
 bled the fancy miniature I had painted of her ; 
 and thirdly— it will out ! whether it were such 
 as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester's 
 taste. 
 
 As far as person went, she answered point 
 for'point, both to my picture and Mrs. Fairfax'^ 
 description. The noble bust, the sloping shoul- 
 ders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and black 
 ringlets were all there — but her face 1 Her 
 face was like her mother's; a youthful, unfur- 
 rowed likeness ; the same low brow, the same 
 high features, the same pride.* It was not, 
 however, so saturnine a pride ; she laughed 
 continually ; her laugh was satirical, and so 
 was the habitual expression of her arched and 
 haughty lip. 
 
 Genius is said to be self-conscious ; I can not 
 tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she 
 was self-conscious — remarkably self-conscious 
 indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany 
 with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seems Mra. 
 Dent had not studied that science, though, as 
 she said, she liked flowers, "especially wild 
 ones ;" Miss Ingram had, and she ran over its 
 vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived 
 she was (what is vernacularly termed) trailing 
 Mrs. Dent; that is. playing on her ignorance: 
 her trait might be clever, but it was decidedly 
 not good-natured. She played ; her execution 
 was brilliant ; she sang : her voice was fine^; 
 she talked French apart to her mamma, and 
 she talked it well, with fluency and with a good 
 accent. 
 
 Mary had a milder and more open counte- 
 nance than Blanche ; softer features too, and a 
 skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark 
 as a Spaniard) — hut Mary was deficient in life ; 
 her face lacked expression, her eye luster ; she 
 had nothing to say, and having once taken her 
 seat, remained fixed like a sthlue in its niche. 
 The sisters were both attired in spotless white. 
 
 And did I now I'.iink Miss Ingram such a 
 choice as Mr. Rochester \vould be likely to 
 makel I could not iell — I did not know his 
 taste in female beauty. If he liked the majes- 
 tic, she was the very type of majesty ; then she 
 was accomplished, sprightly. Most gentlemen 
 would admire her, I thought ; and that ho did 
 admire her, I already seemed to have obtained 
 proof; to remove the last shade of doubt, it 
 remained hut to see them together. 
 
 You are not to suppose, reader, that Ad^le 
 has all this time been sitting motionless on the 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 6t 
 
 stool at my feet ; no, when the ladies entered, 
 she rose, advanced to meet them, made a stately 
 reven'nce, and said, wiili gravity — 
 
 " B(in j<tur, mesdaines." 
 
 And Miss Ingram had h)oked down at her 
 with a mocking air, and exclaimed, "Oh, what 
 a little puppet !" 
 
 Lady Lynn had remarked, " It is Mr. Roches- 
 ^ter'8 ward, I suppose— the little French girl he 
 :'was speaking ot." 
 
 Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and 
 • given her a kiss. Amy and Louisa Eshion had 
 cried out simullaneousiy — 
 
 " What a love of a child !" 
 
 And then they had called her to a sofa, where 
 ehe now sat, ensconced hetween them, chatter- 
 ing alternately in French and liroken English ; 
 absorhing not only the young ladie.s' attention, 
 but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and 
 getting spoiled to her heart's content. 
 
 At last coffee is hrought in, and the gentlemen 
 are summoned. I sit in the shade — if any shade 
 there be in this brilliantly-lighted apartment; 
 the window-curtain half hides rue. Again the 
 arch yawns ; they come. The collective ap- 
 \ pearance of the gentlemen, like that of the 
 ladies, is very imposing ; they are all costumed 
 in black ; most of them are tall, some young. 
 Henry and Frederic Lynn are very dashing 
 sparks, indeed ; and Colonel Dent is a line sol- 
 diery man. Mr. Ebhton, the magistrate of the 
 district, is gentlemanlike ; his hair is quite 
 white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, 
 which gives him something of the appearance 
 of a " pere noble de tlieatre." Lord Ingram, 
 like his sisters, is very tall ; like them, also, he 
 is handsome ; but he shares Mary's apathetic 
 and listless look ; he seems to have more length 
 of limb than vivacity of blood or vigor of brain. 
 
 And where is Mr. Rochester 1 
 
 He comes in last ; I am not looking at the 
 irch, yet I see him enter. I try to concentrate 
 my attention on these netting-needles, on the 
 meshes of the purse I am forming — I wish to 
 think only of the work I have in my hands, to 
 see only the silver beads and silk threads that 
 lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly beh<dd his 
 figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when 
 I last saw it; just after I had rendered him, 
 what he deemed, an essential service — and he, 
 holding my hand, and looking down on my face, 
 surveyed me with eyes llia,t revealed a heart 
 full and eager to overflow ; in whose emotions 
 I had a part. How near had I approached him 
 at that moment ! What had occurred sincfe, 
 calculated to change his and my relative posi- 
 tions 1 Yet now, how distant, how far es- 
 tranged we were ! so far estranged, that I did 
 not expect him to come and speak to me. J 
 did not wonder, when, without looking at me, 
 he took a seat at the other side of the room, and 
 began conversing with some of the ladies. 
 
 No sooner did I see that his attention was 
 riveted on them, and that I might gaze without 
 ieing observed, than my eyes were drawn in- 
 voluntarily to his face ; I could not keep their 
 ids under control; they would rise, and the 
 Tids would fix on him. I looked, and had an 
 acute pleasure in looking — a precious, yet poig- 
 aant pleasure ; pure gold, with a steely point 
 »f agony; a pleasure like what the thirst-per- 
 iahing man might feel who knows the well to 
 
 which he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and 
 drinks divine draughts nevertheless. 
 
 Most true is it that " beauty is in the eye of 
 the gazer." My master's colorless, olive face, 
 square, massive brow, broad and jetty eye- 
 brows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim 
 mouih — all energy, decision, will — were not 
 beautiful, according to rule ; but they were 
 more than beautiful to me ; they were full of 
 an interest, an influence that quite mastered 
 me — that took my feelings from my own power 
 and fettered them in his. I had not intended 
 to love him ; the reader knows I had wrought 
 hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of 
 love there detected ; and now, at the first re- 
 newed view of him, they spontaneously revived, 
 green and strong ! He made me love him with- 
 out looking at me. 
 
 I compared him with his guests. What was 
 the gallant grace of the Lynns, the languid ele- 
 gance of Lord Ingram — even the military dis- 
 tmction of Colonel Dent contrasted with his 
 look of native pith and genuine power 1 I had 
 no sympathy in their appearance, their expres- 
 sion ; yet I could imagine that most observers 
 would call them attractive, handsome, imposing ; 
 while they would pronounce Mr. Rochester at 
 once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I 
 saw them smile, laugh— it was nothing ; the 
 light of the candles had as much soul in it as 
 their smile ; the tinkle of the bell as much sig- 
 nificance as their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester 
 smile — his stern features softened ; his eye 
 grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both 
 searching and sweet. He was talking, at the 
 moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I won- 
 dered to see them receive with calm that look 
 which seemed to me so penetrating ; I expected 
 their eyes to fall, their color to rise under it; 
 yet I was glad when I found they were in no 
 sense moved. " He is not to them what he is 
 to me," I thought, *• he is not of their kind. I 
 believe he is of mine ; I am sure he is — I feel 
 akin to him — I understand the language of his 
 countenance and movements ; though rank and 
 wealth sever us widely, I have something in 
 my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, 
 that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I 
 say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do 
 with him but to receive my salary at his hands? 
 Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other 
 light than as a paymaster ? Blasphemy against 
 nature ! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I 
 have, gathers impulsively round him. I know 
 I must conceal my sentiments : I must smother 
 hope ; I must remember that he can not care 
 much for me. For when I say that I am of his • 
 kind, I dd not mean that I have his force tc 
 influence, and his spell to attract ; I mean only 
 that I have certain tastes and feeling in com- 
 mon with him. I must, then, repeat continually 
 that we are forever sundered ; and yet, while I 
 breathe and think, I must love him. 
 
 Coffee is handed. The ladies, since the gen- 
 tlemen entered, have become lively as larks; 
 conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel 
 Dent and Mr. Eshton argue on politics ; their 
 wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady 
 Lynn and Lady Ingram, confabulate together. 
 Sir George — whom, by the by, I have forgotten 
 to describe — a very big, and very fresh-looking 
 country gentleman, stands before the sofa, cof- 
 
68 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 fee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a 
 word. Mr. Frederic Lynn has taken a seat 
 beside Mary Ingrann, and is showing her the 
 engravings of a splendid volume ; she looks, 
 smiles now and then, but apparently says little. 
 The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans 
 with folded arms on the chair-back of the little 
 and lively Amy Eshton ; she glances up at 
 him, and chatters like a wren ; she likes him 
 better than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry 
 Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at 
 the feet of Louisa ; Adele shares it with him ; 
 he is trying to talk French with her, and Louisa 
 laughs at his blunders. With whom will 
 Blanche Ingram repair 1 She is standing alone 
 at the table, bending gracefully over an album. 
 She seems waiting to be sought ; but she will 
 not wait too long ; she herself selects a mate. 
 
 Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, 
 stands on the hearth as solitary as she stands 
 by the table ; she confronts him, taking her 
 station on the opposite side of the mantle- 
 piece. 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not 
 fond of children V 
 
 "Nor am I." 
 
 " Then, what induced you to take charge of 
 such a little doll as that 1 (pointing to Adele). 
 Where did you pick her upl" 
 
 " I did not pick her up, she was left on my 
 hands." 
 
 " You should have sent her to school." 
 
 " I could not afTord it ; schools are so dear." 
 
 " Why, I suppose you have a governess for 
 her ; I saw a person with her just now — is she 
 gone 1 Oh, no ! there she is still behind the 
 window-curtain. You pay her, of course ; I 
 should think it quite as expensive — more so ; 
 for you have them both to keep in addition." 
 
 I feared — or should I say, hoped 1 — the allu- 
 sion to me would make Mr. Rochester glance 
 my way ; and I involuntarily shrunk farther 
 into the shade ; but he never turned his eyes. 
 
 " I have not considered the subject," said he, 
 indifferently, looking straight before him. 
 
 " No — you men never do consider economy 
 and common sense. You should hear mamma 
 on the chapter of governesses ; Mary and I 
 have had, I should think, a dozen at least in 
 our day; half of them detestable and the rest 
 ridiculous, and all incubi — were they not, mam- 
 ma!" 
 
 " Did you speak, my own 1" 
 
 The young lady thus claimed as the dow- 
 agers's special property, reiterated her question 
 with an explanation. 
 
 " My dearest, don't mention governesses ; 
 the word makes me nervous. I have suffered 
 a martyrdom from their incompetency and ca- 
 price ; I thank Heaven I have now done with 
 them !" 
 
 Mrs. Dent now bent over to the pious lady, 
 and whispered something in her ear; I suppose 
 from the answer elicited, it was a reminder 
 that one of the anathematized race was present. 
 "Tant pis!" said lier ladyship, "I hope it 
 may do her good !" Then, in a lower tone, 
 but still loud enough for me to hear, " I noticed 
 her ; I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers 
 I see all the faults of her class." 
 
 "What are they, madam?" inquired Mr. 
 Rochester, aloud. 
 
 " I will tell you in your private ear,'" replied 
 she, wagging her turban three times with por-' 
 tentous significancy. 
 
 " But my curiosity will be past its appetite ; 
 it craves food now." 
 
 " Ask Blanche ; she is nearer you than L" 
 
 " Oh, don't refer him to me, mamma ! I 
 have just one word to say of the whole tribe — 
 they are a nuisance. Not that I ever suffered 
 much from them ; I took care to turn the 
 tables. What tricks Theodore and I used to 
 play on our Miss Wilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and 
 Madame Jouberts I Mary was always too 
 sleepy to join in a plot with spirit. The best 
 fun was with Madame Joubert ; Miss Wilson 
 was a poor sickly thing, lachrymose and low- 
 spirited ; not worth the trouble of vanquishing, 
 in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and in- 
 sensible ; no blow took effect on her. But 
 poor Madame Joubert ! I see her yet in her 
 raging passions, when we had driven her to ex- 
 tremities — spilled our tea, crumbled our bread 
 and butter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, 
 and played a charivari with the ruler and desk, 
 the fender and fireirons. Theodore, do you 
 remember those merry days!" 
 
 " Yaas, to be sure I do," drawled Lord In- 
 gram ; " and the poor old stick used to cry out 
 ' Oh you villains childs !' — and then we sermon- 
 ized her on the presumption of attempting to 
 teach such clever blades as we were, when she 
 was herself so ignorant.'' 
 
 " We did ; and Tedo, you know, I helped 
 you in prosecuting (or persecuting) your tutor, 
 whey-faced Mr. Vining — the parson in the pip, 
 as we used to call him. He and Miss Wilson 
 took the liberty of falling in love with each 
 other — at least Tedo and I thought so ; we 
 surprised sundry tender glances and sighs 
 which we interpreted as tokens of 'la belle 
 passion,' and I promise you the public soon had 
 the benefit of our discovery ; we employed it as 
 a sort of lever to hoist our dead-weights from 
 the house. Dear mamma there, as soon as she 
 got an inkling of the business, found out that it 
 was of an immoral tendency. Did you not, 
 my lady-mother !" 
 
 " Certainly, my best. And I was quite right ; 
 depend on that ; there are a thousand reasons 
 why liaisons between governesses and tutors 
 should never be tolerated a moment in any 
 well-regulated house ; firstly — " 
 
 " Oh gracious, mamma ! Spare us the enu- 
 meration ! Au reste, we all know them ; dan- 
 ger of bad example to innocence of childhood ; 
 distractions and consequent neglect of duty on 
 the part of the attached ; mutual alliance and 
 reliance; conlidence thence resulting — iiso- 
 lence accompanying — mutiny and general blow- 
 up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram of Ingram 
 Park!" 
 
 "My lily-flower, you are right now as al- 
 ways." 
 
 " Then no more need be said ; change the 
 [ subject." 
 
 .Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this 
 
 ' dictum, joined in with her soft, infantine tone : 
 
 " Louisa and I used to quiz our governess too ; 
 
 but she was such a good creature, she would 
 
 hear any thing ; nothing put her out. She was 
 
 ; never cross with us ; was she, Louisa !" 
 
 I " No, never ; we might do v^hat we pleased ; 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 69 
 
 ransack her desk and her workbox, and turn 
 her drawers inside out ; and she was so good- 
 naiiired she would give us any thing we asked 
 for." 
 
 " I suppose now," said Miss Ingram, curling 
 her lip sarcastically, " we shall have an abstract 
 of the memoirs of all the governesses extant ; 
 in order to avert such a visitation, I again move 
 the introduction of a new topic. Mr. Roches- 
 ter, 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 for- 
 ward. Signior Eduardo, are you in voice to- 
 night 1" 
 
 "Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will 
 be." 
 
 "Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign 
 behest to furbish up your lungs and other vocal 
 organs, as they will be wanted on my royal 
 service." 
 
 "Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine 
 a Maryl" 
 
 "A fig for Rizzio!" cried she, tossing her 
 head with all its curls, as she moved to the 
 piano. "It is my opinion the fiddler David 
 must have been an insipid sort of fellow ; I 
 like black Bothwell better ; to my mind a man 
 is nothing without a spice of the devil in him ; 
 and history may say what it will of James 
 Hepburn, but I have a notion he was just that 
 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 1" cried Mr. Roches- 
 ter. 
 
 " I should say the preference lies with you," 
 responded Colonel Dent. 
 
 " On my honor, 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, com- 
 menced a brilliant prelude, talking meantime. 
 She appeared to be on her high horse to-night ; 
 both her words and her air seemed intended to 
 excite not only tiie admiration, but the amaze- 
 ment of her auditors ; she was evidently bent 
 oYi striking them as something very dashing 
 and daring indeed. 
 
 " Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the 
 present day I" exclaimed she, rattling away at 
 the instrument. " Poor, puny things, not fit to 
 stir a step beyond papa's park-gates ; nor to go 
 even so far without mamma's permission and 
 guardianship ! Creatures so absorbed in care 
 about their pretty faces and their white hands, 
 and their small feet ; as if a man had any thing 
 to do with beauty ! As if loveliness were not 
 the special prerogative of woman — her legiti- 
 mate appanage and heritage ! I grant an ugly 
 woman is a blot on the fair face of creation ; 
 but as to the gentlemen, let them be solicitous 
 to possess only strength and valor; let their 
 motto be—Hunt, shoot, and fight ; the rest is 
 not worth a fillip. Such should be my device, 
 were I a man." 
 
 " Whenever I marry," she continued, after a | 
 pause, which none interrupted, " I am resolv- 
 ed my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil 
 to me. I will suffer no competitor near the 
 throne : J sJjail exact an undivided homage ; 
 
 his devotions shall not be shared between me 
 and the shape he sees in his mirror. Mr. Ro- 
 chester, now sing, and 1 will play for you." 
 
 " I am all obedience," was the response. 
 
 " Here, then, is a corsair-song. Know that 
 I dote on corsairs ; and for that reason, sing 
 it ' con spiiito.' " 
 
 ' Commands from Miss Ingram's lips would 
 put spirit into a mug of milk and water." 
 
 " Take care, then ; if you don't please me, I 
 will shame you by showing how such things 
 should be done." 
 
 " That is offering a premium on incapacity : 
 I shall now endeavor to fail." 
 
 " Gardez-vous en bien ! If you err willfully, 
 I shall devise a proportionate punishtnent." 
 . " Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she 
 has it in her power to inflict a chastisement 
 beyond mortal endurance." 
 
 " Ha ! explain !" commanded the lady. 
 
 " Pardon me, madam ; no need of explana- 
 tion ; your own fine sense must inform you 
 that one of your frowns would be a sufficient 
 substitute for capital punishment." 
 
 " Sing !" said she, and again touching the 
 piano she commenced an accompaniment in 
 spirited style. 
 
 " Now is my time to slip away," thought I : 
 but the tones that then severed the air arrested 
 me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester 
 possessed a fine voice : he did — a mellow, 
 powerful bass, into which he threw his own 
 feeling, his own force ; finding a way through 
 the ear to the heart, and there waking sensa- 
 tion strangely. I waited till the last deep and 
 full vibration had expired — till the tide of talk, 
 checked an instant, had resumed its flow ; I 
 then quitted my sheltered corner and made my 
 exit by the side-door, which was fortunately 
 near. Thence a narrow passage led into the 
 hall ; in crossing it, I perceived my sandal w^^ 
 loose ; I stooped to tie it, kneeling down for 
 that purpose on the mat at the foot of the stair- 
 case. I heard the dining-room door unclose ; 
 a gentleman came out ; rising hastily, I stood 
 face to face with him ; it was Mr. Rochester. 
 
 " How do you do 1" he asked. 
 
 " I am very well, sir." 
 
 " Why did you not come and speak to me in 
 the room'!" 
 
 I thought I might have retorted the question 
 on him who put it ; but I would not take that 
 freedom. I answered, 
 
 " I did not wish to disturb you, as you seem- 
 ed engaged, sir." 
 
 " What have you been doing during my ab- 
 sence ?" 
 
 "Nothing particular; teaching Adele as 
 usual." 
 
 "And getting a good deal paler than you 
 were — as I saw at first sight. What is the 
 matter?' 
 
 " Nothing at all, sir." 
 
 " Did you take any cold that night you half 
 drowned me V 
 
 "Not the least." 
 
 " Return to the drawing-room ; you are de 
 serting too early." 
 
 " I am tired, sir." 
 
 He looked at me for a minute. 
 
 "And a little depressed," he said. "What 
 about ' Tell me." 
 
70 
 
 JANE EYKE. 
 
 " Nothing— nothing, sir. I am not depress- 
 ed." 
 
 " But I affirm that you are ; so much de- 
 pressed that a few more words would bring 
 tears to your eyes — indeed, they are there now, 
 shining and swimming ; and a bead has slipped 
 from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I 
 had time, and was not in mortal dread of some 
 prating prig of a servant passing, I would know 
 what all this means. Well, to-night I excuse 
 you ; but understand that so long as my visit- 
 ors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing- 
 room every evening ; it is my wish : don't neg- 
 lect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adele. 
 Good night, my — " He stopped, bit his lip, 
 and abruptly left tne. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Mekry days were these at Thornfield Hall, 
 and b^isy days too ; how difTereiit from the first 
 three months of stillness, monotony, and soli- 
 tude I had passed beneath its roof! All sad 
 feelings seemed now driven from the house, all 
 gloomy associations forgotten ; there was life 
 every where, movement all day long. You 
 could not now traverse the gallery, once so 
 hushed, nor enter the front chamber, once so 
 tenaniless, without encountering a smart lady's- 
 maid or a dandy valet. 
 
 The kitchen, the butler's pantry, the servants' 
 hall, the entrance-hall, were equally alive ; and 
 thfi saloons were only left void and still, when 
 the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial 
 spring weather called their occupants out into 
 the grounds. Even when that weather was 
 broken, and continuous rain set in for some 
 days, no damp seemed cast over enjoyment ; 
 in-door amusements only became more lively 
 and varied, in consequence of the stop put to 
 out-door gayety. 
 
 I wondered what they were going to do the 
 first evening a change of entertainment was 
 proposed: they spoke of "playing charades," 
 but in my ignorance I did not understand the 
 term. The servants were called in, the dining- 
 room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise 
 disposed, the chairs placed in a semicircle op- 
 posite the arch. While Mr. Rochester and the 
 other gentlemen directed these alterations, the 
 ladies were running up and down stairs ringing 
 /o. their maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned 
 to give information respecting the resources of 
 the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of any 
 kind : and certain wardrobes of tlie third story 
 were ransacked, and their contents, in the 
 shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin 
 sacques, black modes, lace lappets, &c.,' were 
 brought down in armfuls by the abigails ; then 
 a selection was made, and such things as were 
 chosen were carried to the boudoir within the 
 <lrawiiig-room. 
 
 Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again sum- 
 moned the ladies round him, and was selecting 
 certain of their numhtr to he of his party. 
 ' Miss Ingram is mine, of course," said he ; 
 ^^terward he named the two Misses Eshton, 
 >nd Mrs. Dent. He looked at me ; I happened 
 to be near him, as I had been fastening the 
 ria«p of Mrs. Dent's bracelet, which had got 
 loose. 
 
 " Will you play !" he asked. I shook my 
 head. He did not insist, which I rather feare4 
 he would have done ; he allowed mc to return 
 quietly to my usual seat. 
 
 He and his aids now withdrew behind the 
 curtain ; the other parly, which was headed by 
 Colonel Dent, sat down on tlie crescent of 
 chairs. One of the gentlemen, Mr. Eshlon, ob- 
 serving me, seemed to propose that 1 should be 
 asked lo join them ; but Lady Ingram mslanllj 
 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 aich, the bulky figure of Sir 
 George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had like- 
 wise chosen, was seen enveloped in a white 
 sheet ; before him, on a table, lay open a large 
 book; and at his side stood, Amy Eshton, 
 draped in Mr. Rochester's cloak, and holding a 
 hook ill her hand. Sumebody, unseen, rung the 
 bell merrily ; liien Adele (who had insisted on 
 being one of her guardian's party), hounded for- 
 ward, scattering round her the contents of a 
 basket of flowers she carried on her arm. 
 Then appeared the magnificent figure of Misa 
 Ingram, clad in while, a long veil on her head, 
 and a wreath of roses round her brow : by her 
 side walked Mr. Rochester, and together they 
 drew near the table. They kneeled, while 
 Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in 
 white, took up their stations behind them. A 
 ceremony followed in dimib show, in which U 
 was easy to recognize the pantomime of a mar- 
 riage. At its termination, Colonel Dent and 
 his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, 
 then the colonel called out, 
 
 "Bride!" Mr. Rochester bowed Tind the 
 curtain fell. 
 
 A considerable interval elapsed before it again 
 rose. Its second rising displayed a more elab- 
 orately-prepared scene than the last. The 
 drawing-room, as I have before observed, was 
 raised two steps above the dining-room, and on 
 the top of the upper step, placed a yard or two 
 back within the room, appeared a large marble 
 basin, which I recognized as an ornament of 
 the conservatory — where it usually stood sur- 
 rounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold-fish — 
 and whence it must have been transported with 
 some trouble, on account of its size and weight. 
 
 Seated on the carpel, by the side of this 
 basin, was seen Mr. Rochester, costumed in 
 shawls, with a turban on his head. His dark 
 eyes and swarth skin and Paynim features 
 suiicd the costume exactly ; he looked the very 
 model of an eastern emir, an agent or a victim 
 of the bowstring. Presently advanced into 
 view Miss Ingrain. She, too, was atlired in 
 oriental fashion ; a crimsop scarf tied sash-like 
 round the waist ; an embroidered handkerchief 
 knotted about her temples ; h< r beautifully- 
 molded arms bare, one of Ihein upraised in 
 the act of supporting: a pitcher, poised grace- 
 fully on her head. Both her cast of Ibrin and 
 feature, her complexion and her general air 
 suggested the idea of some Israoliiish princess 
 of the patriarchal days ; and such was doubt- 
 less the character she intended to represent 
 
 She approached Ihc basin, and bent over it aa 
 if to fill her pitcher ; she again lifted it to her 
 head. The personage on the well-brink now 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 1 
 
 f-eemed to accost her ; to make some request : 
 " She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, 
 and gave him to drink." From the hosom of 
 his robe, he then produced a casket, opened 
 it and showed magnificent bracelets and ear- 
 rings; she acted astonishment and admiration: 
 kneeling, he laid the treasure at her leet : in- 
 credulity and delight were expressed by her 
 looks and gestures ; the stranger fastened the 
 bracelets on her arms and the rings in iier ears. 
 It was Eliezer and Rebecca : the camels only 
 were wanting. 
 
 The divining party again laid their heads to- 
 gether ; apparently they could not agree about 
 the word or syllable this scene illustrated. 
 Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demanded " the 
 tableau of the Whole ;" whereupon the curtain 
 again descended. 
 
 On its third rising only a portion of the 
 drawing-room was disclosed, the rest being 
 concealed by a screen, hang with some sort of 
 dark and coarse drapery. The marble basin 
 was removed ; in its place stood a deal table 
 and a kitchen chair : these objects were visible 
 by a very dini» light proceeding from a horn 
 lantern, the wax candles being all extinguished. 
 
 Amid Ihis sordid scene, sat a man with his 
 clenched hands resting on his knees, and his 
 eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr. Roches- 
 ter ; though the begrimed face, the disordered 
 dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm, as 
 if it had been almost torn from his back in a 
 scuffle), the desperate and scowling counte- 
 nance, the rough, bristling hair might well have 
 disguised him. As he moved, a chain clanked ; 
 to his wrists were attached fetters. 
 
 " Bridewell !" exclaimed Colonel Dent, and 
 the charade was solved. 
 
 A sufficient interval having elapsed for the 
 performers to resume their ordinary costume, 
 they re-entered the dining-room. Mr. Roches- 
 ter led in Miss Ingram ; she was complimentmg 
 him on his acting. 
 
 " Do you know," said she, " that, of the 
 three characters, I liked you in the last best T 
 Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what 
 a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would 
 have made !" 
 
 "Is all the soot washed from my face?" he 
 asked, turning it toward her. 
 
 " Alas ! yes ; the more"s the pity ! Nothing 
 could be more becoming to your complexion 
 that than ruffian's rouge." 
 
 "You would like a hero of the road, then 1" 
 
 " 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 gig- 
 gled, and her color rose. 
 
 "Now, Dent," continued Mr. -Rochester, "it 
 is your turn." And, as the other party wiili- 
 drew, he and his band took the vacated seal.^. 
 Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader's right 
 hand ; the oiher diviners filled the chairs on 
 each side of liim and her-. I did not now walcb 
 the actors — I no longer v»aited with interest fDr 
 the curtain to rise ; my attention was absorbed 
 by the spectators ; my eyes, erewhile fixed on 
 the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the 
 semicircle of chairs. What charade Colonel 
 
 Dent and bis parly played, what word they 
 chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no 
 longer remember ; but I still see the consulta- 
 tion which followed each scene — I see Mr. 
 Rochester turn to Miss Ingram, and Miss In- 
 gram to him — I see her incline her head toward 
 him, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoul- 
 der, and wave against his cheek— I hear their 
 mutual whisperings— I recall their interchanged 
 glances ; and something even of the feeling 
 roused by lire spectacle returns in memory at 
 this moment. 
 
 I have told you, reader, that I had learned to 
 love Mr. Rochester: I could not unlove him 
 now, merely because I found that he had ceased 
 to notice me — because \' might pass hours in his 
 prt'sence, and he would never once turn his eyes 
 in my direction — because I saw all his atten- 
 tions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned 
 to touch me with the hem of her robes as she 
 passed — who, if ever her dark and imperious 
 eye fell on me hy chance, would withdraw it 
 instantly, as from an object too mean to merit 
 observation. I could not unlove him, because 
 I fell sure he would soon marry this very lady 
 — because I read daily in her a proud security 
 in his intentions respecting her — because I wit- 
 nessed hourly in him a style of courtship, 
 which, if careless, and choosing rather to be 
 sought than to seek, was yet, in its very care- 
 lessness, captivating, and in its very pride irre- 
 sistible. 
 
 There was nothing to cool or banish love 
 in these circumstances, though much to create 
 despair. Much, too, you will think, reader, to 
 engender jealousy, if a woman in my position 
 could presuiTie to be jealous of a woman in Miss 
 Ingram's. But I wa.s not jealous, or very rare- 
 ly—the nature of the pain I suffered could not 
 be explained hy that word. Miss Ingram was a 
 mark beneath jealousy : she was too inferior to 
 excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming para- 
 dox — I mean what I say. She was very showy, 
 but she was not genuine ; she had a fine person, 
 nrany brilliant attainments ; but her mind was 
 poor, her heart barren by nature — nothing 
 bloomed spontaneously on that soil — no un- 
 forced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. 
 She was not good, she was not original ; she 
 used to repeat sounding phrases from books; 
 she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her 
 own. She'advocaled a high tone of sentiment ; 
 hut she did not know the sensations of sympathy 
 and pity ; tenderness and truth were not in her. 
 Too often she betrayed this by the undue vent 
 she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had con- 
 ceived against little Adele, pushing her away 
 witii some contumelious epithet if sire happened 
 til approach her ; sometimes ordering her from 
 tire room, and always treating her with coldness 
 anil acrimony. Other eyes besides ujyne watch- 
 ed these manifestations of character — watched 
 them closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes, the fu- 
 Uiro bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exer- 
 cised over his intended a ceaseless surveillance; 
 iiiiil it was from this sagacity — thi« guardedness 
 ol his — this perfect, clear consciousness of his 
 lair one's defects — this t)bvious absence of pas- 
 sion in his sentiments toward her, that my ever- 
 torturing pain arose. 
 
 I saw he was going to marry her, for family, 
 perhaps political reasons — because her rank and 
 
T-2- 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 connections suited him ; I felt he had not given 
 her his love, an5 that her qualifications were ill 
 adapted to win from him tiiat treasure. This 
 was the point — this was where the nerve was 
 touched and teased — this was where the fever 
 was sustained and fed : she could not charm 
 him. 
 
 If she had managed the victory at once, and 
 he had yielded and sincerely laid his heart at 
 her feet, I should have covered my face, turned 
 to the wall, and (figuratively) have died to them. 
 If Miss Ingram had been a good and noble 
 woman, endowed with force, fervor, kindness, 
 sense, I should have had one vital struggle 
 with two tigers — jealousy and despair ; then, 
 my heart torn out and devoured, I should have 
 admired her — acknowledged her excellence, and 
 been quiet for the rest of my days ; and the 
 more absolute her superiority, the deeper would 
 have been my admiration — the more truly tran- 
 quil my quiescence. But as matters really stood, 
 to watch Miss Ingram's efforts at fascinating 
 Mr. Rochester — to witness their repeated fail- 
 ure — herself unconscious that they did fail — 
 vainly fancying that each shaft lanched hit the 
 mark, and infatuatedly pluming herself on suc- 
 cess, when her pride and self-complaisancy re- 
 pelled further and further what she wished to 
 allure — to witness this was to be at once under 
 ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint. 
 
 Because, when she failed, I saw how she 
 might have succeeded. Arrows that continu- 
 ally glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast, 
 and fell harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if 
 shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his 
 % proud heart — have called love into his stern eye, 
 and softness into his sardonic face ; or, better 
 still, without weapons, a silent conquest might 
 have been won. 
 
 " Why can she not influence him more, when 
 she is privileged to draw so near to him 1" I 
 asked myself. " Surely she can not truly like 
 him, or not like him with true affection ! If 
 she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavish- 
 ly, flash her glances so unremittingly, manufac- 
 ' ture airs so elaborate, graces so multitudinous. 
 It seems to me that she might, by merely sit- 
 ting quietly at his side, saying little and looking 
 less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his 
 fage a far different expression from that which 
 hardens it now while she is so vivaciously ac- 
 costing him ; but then it came of itself ; it was 
 not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated 
 manceuvers ; and one had but to accept it — to 
 answer what he asked, without pretension, to 
 address him, when needful, without grimace — 
 and it increased, and grew kinder and more ge- 
 nial, and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam. 
 How will she manage to please him when they 
 are married? I do not think she will manage 
 it ; and y#t it might be managed ; and his wife 
 might, I verily believe, be the very happiest 
 woman the sun shines on." ♦ 
 
 I have not yet said any thing condemnatory 
 of Mr. Rochester's project of marrying for in- 
 terest and connections. It surprised me when 
 I first discovered that such was his intention , I 
 had thought him a man unlikely to be influenced 
 by motives so commonplace in his choice of a 
 wife ; but the longer I considered the position, 
 education, &c., of the parties, the less I fell 
 justified in judging and blaming either him or 
 
 Miss Ingram, for acting in conformity to ideas 
 and principles instilled into them, doubtless, 
 from their childhood. All their class held these 
 principles: I supposed, then, they had reasons 
 for holding them such as I could not fathom. 
 It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like 
 him, I would take to my bosom only such a 
 wife as I could love ; but the very obviousness 
 of the advantages to the husband's own hap- 
 piness, offered by this plan, convinced me that 
 there must be arguments against its general 
 adoption of which I was quite ignorant, other- 
 wise I\felt sure all the world would act as E 
 wished to act. 
 
 But in other points, as well as this, I was 
 growing very lenient to my master : I was for- 
 getting all his faults, for which I had once kept 
 a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my en- 
 deavor to study all sides of his character — to 
 take the bad with the good, and, from the just 
 weighing of both, to form an equitable judg- 
 ment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that 
 had repelled, the harshness that had startled 
 me once, were only like keen condiments in a 
 choice dish — their presence m«s pungent, but 
 their absence would be felt as comparatively in- 
 sipid. And as for the vague something — was 
 it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a 
 desponding expression 1 — that opened upon a 
 careful observer, now and then, in his eye, and 
 closed again before one could fathom the strange 
 depth partially disclosed ; that something which 
 used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had 
 been wandering among volcanic-looking hills, 
 and had suddenly felt the ground quiver and 
 seen it gape ; that something I, at intervals, be- 
 held still, and with throbbing heart, but not 
 with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to 
 shun, I longed only to dare, to divine it ; and I 
 thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day 
 she might look into the abyss at her leisure, ex- 
 plore its secrets, and analyze their nature. 
 
 Meantime, while I thought only of my mas- 
 ter and his future bride — saw only them, heard 
 only their discourse, and considered only their 
 movements of importance — the rest of the party 
 were occupied with their own separate interests 
 and pleasures. The ladies Lynn and Ingram 
 continued to consort in solemn conferences ; 
 where they nodded their two turbans at each 
 other, and held up their four hands in confront- 
 ing gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, 
 according to the theme on which their gossip 
 ran, like.a pair of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs. 
 Dent talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton ; 
 and the two sometimes bestowed a courteous 
 word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colo- 
 nel Dent, and Mr. Eshton, discussed politics, or 
 county affairs, or justice business. Lord Ingram 
 flirted with Amy Eshton ; Louisa played and 
 sang to and with one of the Messrs. Lynn ; and 
 Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant 
 speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with 
 one consent, suspended their by-play to observe 
 and listen to the principal actors ; for, afler all, 
 Mr. Rochester, and, because closely connected 
 with him. Miss Ingram, were the life and soul 
 of the party. If he were absent from the room 
 an hour, a perceptible dullness seemed to steal 
 over the spirits of his guests ; and his re-en- 
 trance was sure to give a fresh impulse to the 
 vivacity of conversation r 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 ■ 73' 
 
 The want of his animating influence appear- 
 ed to be peculiarly fell one day that he had 
 been summoned to Millcote on business, and 
 was not likely to return till late. The after- 
 noon was wet ; a walk the party had proposed 
 10 take to see a gipsy camp, lately pitched on 
 a common beyond Hay, was consequently de- 
 ferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone to 
 the stables ; the younger ones, together with 
 the younger ladies, were playing billiards in the 
 billiard-room. The dowagers Ingram and Lynn 
 sought solace in a quiet game at cards. Blanche 
 Ingram, after having repelled, by supercilious 
 taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and Mrs. 
 Eshton to draw her into conversation, had first 
 murmured over some sentimental tunes and 
 airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a 
 novel from the library, had flung herself in 
 haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared to 
 beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours 
 of absence. The room and the house were si- 
 lent ; only now and then the merriment of the 
 billiard players was heard from above. 
 
 It was verging on dusk, and the clock had al- 
 ready given warning of the hour to dress for 
 dinner, when little Ad^le, who knelt by me in 
 the drawing-room window-seat, exclaimed : 
 " Voila Monsieur Rochester, qui revient !" 
 I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forward 
 from her sofa .- the others, loo, looked up from 
 their several occupations ; for, at the same time, 
 a crunching of wheels, and a splashing tramp 
 of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet grav- 
 el. A post-chaise was approaching. 
 
 " What can possess him to come home in 
 that style V' said Miss Ingram. " He rode 
 Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he 
 went out 1 and Pilot was with him. What has 
 he done with the animals V 
 
 As she said this, she approached her tall per- 
 son and ample garments so near the window, 
 that I was obliged to bend back almost to the 
 breaking of my spine : in her eagerness she did 
 not observe me at first, but when she did, she 
 curled her lip and moved to another casement. 
 The post-chaise stopped ; the driver rang the 
 door-bell, and a gentleman alighted, attired in 
 traveling garb ; but it was not Mr. Rochester ; 
 it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger. 
 "Provoking!" exclaimed Miss Ingram : "you 
 tiresome monkey !" (apostrophizing Ad^le), 
 " who perched you up in the window to give 
 false intelligence V' and she cast on me an angry 
 glance, as if I were in fault. 
 
 Some parleying was audible in the hall, and 
 soon the new-comer entered. He bowed to 
 Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady 
 present. 
 
 " It appears I come at an inopportune time, 
 madam," said he, " when my friend, Mr. Roch- 
 ester, is from home ; but I arrive from a long 
 journey, and I think I may presume so far on 
 old and intimate acquaintance as to install my- 
 self here till he returns." 
 
 His manner was polite ; his accent, in speak- 
 ing, struck me as being somewhat unusual — not 
 precisely foreign, but still not altogether En- 
 glish ; his age might be about Mr. Rochester's, 
 between thirty and forty ; his complexion was 
 singularly sallow : otherwise he was a fine- 
 looking man, at first sight especially. On closer 
 examination, you detected something in his face 
 
 that displeased, or, rather, that failed to please. 
 His features were regular, but too relaxed ; his 
 eye was large and well cut, but the life looking 
 out o? it was a tame, vacant life, at least so I »■ 
 thought. 
 
 The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the 
 party. It was not till after dinner that I saw 
 him again ; he then seemed quite at his ease. 
 But I liked his physiognomy even less than be- 
 fore ; it struck me as being, at the same time, 
 unsettled and inanimate. His eye wandered, 
 and had no meaning in its wandering ; this gave 
 him an odd look, such as I never remembered 
 to have seen. For a handsome and not an un- 
 amiable-looking man, he repelled me exceed- 
 ingly ; there was no power in that smooth-skin- 
 ned face of a full oval shape ; no firmness in 
 that aquiline nose and small, cherry mouth ; 
 there was no thought on the low, even fore- 
 head ; no command in that blank, brown eye. 
 
 As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him 
 with the light of the girandoles on the mantle- 
 piece beaming full over him — for he occupied 
 an arm-chair, drawn close to the fire, and kept 
 shrinking still nearer, as if he were cold — I 
 compared him with Mr. Aochester., I think 
 (with deference be it spoken) the contrast could 
 not be much greater between a sleek gander 
 and a fierce falcon : between a meek sheep and 
 the rough coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian. 
 
 He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old 
 friend. A curious friendship theirs must have 
 been : a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old 
 adage that "extremes meet." 
 
 Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, 
 and I caught at times scraps of their conversa- 
 tion across the room. At first I could not make 
 much sense of what I heard ; for the discourse 
 of Louisa Eshton and Mary Ingram, who sat 
 nearer to me, confused the fragmentary sen- 
 tences that reached me at intervals. These 
 last were discussing the stranger ; they both 
 called him " a beautiful man." Louisa said he 
 was "a love of a creature," and she "adored 
 him;" and Mary instanced his "pretty little 
 mouth, and nice nose," as her ideal of the 
 charming. 
 
 "And what a sweet-tempered forehead ho- 
 has !" cried Louisa ; " so smooth — none of those 
 frowning irregularities I dislike so much ; and 
 such a placid eye and smile !" 
 
 And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lyna 
 summoned them, to the other side of the room, 
 to settle some point about the deferred excur- 
 sion to Hay Common. 
 
 I was now able to concentrate my attention 
 on the group by the fire, and I presently gath- 
 ered that the new-comer was called Mr. Ma- 
 son ; then I learned that he was but just arrived 
 in England,-and that he came froni some hot 
 country, which was the reason, doubtless, hia 
 face was so sallow, and that he sat so near the 
 hearth, and wore a surtout in the house. Pres- 
 ently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Spanish 
 Town, indicated the West Indies as his resi- 
 dence ; and it was with no little surprise I 
 gathered, ere long, that he had there first, seen 
 and become acquainted with Mr. Rochester. 
 He spoke of his friend's dislike of the burning 
 heats, the hurricanes, and rainy seasons of 
 that region. I knew Mr. Rochester had been 
 a traveler; Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but 1 
 
94 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 thought the contit>ent of Europe had bounded 
 his wanderings; till now I had never heard a 
 Lint given of visits to more distant shores. 
 
 I was pondering these things, when at inci- 
 dent, and a somewhat unexpected one, broke 
 the thread of my musings. Mr. Mason, sliiver- 
 tng as some one chanced to open the door, asked 
 for more coal to be put on the fire, which had 
 hurned out its flame, though its mass of cinder 
 still shone hot and red. The footman who 
 brought the coal, in going out, stopped near Mr. 
 Eshton's chair, and said snmeihing to him in a 
 low voice, of which I heard (mly the words, 
 •'old woman" — "quite troutilesoirie." 
 
 "Tell her she shall be put in the stocks, if 
 she docs not take herself ofT," replied the mag- 
 istrate. 
 
 "No, stop!" interrupted Colonel Dent. 
 "Don't send her away, Eshton ; we might 
 turn the thing to account — better consult the 
 ladies." And speaking aloud, he continued, 
 "Ladies, you talked of going to Hay Common 
 to visit the gipsy camp; Sam, here, says that 
 one of the old Mother Bunches is in ihe serv- 
 ants* hail at this moment, and insists upon be- 
 ing brought in before 'the quality,' to tell them 
 their fortunes. Would you like to see herl" 
 
 "Surely, colonel, cried Lady Ingram, "you 
 would not encourage such a low impostor! 
 Dismiss her, by all means, at onceV 
 
 " But I can not persuade her to go away, my 
 lady," said the footman ; " nor can any of the 
 servants ; Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now, 
 entreating her-to be gone ; but she has taken a 
 chair in the chimney-corner, and says nothing 
 shall stir her from it till she gets leave to come 
 in here." 
 
 " What does she wantl" asked Mrs. Eshlon. 
 
 " ' To tell the gentry their fortunes,' she says, 
 ma'am ; and she swears she must and will do 
 it." 
 
 " What is she like V inquired the misses Esh- 
 ton, in a breath. 
 
 "A shockingly ugly old creature, miss ; almost 
 as black as a crock." 
 
 " Why, she's a real sorceress !" cried Fred- 
 eric Lynn. " Let us have her in. of course." 
 
 " To be sure," rejoined his brother ; " it 
 would be a thousand pities to throw away such 
 a chance of fun." 
 
 " My dear boys, what are yoii thinking 
 about I" exclaimed Lady Lynn. 
 
 " I can not possibly countenance any such in- 
 consistent proceeding," chimed in the Dowager 
 Ingram. 
 
 "Indeed, mamma, but you can — and will," 
 pronounced the haughty voice of Blanche, as 
 she turned round on the piano-stool, whwe till 
 now she had sat silent, apparently examming 
 sundry sheets of music. " I have a curiosity to 
 hear my fortune told ; therefore, Sam, order 
 the beldame forward." 
 
 "My darling Blanche! recollect — " 
 
 "I do — I recollect all you can suggest; and 
 I must have my will^— quick, Sam !" 
 
 " Yes— yes — yes !"' cried all the juveniles, 
 both ladies and gentlemen. "Let her come — 
 it will be excellent sport!" 
 
 The footman stdl lingered. " She looks such 
 a rough one," said he. 
 
 " Go !" ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man 
 went. 
 
 Excitement instantly seized ihe w hole party ; 
 a running fire of raillery and jests was proceed- 
 ing when Sam returned. 
 
 '• She won't come now," said he. " She saya 
 it's not her mission to appear before the ' vulgar 
 herd' (them's her words). I must show her 
 into a room by herself, and then those who 
 Wish to consult her must go to her one by 
 one." 
 
 " You see now, my queenly Blanche," began 
 Lndy Ingram, " she encroaches. Be advised, 
 my angel-girl — and — " 
 
 " Show her into. the library, of course," cut 
 in the " angel girl." "It is not my mission to 
 listen to her before the vulgar herd either; I 
 mean to have her all to myself. Is there a fire 
 in the library 1" 
 
 " Y'es, ma'am — hut she looks such a tinkler." 
 
 " f'ease that chatter, blockhead ! and do my 
 bidding." 
 
 Again Sam vanished ; and mystery, anima- 
 tion, ex()ectation rose to full flow once more. 
 
 " She's ready now," said the footman as he 
 reappeared. " She wishes to know who will 
 be her first visiior." 
 
 " I think I had better just look in upon her 
 before any of the ladies go," said Colonel Dent. 
 Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming." 
 
 Sam went and returned. 
 
 " She says, sir, that she'll have no gentle- 
 men ; they need not trouble themselves to come 
 near her ; nor," he added, with difficulty sup- 
 pressing a titter, " any ladies either, except the 
 young and single." 
 
 " By Jove, she has taste !" exclaimed Henry 
 Lynn. 
 
 Miss Ingram rose solemnly, " I go first," she 
 said, in a tone which might have befitted the 
 leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a breach in 
 the van of his men. 
 
 " Oh, my best ! oh, my dearest ! pause — re 
 fleet !" was her mamma's cry ; but she swept 
 past her in stately silence, passed through the 
 door which Colonel Dent held open, and we 
 heard her enter the library. 
 
 A comparative silence ensued. Lady Ingram 
 thought it "lecas" to wring her hands, which 
 she did accordingly. Miss Mary declared she 
 felt, for her part, she never dared venture. Amy 
 and Louisa Eshton tittered under their breath, 
 and looked a little frightened. 
 
 The minutes passed very slowly — fifteen 
 were counted before the library-door again 
 opened. Miss Ingram returned to us through 
 the arch. 
 
 Would she laugh ? Would she take it as « 
 jokel All eyes met her with a glance of eager 
 curiosity, and slie met ail eyes with one of re- 
 hulT and coldness; she looked neither flurried 
 nor merry : she walked stiffly to her scat, and 
 look it in silence. 
 
 " Well, Blanche ?" said Lord Ingram. 
 
 "What did she say, sister 1" asked Mary. 
 
 " What did you tiiink 1 How do you feel ? Is 
 she a real fortune-teller," demanded the misses 
 Eshton. 
 
 " Now, now, good people," returned Miss In- 
 gram, "don't press upon me. Really your or- 
 gans of wonder and credulity are easily excited ; 
 >iiu seem by the importance you all— my good 
 mamma included — ascribe to this matter abso- 
 lutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 79 
 
 hOQse, who is m close alliance with the old gen- 
 tleman. I have seen a gipsy vagabond ; she has 
 practiced in hackneyed fashion the science of 
 palmistry, and told nne what such people usually 
 tell. My whim is gratified ; and now, I think, 
 Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag in the 
 stocks to-morrow morning, as he threatened."' 
 
 Miss Ingram took a book, leaned hack in her 
 chair, and so declined further conversation. I 
 watched her for nearly half an hour — during all 
 that time she never turned a page, and her face 
 grew momently darker, more dissatisfied, and 
 more sourly expressive of disappointment. She 
 had obviously not heard any thing to her ad- 
 vantage ; and it seemed to me, from her pro- 
 longed fit of gloom and taciturnity, that she 
 herself, notwithstanding her professed indiffer- 
 ence, attached undue importance to whatever 
 revelations had been made her. 
 
 Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa 
 Eshton declared they dared not go alone ; and 
 yet they all wished to go. A negotiation was 
 opened through the medium of the embassador, 
 Sam ; and after much pacing to and fro, till, I 
 think, the said Sam's calves must have ached 
 with the exercise, permission was at last, with 
 great difficully, extorted from the rigorous sibyl, 
 for the three to wail upon her in a budy. 
 
 Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram's 
 had been ; we heard hysterical giggling and 
 little shrieks proceeding from the library; and 
 at the end of about twenty mmutes they burst 
 the door open, and came running across the 
 hall, as if they were half scared out of their 
 wits. 
 
 " I'm sure she is something not right !" they 
 cried, one and all. " She told us such things ! 
 She knows all about us !" and they sunk breath- 
 less into the various seats the gentlemen has- 
 tened to bring them. 
 
 Pressed for furtherexplanation, they declared 
 she had told them of things they had said and 
 done when they were mere children ; described 
 books and ornaments they had in their boudoirs 
 at home ; keepsakes that different relations had 
 presented to them. They affirmed that she had 
 even divmed their thoughts, and had whispered 
 in the ear of each the name of the person she 
 liked best in the world, and informed them of 
 what they most wished for. 
 
 Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest 
 petitions to be further enlightened on these two 
 last-named points; but they got only blushes, 
 ejaculations, tremors, and titters in return for 
 their importunity. The matrons, meantime, 
 offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and 
 again and again reiterated the expression of 
 their concern that their warning had not been 
 taken in time ; and the elder gentlemen laughed, 
 and the younger urged their services on the 
 agitated fair ones. 
 
 In the midst of the tumult, and while my 
 eyes and ears were fully engaged in the scene 
 before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow : I 
 turned and saw Sam. 
 
 "If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that 
 there is another young single lady in the room 
 who has not been to her yet, and she swears 
 .she will not go till she has seen ail. I thought 
 it must be you ; there is no one else for it. 
 What shall 1 tell her'" 
 
 "Ob, I will go by all means," I answered ; 
 
 and I was glad of the unexpected opportnnity to 
 gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped 
 out of the room, unobserved by any eye, for the 
 company were gaiheied in one mass about the 
 trembling trio just returned, and I closed lt)p 
 door quietly behind me. 
 
 "If you like, cniss. said Sam, "I'll wait in 
 the hall for you ; and if she frightens you, just 
 call and I'll come in." 
 
 " No, Sam, return to the kitchen — I am not 
 in the least afraid." Nor was I ; but I was a 
 good deal interested and excited. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The library looked tranquil enough as I en- 
 tered it, and the sihyl — if sibyl she were — was 
 seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at iho 
 chimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and 
 a black bonnet, or, rather, a hroad-brimnied 
 gipsy hal, tied down with a striped handker- 
 chief under her chin. An extinguished candle 
 stood on the table; she was bending over tlie 
 fire, and seemed reading in a iitile black book, 
 like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze; 
 she muttered the words to herself, as most old 
 women do, while she read She did not desist 
 immediately on my entrance; it appeared she 
 wished to finish a paragraph. 
 
 I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, 
 which were rather cold with silling at a distance 
 from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as com- 
 posed as ever I did in my life ; there was noth- 
 ing, indeed, in the gipsy's appearance to trouble 
 one's calm. She shut her book and slowly 
 looked up ; her hat-brim partially shaded her 
 face, yet I could see, as she raised it, that it 
 was a strange one. It looked all brown and 
 black ; elf-locks bristled out from beneath a 
 while band which passed under her chin, and 
 came half over her cheeks, or, rather, jaws ; her 
 eye confronted me at once with a bold and di- 
 rect gaze. 
 
 "Well, and you want your fortune told!" 
 she said in a voice as decided as her glance, as 
 harsh as her features. 
 
 " I don't care about it, mother ; you may 
 please yourself; but I ought to warn you, I 
 have no faith." 
 
 "It's like your impudence to say soj I ex- 
 pected it of you ; I heard it in your step as you 
 crossed the threshold." 
 
 "Did you! You've a quick ear." 
 
 " I have — and a quick eye, and a quick brain." 
 
 " You need them all in your trade." 
 
 "I do; especially when I've customers like 
 you to deal with. Why don't you tremble 1" 
 
 "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 " nichercd" a laugh under her 
 bonnet and bandage ; she then drew out a 
 short, black -pipe, anri, lightinsr it, began to 
 smoke. Having indulged a while in this seda- 
 tive, she raised her bent budy. look the pipe 
 from her lips, and. while gazing steadily al iho 
 fire, said, very deliberately : 
 
 " You are cold ; you are sick ; and you are 
 silly." 
 
7C 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Prove it," I rejoined. 
 
 " I will, in few words. You are cold because 
 you are alone ; no contact strikes the fire from 
 you that is in you ; you are sick, because the 
 best of feelings, the highest and the sweetest 
 given to man, keeps far away from you ; you 
 are silly, because, suffer as you may, you will 
 not beckon it to approach, nor will you stir one 
 step to meet it where it awaits you." 
 
 She again put her short, black pipe to her 
 lips, and renewed her smoking with vigor. 
 
 " You might say all that to almost any one 
 who you knew lived as a solitary dependent in 
 a great house." 
 
 " I might say it to almost any one ; but would 
 it be true of almost any onel" 
 " In my circumstances." 
 "Yes; just so, in your circumstances: but 
 ' find me another precisely placed as you are." 
 " It would be easy to find you thousands." 
 "You could scarcely find me one. If you 
 knew it, you are peculiarly situated : very near 
 happiness ; yes ; within reach of it. The ma- 
 terials 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 V 
 "To be sure." 
 
 I gave her a shilling ; she put it* into an old 
 stocking-foot which she took out of her pocket, 
 and having tied it round and returned it, she 
 lold me to hold out my hand. I did. She ap- 
 jroaqhed her face to the palm, and pored over 
 t without touching it. 
 
 "It is too fine," said she. "I can make 
 lOthing of such a hand as that ; almost with- 
 »ut lines ; besides, what is in a palm 1 Destiny 
 6 not written there." 
 " I believe you," said I. 
 " No," she continued, " it is in the face ; on 
 lie forehead, about the eyes, in the eyes Ihem- 
 aelves, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and 
 nft up your head." ■ 
 
 "Ah ! Now you are coming to reality," I 
 Baid, as I obeyed her. " I shall begin to put 
 tome faith in you presently." 
 
 I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred 
 the fire, so that a ripple of light broke from the 
 disturbed coal ; the glare, however, as she sat, 
 only threw her face into deeper shadow ; mine, 
 it illumined. 
 
 "I wonder with what feelings you came to 
 me to-night," she said, when she had examined 
 me a while. " I wonder what thoughts are busy 
 in your heart during all the hours you sit in 
 yonder room with the fine people flitting before 
 you like shapes in a magic-lantern : just as lit- 
 tle sympathetic communion passing between 
 you and them as if they were really mere 
 shadows of human forms and not the actual 
 snl)iiance." 
 
 " I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes ; but 
 aeldom sad." 
 
 " Then you have some secret hope to buoy 
 you up and please you with whispers of the 
 future 1" 
 I "Not I The utmost I hope is, to save 
 
 money enough out of my earnings to set up 
 a school some day in a little house rented by 
 myself." 
 
 " A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist 
 on : and sitting in that window-seat (you see 
 I know your habits) — " 
 
 " You have learned them from *the ser- 
 vants." 
 
 " Ah ! You think yourself sharp. Well — 
 perhaps I have : to speak truth, I have an ac- 
 quaintance with one of them — Mrs. Poole — " 
 I started to my feet when I heard the name. 
 '' You have — have you 1" 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 confi- 
 dence in her. But, as I was saying : sitting 
 in that window-seat, do you think of nothing 
 but your future school 1 Have you no present 
 interest in any of the company who occupy the 
 sofas and chairs before youl Is there not one 
 face you study V One figure whose movements 
 you follow with, at least, curiosity 1" 
 
 " I like to observe all the faces, and all the 
 figures." 
 
 " But do you never single one from the rest 
 — or it may be, two?" 
 
 " I do frequently ; when the gestures or looks 
 of a pair seem telling a tale ; it amuses me to 
 watch them." 
 
 " What tale do you like best to hear V 
 " Oh, I have not much choice ! They gener- 
 ally run on the same theme — courtship ; and 
 promise to end in the same catastrophe — mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " And do you like that monotonous theme T' 
 " Positively I don't care about it : it is noth- 
 ing to me." 
 
 " Nothing to you \ When a lady, young and 
 full of life and health, charming with beauty 
 and endowed with the gifts of rank and for- 
 tune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman 
 vou — " 
 
 "I whati" . 
 
 " You know — and, perhaps, think well of." 
 " I don't know the gentlemen here. I have 
 scarcely interchanged a syllable with «ne of 
 them ; and as to thinking well of them, I con- 
 sider some respectable and stately, and middle- 
 aged, and others young, dashing, handsome, and 
 lively ; but certainly they are all at liberty to 
 be the recipients of whose smiles they please, 
 without my feeling disposed to consider the 
 transaction of any moment to me." 
 
 " You don't 1^ now the gentlemen here 1 Yoit 
 have not exchanged a syllable with one of 
 them 1 Will you say that of the master of the 
 housed" 
 
 " He is not at home." 
 
 "A profound remark! A most ingenious 
 quibble ! He went to Millcote this morning, 
 and will be back here to-night, or to-morrow : 
 does that circumstance exclude him from the 
 list of your acquaintance — blot him, as it were, 
 out of existence 1" 
 
 '• No ; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Roch- 
 ester has to do with the theme you had intro- 
 duced." 
 
 "I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes 
 of gentlemen ; and of late so many smiles have 
 been shed into Mr. Rochester's eyes> that they 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 77 
 
 overflow like two cups filled above the brim ; 
 have you never remarked that V 
 
 "Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the 
 society of his guests." 
 
 " No question about his right : but have you 
 never observed that, of all the tales told here 
 about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been 
 favored with the most lively and the most 
 continuous V 
 
 "The eagerness of a listener quickens the 
 tongue of a narrator." I said this rather to 
 myself than to the gipsy ; whose strange talk, 
 voice, manner had by this time wrapped me 
 in a kind of dream. One unexpected sentence 
 came from her lips after another, till I got in- 
 volved in a web of mystiftcation ; and wonder- 
 ed what unseen spirit had been silting for 
 weeks by my heart, watching its workings, and 
 taking record of every pulse. 
 
 "Eagerness of a listener!'' repeated she; 
 " yes ; Mr. Rochester has sat by the hour, his 
 ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took 
 such delight in their task of communicating ; 
 and Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive, 
 and looked so grateful for the pastime given 
 him: you have noticed thisl" 
 
 " Grateful ! I can not remember detecting 
 gratitude in his face." 
 
 " Detecting ! You have analyzed, then. 
 And what did you detect, if not gratitude 1" 
 
 I said nothing. 
 
 " You have seen love ; have you not ! — and, 
 looking forward, you have seen him married, 
 and beheld his bride happy?' 
 
 " Humph ! Not exactly. Your witch's skill 
 is rather at fault sometimes." 
 
 "What the devil have you seen, then ?" 
 
 " Never mind : I came here to inquire, not 
 to confess. Is it known that Mr. Rochester is 
 to be married 1" 
 
 " Yes ; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram." 
 
 " Shortly." 
 
 " Appearances would warrant that conclu- 
 sion ; and, no doubt (though, with an audacity 
 that wants chastising out of you, you seem to 
 question it), they will be a superlatively happy 
 pair. He must love such a handsome, noble, 
 witty, accomplished lady ; and probably she 
 loves him ; or, if not his person, at least his 
 purse. I know she considers the Rochester 
 estate eligible to the last degree ; though (God 
 pardon me !) I told her something on that point 
 about an hour ago, which made her look won- 
 drous grave ; the corners of her month fell half 
 an inch. I would advise her black a-viced suitor 
 to look out ; if another comes, v/ith a longer or 
 clearer rent-roll, he's dished." 
 
 " But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. 
 Rochester's fortune ; I came to hear my own, 
 and you have told me nothing of it." 
 
 " Your fortune is yet doubtful ; when I ex- 
 amined your face, one trait contradicted another. 
 Chance has meted you a measure of happiness ; 
 that I know. I knew it before I came here this 
 evening. She has laid it carefully on one side 
 for you ; I saw her do it ; it depends on your- 
 self to stretch out your hand, and take it up ; 
 but whether you will do so, is the problem I 
 study. Kneel again on the rug." 
 
 " Don't keep me long — the fire scorches 
 
 me. 
 
 I knelt ; she did not stoop toward me, but only 
 
 gazed, leaning back m her chair. She began 
 muttering: 
 
 " The flame flickers in the eye — the eye 
 shines like dew ; it looks soft and full of feel- 
 ing — it smiles at my jargon — it is susceptible ; 
 mipression follows impression through its clear 
 sphere ; when it ceases to smile, it is sad — an 
 unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid, that 
 signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness; 
 it turns from me ; it will not suffer further 
 scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking 
 glance, the truth of the discoveries I have 
 already made — to disown the charge both of 
 sensibility and chagrin ; its pride and reserve 
 only confirm me in my opinion. The eye i."? 
 favorable. 
 
 " As to the mouth, it delights at times m 
 laughter ; it is disposed to impart all that the 
 brain conceives, though, I dare say, it would 
 be silent on much the heart experiences- 
 Mobile and flexible, it was never intended to 
 be compressed in the eternal silence of soli- 
 tude ; it is a mouth which should speak much 
 and smile often, and have human affection for 
 its interlocutor. That feature, too, is pro- 
 pitious. 
 
 " I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in 
 the brow ; and that brow professes to say — ' I 
 can live alone, if self-respect and circum- 
 stances require me so to do. I need not sell 
 my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treas- 
 ure, born with me, which can keep me alive 
 if all extraneous delights should be withheld, 
 or offered only at a price I can not aflord to 
 give.' The forehead declares — 'Reason sits 
 firm and holds the reins, and she will not let 
 the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild 
 chasms. The passions may rage furiously, 
 like true heathens, as they are, and the desires 
 may imagine all sorts of vain things ; but judg- 
 ment shall still have the last word in every ar- 
 gument, and the casting vote in every decision. 
 Strong wind, earthquake, shock, and fire may 
 pass by, I shall follow the guiding but of that 
 still small voice which interprets the dictates 
 of conscience.' 
 
 "Well said, forehead : your declaration shall 
 be respected. I have formed my plans — right 
 plans I deem them — and in them I have attend- 
 ed to the claims of conscience, the counsels of 
 reason. I know how soon youth would fade, 
 and bloom perish, if, in the cup of bliss offer- 
 ed, but one dreg of shame, or one flavor of 
 remorse were detected ; and I do not want 
 sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution — such is. not my 
 taste. I wish to foster, not to blight — to earn 
 gratitude, not to wring tears of blood — no, nor 
 of brine ; my harvest must be in smiles, in en- 
 dearments, in sweet — that will do. I think I 
 rave in a kind of exquisite delirium. I should 
 wish now to protract this moment ad infinitum; 
 but I dare not. So far I have governed myself 
 thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore * 
 I would act ; but farther might try me beyond 
 my strength. Rise, Miss Eyre, leave me ; 'the 
 play is played out.' " 
 
 Where was H Did I wake or sleeps Had 
 I been dreaming? _Did I dream stilH Th& 
 old woman's voice had changed. Her accent, 
 her gesture, and all, were familiar to me as my 
 own face in the glass — as the speech of my own 
 tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I 
 
n 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ■tirred the fire, and I looked again ; but she 
 drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about 
 her face, and again beckoned me to depart. 
 The flame illuminated her hand stretched out. 
 Roused now, and on the alert for discoveries, 
 I at once noticed that hand ; it was no more the 
 withered limb of eld than my own ; it was a 
 rounded, supple member, with smooth fingers, 
 symmetrically turned ; a broad ring flashed on 
 the little finger, and, stooping forward, I looked 
 at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times 
 before. Again 1 looked at the face, which was 
 no longer turned from me; on the contrary, the 
 bonnet was defied, the bandage displaced, the 
 head advanced. 
 
 "Well, Jane, do you know meV asked the 
 familiar voice. 
 
 " Only take xtff the red cloak, sir, and 
 then—" 
 
 " But the string is in a knot — help me." 
 
 "Break it, sir." 
 
 " There, then — ' Off, ye lendings !' " And Mr. 
 Rochester stepped out of his disguise. 
 
 "Now, sir, what a strange idea !" 
 
 " But well carried out. eh 1 Don't you think 
 
 BOl" 
 
 •• 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 1 My own 1" 
 
 " No ; some unaccountable one. In short, 
 I believe you have been trying to draw me 
 out — or in. You have been talking nonsense 
 to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, 
 Bir." 
 
 "Do you forgive me, JaneV 
 
 " I can not tell till I have thought it all over. 
 If, on reflection, I find I have fallen into no 
 great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you ; but 
 it was not right." 
 
 " Oh, you have been very correct, very care- 
 ful, very sensible!" 
 
 I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. 
 It was a comfort ; but, indeed, I had been on 
 my guard almost from the beginning of the in- 
 terview. Something of masquerade I suspect- 
 ed. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not 
 express themselves as this seeming old woman 
 had expressed herself; besides, I had noted her 
 feigned voice — her anxiety to conceal her fea- 
 tures. But my mind had been running on 
 Grace Poole — that living enigma — that mystery 
 of mysteries, as I considered her ; I liad never 
 thought of Mr. Rochesterl 
 
 ^'Well," said he, "what arc you musing 
 about ? What does that grave smile sig- 
 nify 1" 
 
 " Wonder and self congratulation, sir. I 
 have your permission to retire, now, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 " No ; stay a moment, and tell me what 
 the people in the drawing-room, yonder, are 
 doing." 
 
 " Discussing the gipsy, I dare say." 
 
 " Sit do wn, sit do wn ! Let me hear what they 
 said about me." 
 
 "I had better not stay long, sir; it must be 
 near eleven o'clock. Oh ! are you aware, Mr. 
 Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here 
 since you left this morning V 
 
 " A stranger ! — no ; who can it be 1 I ex- 
 pected no one ; is he gone V 
 
 " No ; he said he had known you long, and 
 that he could take the liberty of installing him- 
 self here till you returned." 
 
 " The devil he did ! Did he give his name I" 
 
 " His name is Mason, sir ; and he comes from 
 the West Indies — from Spanish Town, in Ja- 
 maica, I think." 
 
 Mr. Rochester was standing near me ; he 
 had taken my hand, as if to lead me to a chair. 
 As I spoke, he gave my wrist a convulsive grasp ; 
 the smile on his lip froze — apparently a spasm 
 caught his breath. 
 
 " Mason ! — the West Indies !" he said, in the 
 tone one might fancy a speaking automaton to 
 enounce its single words ; " Mason ! the West 
 Indies !" he reiterated ; and he went over the 
 syllables three times, growing, in the intervals of 
 speaking, whiter than ashes : he hardly seemed 
 to know what he was doing. 
 
 " Do you feel ill, sir?" I inquired. 
 
 " Jane, I've got a blow ; I've got a blow, 
 Jane!" He staggered. 
 
 " Oh ! lean on me, sir." 
 
 "Jane, you offered me your shoulder onoo 
 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 of his own, he chafed 
 it, gazing on me, at the same time, with the 
 most troubled and dreary look. 
 
 "My little friend !" said he, "I wish I were 
 in a quiet island with only you, and trouble, 
 and danger, and hideous recollections removed 
 from me." 
 
 "Can I help you, sirl I'd give my life to 
 serve you." 
 
 "Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your 
 hands — I promise you that." 
 
 " Thank you, sir ; tell me what to do — I'll 
 try, at least, to do it." 
 
 "Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from 
 the dining-room — they will be at supper there ; 
 and tell me if Mason is with them, and what 
 he is doing." 
 
 I went. I found all the party in the dining 
 room at supper, as Mr. Rochester had said ; 
 they were not seated at table — the supper was 
 arranged on the sideboard ; each had taken 
 what he chose, and they stood about, here and 
 there, in groups, their plates and glasses ia 
 their hands. Every one seemed in high glee ; 
 laughter and conversation were general and 
 animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talk- 
 ing to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as 
 merry as any of them. I filled a wine-glass (I 
 saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as 1 did 
 so : she thought I was taking a liberty, I dare 
 say), and I returned to the library. 
 
 Mr. Rochester's extreme pallor had disap- 
 peared, and he looked once more firm and stern. 
 He took the glass from my hand. 
 
 "Here is your health, ministrant spirit!" 
 he said : he swallowed the contents and returned 
 it to me. " What are they doing, Jane 1" 
 
 " 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 aod 
 gayety." 
 
 "And Mason 1" 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 79 
 
 "He was laughing too." 
 
 " If all these people came in a body and spit 
 at me, what would you do, Jane 1" 
 
 " Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could." 
 
 He half smiled. " But if I were to go to 
 them, and they only looked at me coldly, an<l 
 whispered sneeringfy among each oilier, anil 
 then dropped off and left me one by one, what 
 then ? Would you go with them V 
 
 " 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 adher- 
 ing to me?" . 
 
 "I, probably, should know nothing about 
 their ban ; and if I did, I should care nothing 
 about it." 
 
 " Then, you could dare censure for my 
 eakel" 
 
 " I could dare it for the sake of any friend 
 who deserved my adherence, as you, I am sure, 
 do." 
 
 " Go back now into the room ; step quietly 
 up to Mason, and whisper in his ear that Mr. 
 Rochester is come and wishes to see him ; 
 Bhow him in here, and then leave me." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 I did his behest. The company all stared at 
 me as I passed straight among them. I souglit 
 Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preced- 
 ed him from the room : I ushered him into the 
 library, and then I went up stairs. 
 
 At a late hour, after I had been in bed some 
 time, I heard the visitors repair to their cham- 
 bers : I distinguished Mr. Rochester's voice, 
 and heard him say, " This way, Mason ; this is 
 your room." 
 
 He spoke cheerfully : the gay tones set my 
 heart at ease. I was soon asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 I HAD forgotten to draw my curtain, which I 
 usually did, and also to let down my window- 
 bhnd. The consequence was, that when the 
 rooon, which was full and bright (for the night 
 was fine), came in |ier course to that space in 
 the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at 
 me through the unveiled panes, her glorious 
 gaze roused me. Awaking in the dead of night, 
 I opened my eyes on her disk — silver-white and 
 crystal-clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn ; 
 I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the 
 curtain. 
 
 Good God ! What a cry ! 
 
 The night — its silence — its rest, was rent in 
 twain by a savage, a sharp, a shrilly sound that 
 ran from end to end of Ttiornfield Hall. 
 
 My pulse stopped — my heart stood still — my 
 stretched arm was paralyzed. The cry died, 
 and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being 
 uttered that fearful shriek could not soon r^eat 
 it ; not the widest-winged condor on the Andes 
 could, twice in succession, send out such a yell 
 from the cloud shrouding his eyry. The thing 
 delivering such utterance must rest ere it could 
 repeat the effort. 
 
 It came out of the third story ; for it passed 
 overhead. And overhead — yes, in the room 
 joBt above my chamber-ceiling — I now heard a 
 
 struggle : a deadly ono it seemed from the 
 noise ; and a half-smothered voice shouted — 
 
 "Help! help! help!" three times rapidly. 
 
 "Will no oneT cornel" it cried; and then, 
 while the staggering and stamping went on 
 wildly, I distmguished, through plank and 
 plaster — 
 
 "Rochester! Rochester! For God's sake. 
 Come !" 
 
 A chamber-door opened ; some one ran, or 
 rushed, along the gallery. Another step 
 stamped on the flooring above, and some- 
 thing fell ; and there was silence. 
 
 I had put on some clothes, though horror 
 shook all niy limbs : I issued from my apart- 
 ment. The sleepers were all aroused ; ejacu- 
 lations, terrified murmurs sounded in every 
 room ; door after door unclosed ; one looked 
 out and another looked out ; the gallery filled. 
 Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their 
 beds; and "Oh! \^'hat is it1" — "Who is 
 hurt?" — "What has happened V — "Fetch a 
 light!" — "Is it fire?" — "Are there robbers?" 
 — "Where shall we run?" was demanded 
 confusedly on all hands. But for the moon- 
 light ihey would have been in complete dark- 
 ness. "They ran to and fro; they crowded 
 together : some sobbed, some stumbled ; the 
 confusion was inextricable. 
 
 "Where the devil is Rochester?" cried 
 Colonel Dent. "I can not find him in his 
 bed." 
 
 "Here! here!" was shouted in return. 
 " Be composed, all of you : I'm coming." 
 
 And the door at the end of the gallery 
 opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a 
 candle ; he had just descended from the upper 
 story. One of the ladies ran to him directly; 
 she seized his arm -, it was Miss Ingram. 
 
 "What awful event has taken place?" said 
 she. " Speak ! let us know the worst at once!" 
 
 " But don't pull me down or strangle me," 
 he replied ; for the Misses Eshton were cling- 
 ing about him now ; and the two dowagers, in 
 vast white wrappers, were bearing down on 
 him like ships in lull sail. 
 
 " Airs right :— all's right !" he cried. " It'fB 
 a mere rehearsal of n?uch ado about nothing. 
 Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous." 
 
 And dangerous he looked ; his black eyes 
 darted sparks. Calming himself by an effort, 
 he added, 
 
 " A servant has had the nightmare ; that is 
 all. She's an excitable, nervous person ; she 
 construed her dream into an apparition, or 
 something of that sort, no doubt ; and has 
 taken a fit with fright. Now, then. I must see 
 you all back into your rooms; for, till the house 
 is settled, she can not be looked after. Gentle- 
 men, have the goodness to set the ladies the 
 example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will 
 not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors. 
 .\my and Louisa, return to your nests like a 
 pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames (to the 
 dowagers), you wdl take cold to a dead cer- 
 tainty, if you stay in this chill gallery any 
 longer." 
 
 And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and 
 commanding, he contrived to get them aUcnce 
 m<ire inclosed in their separate dormitories.* 
 I did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but 
 retreated unnoticed, as I'.nnnticed I !.;"' L-0 <■ 
 
80 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Not, however, to go to bed ; on the contrary, 
 1 began and dressed myself carefully. The 
 sounds I had heard after the scream, and the 
 words that had been uttered, had probably been 
 heard only by me ; for they had proceeded from 
 the room above mine : but they assured me 
 that it was not a servant's dream which had 
 thus struck horror through the house ; and that 
 the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was 
 merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. 
 I dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. 
 When dressed, I sat a long time by the win- 
 dow, looking out over the silent grouncls and 
 silvered fields, and waiting for I knew not 
 ■what. It seemed to me that some event must 
 follow the strange cry, struggle, and call. 
 
 No ; stillness returned ; each murmur and 
 movement ceased gradually, and, in about an 
 hour, Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as 
 a desert. It seemed that sleep and night had 
 resumed their empire. Meantime the moon 
 declined ; she was about to set. Not liking to 
 sit in the cold and darkness, I thought I would 
 lie down on my bed, dressed as I was. I left 
 the window, and moved with little noise across 
 the carpet ; as I stooped to take off my shoes, 
 a cautious hand tapped low at the door. 
 
 " Am I wanted 1" I asked. 
 
 "Are you upl" asked the voice I expected 
 to hear, viz., my master's. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " And dressed 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Come out, then, quietly." 
 
 I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gal- 
 lery, holding a light. 
 
 " I want you," he said ; " come this way ; 
 take your time, and make no noise." 
 
 My slippers were thin ; I could walk the 
 matted floor as softly as a cat. He glided up 
 the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in 
 the dark, low corridor of the fateful third story ; 
 I had followed and stood at his side. 
 
 "Have you a sponge in your roomV he 
 ■isked in a whisper. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Have you any salts — volatile salts'!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Go back and fetch both." 
 
 I returned, sought the sponge on the wash- 
 stand, the salts in my drawer, and once more 
 retraced my steps. He still waited ; he held 
 a key in his hand : approaching one of the 
 small, black doors, he put it in the lock ; he 
 paused and addressed me again. 
 
 "You don't turn sick at the sight of blood!" 
 
 " I think I shall rot ; 1 have never been 
 tried yet." 
 
 I felt a thrill while I answered him ; but no 
 coldness, and no faintness. 
 
 " Just give me your hand," he said, " it will 
 not do to risk a fainting fit." 
 
 I put my fingers into his. " Warm and 
 steady," was his remark ; he turned the key 
 and opened the door. 
 
 I saw a room 1 remembered to have seen 
 before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over 
 the house ; it was hung with tapestry; but the 
 tapestry was now looped up in one pait, and 
 there was a door apparent, which had then 
 been concealed. This door was open ; a light 
 
 hone out of the room within ; 1 heard thence 
 
 a snarling, snatching sound, almost like a dog 
 quarreling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his 
 candle, said to me, " Wait a minute," and he 
 went forward to the inner apartment. A shout 
 of laughter greeted his entrance , noisy at first, 
 and terminating in Grace Poole's own goblin 
 ha ! ha ! She, then, was there. He made some 
 sort of arrangement, without speaking ; though 
 I heard a low voice address him : he came out 
 and closed the door behind him. 
 
 "Here, Jane !" he said ; and I walked round 
 to the other side of a large bed, which, with its 
 drawn curtains, concealed a considerable por- 
 tion of the chamber. An easy-chair was near 
 the bed-head : a man sat in it, dressed, with 
 the exception of his coat ; he was still ; his 
 head leaned back ; his eyes were closed. Mr. 
 Rochester held the candle over him ; I recog- 
 nized in his pale and seemingly lifeless face — 
 the stranger. Mason : I sa\y, too, that his linen 
 on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked 
 in blood. 
 
 " Hold the candle." said Mr. Rochester, and 
 I took it ; he fetched a basin of water from the 
 wash-stand : " hold that," said he. I obeyed. 
 He took the sponge, dipped it in and moistened 
 the corpse-like face : he asked for my smelling- 
 bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Ma- 
 son shortly unclosed his eyes ; he groaned. 
 Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded 
 man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged • 
 he sponged away blood, trickling fast down. 
 
 " Is there immediate danger," murmured Mr 
 Mason. 
 
 " Pooh ! No — a mere scratch. Don't be so 
 overcome, man : bear up I I'll fetch a surgeon 
 for you now, myself — you'll be able to be re- 
 moved by morning, I hope. Jane — " he con- 
 tinued. 
 "SirV' 
 
 '• I shall have to leave you in this room with 
 this gentlemen for an hour, or, perhaps, two 
 hours ; you will sponge the blood as I do when 
 it returns : if he feels faint, you will put the 
 glass of water on that stand, to his lips, and 
 your salts to his nose. You will not .speak to 
 him on any pretext — and, Richard, it will be 
 at the peril of your life you speak to her ; 
 open your lips — agitate yourself — and I'll not 
 answer for the consequences. '! 
 
 Again the poor man groaned ; he looked as 
 if he dared not move — fear, either of death or 
 of something else, appeared almost to paralyze 
 him. Mr Rochester put the now bloody sponge 
 into my hand, and I proceeded to use it as he 
 had done. He watched mc a second, then say- 
 ing, " Remember ! — no conversation," he left 
 the room. I experienced a strange feeling as 
 the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his 
 retreating step ceased to be heard. 
 
 Here then I was in the third story, fastened 
 into one of its mystic cells — night around me — 
 a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and 
 hands — a murderess hardly separated from me 
 by a single door: yes — that was appalling— 
 I the rest 1 could bear ; but I shuddered at the 
 thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me. 
 
 I must keep to my post, however. 1 must 
 
 watch this ghas^lly countenance — the.se blue,' 
 
 I still lips forbidden to unclose— these eyes now 
 
 ! shut, now opening, now wandering through the 
 
 : room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed with 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 81 
 
 the dullness of horror. I must dip my hand 
 again and again in the basin of blood and 
 water, and wipe away the trickling gore. I 
 must see the light of the unsnufTed candle wane 
 on my employment ; the shadows darken on 
 the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and 
 grow black under the hangings of the vast old 
 bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a 
 great cabinet opjiosite — whose front, divided 
 into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the 
 heads of the twelve apostles, each inclosed in 
 its separate panel as in a frame ; while above 
 them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dy- 
 ing Christ. 
 
 According as the shifting obscurity and flick- 
 ering gleam hovered here or glanced there, it 
 was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent 
 his brow ; now St. John's long hair that waved ; 
 and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grevv 
 out of the panel and seemed gathering life and 
 threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor — 
 of Satan himself— in his subordinate's form. 
 
 Amid all this, I had to listen as well as 
 watch — to listen for the movements of the wild 
 beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But 
 since Mr. Rochester's visit, it seemed spell- 
 bound ; all the night I heard but three sounds, 
 at three long intervals — a step, creak, a mo- 
 mentary renewal of the snarling, canine noise, 
 and a deep human groan. 
 
 Then my own thoughts worried me. What 
 crime was this, that lived incarnate in this 
 sequestered mansion, and could neither be ex- 
 pelled nor subdued by the owner"! What mys- 
 tery, that broke out, now in fire and now in 
 blood, at the deadest hours of night 1 What 
 creature was it, that, masked in an ordinary 
 woman's face and shape, uttered the voice, 
 now of a mocking demon, and anon of a car- 
 rion-seeking bird of prey 1 
 
 And this man I bent over — this common- 
 place, quiet stranger — how had he become in- 
 volved in the web of horror 1 and why had the 
 Fury flown at him^ What made him seek 
 this quarter of the house at an untimely season, 
 when he should have been asleep in bed ! I 
 had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apart- 
 ment below — what brought him here ■? And 
 why, now, was he so tame under the violence 
 or treachery done him 1 Why did he so quietly 
 submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester en- 
 forced ] Why did Mr. Rochester enforce this 
 concealment ! His guest had been outraged, 
 his own life on a former occasion had been hid- 
 eously plotted against ; and both attempts he 
 smothered in secrecy and sunk in oblivion ! 
 Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. 
 Rochester ; that the impetuous will of the lat- 
 ter held complete sway over the inertness of 
 the former : the few words whicli had passed 
 between them assured me of this. It was ev- 
 ident that, in their former intercourse, the pass- 
 ive disposition of the one had been habitually 
 influenced by the active energy of the other : 
 - whence, then, had arisen Mr. Rochester's dis- 
 may when he heard of Mr. Mason's arrivall 
 Why had the mere name of this unresisting in- 
 dividual — whom his word now sufficed to con- 
 trol like a child— fallen on him, a fpw hours 
 since, as a thunderbolt might fall on an oak 1 
 
 Oh ! I could not forget his look and his 
 paleness when he whispered — " Jane, I have 
 F 
 
 got a blow — I have got a blow, Jane." I could 
 not forget how the arm had trembled which 
 he rested on my shoulder : and it was no light 
 matter which could thus bow the resolute 
 spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax 
 Rochester. 
 
 " When will he come 1 When will he 
 come V I cried inwardly, as the night lingered 
 and lingered — as my bleeding patient drooped, 
 moaned, sickened ; and neither day nor aid 
 arrived. I had, again and again, held the 
 water to Mason's white lips ; again and again 
 offered him the stimulating salts ; my efforts 
 seemed ineffectual : either bodily or mental 
 suffering, or loss of blood, or all three com- 
 bined, were fast prostrating his strength. He 
 moaned so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost, 
 I feared he was dying ; and I might not even 
 speak to him ! 
 
 The candle, wasted at last, went out ; as it 
 expired, I perceived streaks of gray light 
 edging the window-curtains ; dawn was then 
 approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark far 
 below, out of his distant kennel in the court- 
 yard ; hope revived. Nor was it unwarranted ; 
 in five minutes more the grating key, the yield- 
 ing lock, warned me my watch was relieved. 
 It could not have lasted more than two hours ; 
 many a week has seemed shorter. 
 
 Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the 
 surgeon he had been to fetch. 
 
 " Now, Carter, be on the alert," he said to 
 this last ; " I give you but half an hour for 
 dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, 
 getting the patient down stairs and all." 
 
 " But is he fit to move, sir?" 
 
 " No doubt of it ; it is nothing serious : he 
 is nervous, his spirits must be kept up. Come, 
 set to work." 
 
 Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, 
 drew up the holland-blind, let in all the day- 
 light he could ; and I was surprised and cheered 
 to see how far dawn was advanced ; what rosy 
 streaks were beginning to brighten the east. 
 Then he approached Mason, whom the sur- 
 geon was already handling. 
 
 "Now, my good fellow, how are youl" he 
 asked. ' 
 
 " She's done for me, I fear," was the faint 
 reply. 
 
 " Not a whit !— courage ! This day fort- 
 night you'll hardly be a pin the worse of it : 
 you've lost a little blood, that's all. Carter, 
 assure him there's no danger." 
 
 " I can do that conscientiously," said Carter, 
 who had now undone the bandages ; " only I 
 wish I could have got here sooner ; he would 
 not have bled so much — but how is this ! The 
 flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cuf? 
 This wound was not done with a knife : there 
 have been teeth herel" 
 
 '• She bit me," he murmured. " She worried 
 me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife 
 from her." 
 
 " You should not have yielded ; you should 
 have grappled with her at once," said Mr. 
 Rochester. 
 
 " But under such circumstances, what could 
 I one do !" returned Mason. " Oh, it was fright- 
 I ful I" he added, shuddering. " And I did not 
 ' expect it ; she looked so quiet at first."' 
 I " I warned you," was his friend's answer ; 
 
83 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " I said — be on your guard when you go near 
 her. BesideE, you might have wailed till to- 
 morrow and had ine with you ; it was mere 
 folly to attempt the interview to-night, and 
 alone." 
 
 " I thought I could have done some good." 
 " You thought I you thought ! Yes, it makes 
 mo impatient to hear you ; but, however, you 
 have suffered, and are likely to suffer enough 
 for not taking my advice; so I'll say no more. 
 Carter — hurry! hurry! The sun will soon 
 rise, and I must have him off." 
 
 "Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. 
 I must look to this other wound in the arm : 
 she has had her teeth here too, I think." 
 
 " She has sucked the blood : she said she'd 
 drain my heart," said Mason. 
 
 I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly 
 inarkeii expression of disgust, horror, hatred 
 warped his countenance almost to distortion; 
 but he only said — 
 
 " Come, he silent, Richard, and never mind 
 her gibberish : don't repeat it." 
 
 "I wish 1 could forget it," was the answer. 
 "You will when you are out of the country : 
 when you gel back to Spanish Town you may 
 think of her as dead and buried — or rather, you 
 need not think of her at all." 
 
 " Impossible to forget this night !" 
 " It IS not impossible ; have some energy, 
 man. You thought you were as dead as a 
 herring two hours since, and you are all alive 
 and talking now. Then? ! — Carter has done 
 with ycu, or nearly so ; I'll make you decent in 
 a trice. Jane (he turned to me for the first 
 lime since his re-entrance), take this key ; go 
 down into my dressing-room ; open the top 
 drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean 
 shirt and neck-handkerchief; bring them here ; 
 and be nimble." 
 
 I went ; sought tiie repository he had men- 
 tioned, found the articles named, and returned 
 with them. 
 
 " Now," said he, " go to the other side of the 
 bed while I order his toilet ; but don't leave the 
 room ; you may be wanted again." 
 I retired as directed. 
 
 " Was any body stirring below when you 
 went down, Janel" inquired Mr. Rochester, 
 presently. 
 
 " No, sir ; all was very still." 
 "We shall get you off cannily, Dick ; and it 
 will be better both for your sake, and for that 
 of the poor creature in yonder. I have striven 
 long to avoid exposure, and I should not like 
 it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on 
 with his waistcoat. Where did you leave your 
 furred cloak 1 You can't travel a mile without 
 
 that, I know, in this d d cold climate. In 
 
 your rooml Jane, run down to Mr. Mason's 
 room, the one next mine, and fetch a cloak you 
 will see there." 
 
 Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an 
 immense mantle lined and edged wilh fur. 
 
 " Now I've another errand for you," said my 
 untiring master ; " you must away to my room 
 again. What a mercy you are shod with vel- 
 vet, Jane ! — a clod-hopping messenger would 
 never do at this juncture. You must open the 
 middle drawer of my toilet-table and take out 
 a little phial and a little glass you will find 
 there — quick!" 
 
 I flew thither and back, bringing the desired 
 vessels. 
 
 " That's well ! Now, doctor, I shall take the 
 liberty of administering a dose myself; on my 
 own responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, 
 of an Italian charlatan — a fellow you would 
 have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be 
 used indiscriminately, hut it is good upon occa- 
 sion, as now, for instance. Jane, a little water." 
 
 He held out the liny glass, and I half filled it 
 from the water-botile on the wash-siand. 
 
 " That will do ; now wet the lip of the phial." 
 
 I did so ; he measured twelve drops of a 
 crimson liquid, and presented it to Mason. 
 
 " Drink, Richard ; it will give you the heart 
 you lack, for an hour or so." 
 
 " But will it hurt me ? — is it inflammatory 1" 
 
 "Drink ! drink ! drink!" 
 
 Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was evident- 
 ly useless to resist. He was dressed now ; he 
 still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and 
 sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three min- 
 utes after he had swallowed the liquid ; he then 
 took his arm. 
 
 " Now I am sure you can get on your feet," 
 he said ; " try." 
 
 The patient rose. 
 
 " Carter, take him under the other shoulder. 
 Be of good cheer, Richard ; step out ; that'8 
 it!" 
 
 " I do feel better." remarked Mr. Mason. 
 
 "I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on be- 
 fore us away to the back stairs ; unbolt the side- 
 passage door, and lell the driver of the post- 
 chaise you Will see in the yard — or just outside, 
 for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels 
 over the pavement — to be ready ; we are com- 
 ing ; and, Jane, if any one is about, come to tho 
 foot of the stairs and hem." 
 
 It was by this time half-past five, and the 
 sun was on the point of rising; but I found ihe 
 kitchen still dark and silent. The side-passago 
 door was fastened ; I opened it with as little 
 noise as possible ; all the yard w^s quiet ; but 
 the gates stood wide open, and there was a 
 post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and 
 driver seated on the box, stationed outside. I 
 approached him, and said the gentlemen were 
 coming ; he nodded ; then I looked carefully 
 round and listened. The stillness of early . 
 morning slumbered every where ; the curtains 
 were yet drawn over the servants' chamber 
 windows ; little birds were just twittering in the 
 blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs 
 drooped like white garlands over the wall in- 
 closing one side of the yard ; the carriage horses 
 stamped from time to tiptie in their closed sta- 
 bles : all else was still. 
 
 The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, sup- 
 ported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon, 
 seemed to walk \\\['.\ tolerable ease; they as- 
 sisted him into the chaise ; Carter followed. 
 
 "Take care of hiju," said Mr. Rochester to 
 the latter, " and keep him at your house till he 
 is quite well ; I shall ride over in a day or two 
 to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with 
 
 you 
 
 1" 
 
 " The fresh air revives me, Fairfax." 
 "Leave the window open on his side, Car^ 
 ter ; there is no wind— good-bye, Dick," 
 "Fairfax — " 
 "Well, what ia itV 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 83 
 
 " Let her be taken care of; let her be treated 
 as tenderly as may be ; let her — ' He stopped 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 " I do my best ; and have done it, and will 
 do it," was the answer. He shut up the chaise 
 door, and the vehicle drove away. 
 
 " Yet would to God there was an end of all 
 this!" added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and 
 barred the heavy yard-gates. This done, he 
 moved with slow step and abstracted air, to- 
 ward a door in the wall bordering the orchard. 
 I, supposing he had done with me, prepared to 
 return to the house; again, however, I heard 
 him call " Jane !" He had opened the portal 
 and stood at it, waiting for me. 
 
 " Co'me where there is some freshness, for 
 a few moments," he said ; " that house is a 
 mere dungeon ; don't you feel it so 1" 
 
 "It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir." 
 
 " The glamour of inexperience is over your 
 eyes," he answered ; " and you see it through 
 a charmed medium ; you can not discern that 
 the gilding is slime and the silk draperies cob- 
 webs ; that the marble is sordid slate, and the 
 polished woods mere refuse chips a>id scaly 
 bark. Now here (he pointed to the leafy in- 
 closure we had entered) all is real, sweet, and 
 pure." 
 
 He strayed down a walk edged with box ; 
 with apple-trees, pear-trees, and cherry-trees 
 on one side, and a border on the other, full of 
 all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet- 
 williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with 
 southernwood, sweet-brier, and various fra- 
 grant herbs. They were fresh now as a suc- 
 cession of April showers and gleams, followed 
 by a lovely spring morning, could make them ; 
 the sun was just entering the dappled east, and 
 his light illumined the wreathed and dewy or- 
 chard 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, Janel That sky 
 with its high and light clouds which are sure to 
 melt away as the day waxes warm — this placid 
 and balmy atmosphere 1" 
 
 " I do,, very much." 
 
 "You have passed a strange night, Jane." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " And it has made you look pale — were you 
 afraid when I left you alone with Mason V 
 
 " I was afraid of some one coming out of the 
 inner room." 
 
 " But I had fastened the door — I had the 
 key in my pocket ; I should have been a care- 
 less shepherd if I had left a lamb — my pet lamb, 
 80 near a wolf's-den, unguarded; you were safe." 
 
 "Will Grace Poole live here still, sirl" 
 
 "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 se- 
 cure while she stays." 
 
 " Never fear — I will take care of myself " 
 
 "Is the danger you apprehended last night 
 gone by now, sir?" 
 
 " I can not vouch for that till Mason is out of 
 England ; nor even then. To live, for me, 
 Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust which may 
 crack and spue fire any day." 
 
 " But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. 
 Your influence, sir, is evidently potent with 
 him ; he will never set you at defiance, or will- 
 fully injure you." 
 
 " Oh, no ! Mason will not defy me ; nor, know- 
 ing it, will he hurt me— but, unintentionally, he 
 might in a moment, by one careless word, de- 
 prive me, if not of life, yet forever of happiness." 
 " Tell him to be cautious, sir; let him know 
 what you fear, and shotw him how to avert the 
 danger." 
 
 He laughed sardonically, hastily took my 
 hand, and as hastily threw it from him. 
 
 "If I could do that, simpleton, where would 
 the danger be 1 Annihilated in a moment. 
 Ever since I have known Mason, I have only 
 had to say to him 'Do that,' and the thing has 
 been done. But I can not give him orders in 
 this case : I can not say ' Beware of harming 
 me, Richard ;' for it is imperative that I should 
 keep him ignorant that harm to me is possible. 
 Now you look puzzled ; and I will puzzle you 
 further. You are my little friend, are you not !" 
 
 " I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in 
 all that is right." 
 
 " Precisely : I see you do. I see genuine 
 contentment in your gait and mien, your ej'e 
 and face, when you are helping me and pleas- 
 ing me — working for me, and with me, in, as 
 you characteristically say, ' all (hat is right :' for 
 if I bid you do what you thought wrong, there 
 would be no light-fooled running, no neat- 
 handed alacrity, no lively glance and animated 
 complexion. My friend would then turn to me, 
 quiet and pale, and would say, 'No, sir; that 
 is impossible ; I can not do it, because it is 
 wrong,' and would "become immutable as a 
 fixed star. Well, you, too, have power over me, 
 and may injure me : yet I dare not show you 
 where I alu vulnerable, lest, faithful and friend- 
 ly as you are, you should transfix me at once." 
 
 "If you have no more to fear from Mr. Ma- 
 son than you have from me, sir, you are very 
 safe." 
 
 " God grant it may be so ! Here, Jane, is aa 
 arbor; sit down." i 
 
 The arbor was an arch in the wall, lined 
 with ivy ; it contained a rustic seat. Mr. 
 Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for 
 me ; but I stood before him. 
 
 " Sit," he said ; " the bench is long enough 
 for two. You don't hesitate to take a place at 
 my side, do you 1 Is that wrong 1" 
 
 I answered him by assuming it : to refuse 
 would, I felt, have been unwise. 
 
 " Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks 
 the dew — while all the flowers in this old gardea 
 awake and expand, and the birds fetch their 
 young ones' breakfast out of the thorn-field, 
 and the early bees do their first spell of work 
 — I'll put a case to you, which you must en- 
 deavor to suppose your own : but first, look at • 
 me, and tell me you are at ease, and not fear- 
 ing that I err in detaining you. or that you err 
 in staying:." 
 
 "No, sir; I am content." 
 
 " Well, then, Jane, call to aid your fancy : — 
 supposed you were no longer a girl well reared 
 and disciplined, but a wild boy, indulged from 
 childhood upward ; imagine yourself in a re- 
 mole foreign land ; conceive that you there 
 commit a capital error, no matter of what na 
 
84 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ture or from what motives, but one whose con- 
 sequences must follow you through life and 
 taint all your existence. Mind, I don't say a 
 crime ; I am not speaking of shedding of blood 
 or any other guiliy act, which might make the 
 perpetrator amenable to the law : my word is 
 error. The results of what you have done be- 
 come in time to you utterly insupportable ; you 
 take measures to obtain relief: unusual meas- 
 ures, but neither unlawful nor culpable. Still 
 you are miserable ; for hope has quitted you on 
 the very confines of life : your sun at noon 
 darkens in an eclipse, which you feel will not 
 leave it till the time of setting. Bitter and 
 base associations have become the sole food 
 of your memory : you wander here and there, 
 seeking rest in exile ; happiness in pleasure — 1 
 mean in heartless, sensual pleasure — such as 
 dulls intellect and blights feeling. Heart- 
 weary and soul-withered, you come home after 
 years of voluntary banishment ; you make a 
 new acquaintance — how, or where, no matter : 
 you find in this stranger much of the good and 
 bright qualities which you have sought for 
 twenty years, and never before encountered ; 
 and they are all fresh, healthy, without soil and 
 without taint. Such society revives, regene- 
 rates : you feel better days come back — higher 
 wishes, purer feelings ; you desire to recom- 
 mence your life, and to spend what remains to 
 you of days in a way more worthy of an im- 
 mortal being. To attain this end, are you 
 justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom — 
 a mere conventional impediment, which neither 
 your conscience sanctifies nor your judgment 
 approves V 
 
 He paused for an answer : and what was I 
 to sayl Oh, for some good spirit to suggest 
 a judicious and satisfactory response ! Vain 
 aspiration ! The west wind whispered in the 
 ivy round me ; but no gentle Ariel borrowed 
 its breath as a medium of speech ; the birds 
 sang in the tree-tops ; hut their song, however 
 sweet, was inarticulate. 
 
 Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query : 
 
 " Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest- 
 seeking and repentant man, justified in daring 
 the world's opinion, in order to attach to him 
 forever, this gentle, gracious, genial stranger ; 
 thereby securing his own peace of mind and 
 regeneration of life 1" 
 
 " Sir," I answered, " a wanderer's repose 
 or a sinner's reformation should never depend 
 on a fellow-creature. Men and women die ; 
 philosophers falter in wisdom, and Christians 
 in goodness : if any one you know has suffered 
 and erred, let him look higher than his equals 
 for strength to amend, and solace to heal." 
 
 " But the instrument — the instrument ! God, 
 who does the work, ordains the instrument. I 
 have myself — I tell it you without parable — 
 heen a worldly, dissipated, restless man ; and 
 1 believe I have found the instrument for my 
 cure, in — " 
 
 He paused : the birds weut on caroling, the 
 leaves lightly rustling. I almost wondered 
 they did not chock their songs and whispers to 
 catch the suspended revelation : but they would 
 have had to wait many minutes — so long was 
 the silence protracted. At last I looked up at 
 the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at 
 me. 
 
 " Little friend," said he, in quite a changed 
 tone — while his face changed too, losing all 
 its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh 
 and sarcastic— " you have noticed, my tender 
 penchant for Miss Ingram : don't you think if I 
 married her she would regenerate me with a 
 vengeance 1" 
 
 He got up instantly, went quite to the other 
 end of the walk, and when he came back he 
 was humming a tune. 
 
 " Jane, Jane," said he, stopping before me, 
 " you are quite pale with your vigils : don't you 
 curse me for disturbing your rest?" 
 
 "Curse you] No, sir." 
 
 " Shake hands in confirmation of the word. 
 What cold fingers ! They were warmer last 
 night when I touched them at ihe 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 mar- 
 ried 1 I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. 
 Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me 
 company'! To you I can talk of my lovely 
 one ; for now you have seen her and know 
 her." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " She's a rare one, is she not, Jane?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "A strapper — a real strapper, Jane: big, 
 brown, and buxom ; with hair just such as the 
 ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me ! 
 there's Dent and Lynn in the stables ! Go in 
 by the shrubbery, through that wicket." 
 
 As I went one way, he went another, and I 
 heard him in the yard, saying, cheeringly, 
 
 " Mason got the start of you all this morning-, 
 he was gone before sunrise — I rose at four to 
 see him off." 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 Presentiments are strange things ! and so 
 are sympathies, and so are signs ; and the three 
 combined make one mystery to which humani- 
 ty has not yet found the key. I never laughed 
 at presentiments in my life, because I have had 
 strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I be- 
 lieve, exist (for instance, between far-distant, 
 long-absent, wholly estranged relatives ; as- 
 serting, notwithstanding their alienation, the 
 unity of the source to which each traces his 
 origin), whose workings baffle mortal compre- 
 hension. And signs, for aught we know, may 
 be but the sympathies of nature with man. 
 
 When I was a little girl, only six years old, ^ 
 one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha 
 Abbott that she had been dreaming about a lit- 
 tle child ; and that to dream of children was a 
 sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's 
 kin. The saying might have worn out of my 
 memory, had not a circumstance immediately 
 followed which served indelibly to fix it there. 
 The next day Bessie was sent for home to the 
 death-bed of her little sister. 
 
 Of late I had often recalled this saying and 
 this incident ; for during the past week scarcely 
 a night had gone over my couch that had not 
 brought with it a dream of an infant, which I 
 sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dan- 
 dled on my knee, sometimes wulched playing 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 85 
 
 "with daisies on a lawn ; or again, dabbling its 
 hands in running water. It was a wailing child 
 this night, and a laughing one the next — now it 
 nestled close to me, and now it ran from me ; 
 but whatever mood the apparition evinced, 
 whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven 
 successive nights to meet me the moment I 
 entered the land of slumber. 
 
 I did not like this iteration of one idea — this 
 strange recurrence of one image ; and I grew 
 nervous as bedtime approached, and the hour 
 of the vision drew near. It was from compan- 
 ionship with this baby-phantom I had been 
 roused on that moonlight night when I heard 
 the cry ; and it was on the afternoon of the day 
 following I was summoned down stairs by a 
 message that some one wanted me in Mrs. 
 Fairfax's room. On repairing thither, I found 
 a man waiting for me, having the appearance 
 of a gentleman's servant ; he was dressed in 
 deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand 
 was surrounded with a crape band. 
 
 " I dare say you hardly remember me, 
 miss," he said, rising as I entered ; " but my 
 name is Leaven ; I lived coachman with Mrs. 
 Reed when you were at Gateshead eight, or 
 nine years since, and I live there still." 
 
 " Oh, Robert ! how do you do 1 I remember 
 you very well ; you used to give me a ride 
 sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony. 
 And how is Bessie ? You are married to 
 Bessie 1" 
 
 " Yes, miss — my wife is very hearty, thank 
 you ; she brought me another little one about 
 two months since — we have three now — and 
 both mother and child are thriving." 
 
 " And are the family well at the house, Rob- 
 ert 1" 
 
 " I am sorry I can't give you better news of 
 them, miss ; they are very badly at present — 
 in great trouble." 
 
 " I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing at 
 his black dress. He, too, looked down at the 
 crape round his hat, and replied, 
 
 " Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his 
 chambers in London." 
 
 "Mr. John?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And how does his mother bear it 1" 
 
 " Why you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common 
 mishap ; his life has been very wild ; these last 
 three years he gave himself up to strange ways, 
 and his death was shocking." 
 • " I heard from Bessie he was not doing 
 well." 
 
 " Doing well ! He could not do worse ; he 
 ruined his health and his estate among the 
 worst men and the worst women. He got 
 into debt and into jail ; his mother helped him 
 out twice, but as soon as he was free he 
 returned to his old companions and habits. 
 His head was not strong ; the knaves he lived 
 among fooled him beyond any thing I ever 
 heard. He came down to Gateshead about 
 three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up 
 all to him. Missis refused ; her means have 
 long been much reduced by his extravagance ; 
 so he went back again, and the next news was 
 that he was dead. How he djed, God knows ! 
 they say he killed himself." 
 
 I was silent — the tidings were frightful. Rob- 
 ert Leaven resumed : 
 
 " Missis had been out of health herself for 
 some time ; she had got very stout, but was 
 not strong with it ; and the loss of money and 
 fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. 
 The information about Mr. John's death and 
 the manner of it came too suddenly — it brought 
 on a stroke. She was three days without 
 speaking ; but last Tuesday she seemed rather 
 better; she appeared. as if she wanted to say 
 something, and kept making signs to my wife 
 and mumbling. It was only yesterday morn- 
 ing, however, that Bessie understood she was 
 pronouncing your name ; and at last she made 
 out the words, ' Bring Jane — fetch Jane Eyre ; 
 I want to speak to her.' Bessie is not sure 
 whether she is in her right mind, or means any 
 thing by the words ; but she told Miss Reed 
 and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send 
 for you. The young ladies put it off at first ; 
 but their mother grew so restless, and said, 
 'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that at last they 
 consented. I left Gateshead yesterday ; and if 
 you can get ready, miss, I should like to take 
 you back with me early to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Yes, Robert, I shall be ready ; it seems to 
 me that I ought to go." 
 
 " I think so too, miss. Bessie said she was 
 sure you would not refuse ; but I suppose you 
 will have to ask leave before you can get off1" 
 
 " Yes, and I will do it now ;" and having di- 
 rected him to the servants' hall, and recom- 
 mended him to the care of John's wife, and the 
 attentions of John himself, I went in search of 
 Mr. Rochester. 
 
 He was not in any of the lower rooms ; he 
 was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. 
 I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him — yes ; 
 she believed he was playing billiards with Miss 
 Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened ; the 
 click of balls and the hum of voices resounded 
 thence ; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two 
 misses Eshton and their admirers, were all bus- 
 ied in the game. It required some courage to 
 disturb so interesting a party ; my errand, how- 
 ever, was one I could not def^r, so I approached 
 the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's 
 side. She turned as I drew near, and looked 
 at me haughtily ; her eyes seemed to demand. 
 '" What can the creeping creature want now ?" 
 and when I said, in a low voice, " Mr. Roches- 
 ter," she made a movement as if tempted to 
 order me away. I remember her appearance 
 at the moment — it was very graceful and very 
 striking ; she wore a morning robe of sky-blue 
 crape ; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her 
 hair. She had been all animation with the game, 
 and irritated pride did not lower the expression 
 of her haught lineaments. 
 
 " Does that person want you 1" she inquired 
 of Mr. Rochester ; and Mr. Rochester turned to 
 see who the " person" was. He made a curious 
 grimace — one of his strange and equivocal dem- 
 onstrations — threw down his cue and followed 
 me from the room. 
 
 " Well, Jane ?" he said, as he rested his back 
 against the school-room door, which he had 
 shut. 
 
 "If you please, sir, I want leave of absence 
 for a week or t\Ao."- 
 
 " What to do 1 Where to go 1" 
 
 " To see a sick lady who has ^ent for me." 
 
 " What sick lady ! Where does she live '" 
 
m 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " At Gateshead, in shire." 
 
 " shire ? That is a hundred miles off ! 
 
 Who may she be that sends for people to see 
 her at that distanced" 
 
 " Her name is Reed, sir — Mrs. Reed." 
 
 " Reed of Gateshead 1 There was a Reed of 
 Gateshead, a magistrate." 
 
 "It is his widow, sir." 
 
 " And what have you to do with herT How 
 do you know herV 
 
 "Mr. Reed was my uncle, my mother's 
 brother." 
 
 "The deuce he was! You never told me 
 that before : you always said that you had no 
 relations." 
 
 "None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed 
 is dead, and his wife cast me off." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I was poor, and burdensome, and 
 she disliked me." 
 
 "But Reed left children! you must have 
 cousins T Sir George Lynn was talking of a 
 Reed of Gateshead, yesterday — who, he said, 
 was one of the veriest rascals on town; and 
 Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of 
 the same place, who was much admired for her 
 beauty, a season or two ago, in London. 
 
 "John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined 
 himself and half ruined his family, and is sup- 
 posed to have committed suicide. The news 
 so shocked his mother that it brought on an 
 apoplectic attack." 
 
 " And what good can you do to her ! Non- 
 sense, Jane ! I would never think of running a 
 hundred miles to see an old lady who will, 
 perhaps, be dead before you reach her ; besides, 
 you say she cast you off." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but that is long ago ; and when 
 her circumstances were very different : I could 
 not be easy to neglect her wishes now," 
 
 " How long will you stay 1" 
 
 " As short a time as possible, sir." 
 
 " Promise me only to stay a week " 
 
 " I had better not pass my word ; I might 
 h.: obliged to break it." 
 
 " At all events you will come back ; you will 
 not be induced under any pretext to take up a 
 pemanent residence with her?" 
 
 "Oh, no'. I bhall <je:ta;r.:v r.eurn if all be 
 
 we::." 
 
 " And who goes with you 1 You don't travel 
 a hundred miles alone V 
 
 " No, sir ; she has sent her coachman." 
 
 "A person to bo trusted V 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he has lived ten years in the 
 family." 
 
 Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you 
 wish to gol" 
 
 " Early to-morrow morning, sir." 
 
 "Well, you must have money; you can't 
 travel without money, and I dare say you have 
 r-it much ; I liavti given you no salary yet. 
 How much have you in the world, Janel" he 
 arl'ed smiling. 
 
 drew out my purse : a meager thing it 
 iv;- . "FiveshillingSjSir." He took the purse, 
 pctred the hoard into his palm and chuckled 
 over it as if its scantiness pleased him. Soon 
 he produced his pocket-hook. " Ht re," said he, 
 offering me a note ; it was fifty pounds, and he 
 owed me but Sfteen. I told him I had no 
 change. 
 
 " I don't want change : you know that. 
 Take your wages." 
 
 I declmed accepting more than was my due. 
 He scowled at first ; then, as if recollecting 
 something, he said : 
 
 " Right, right ! Better not give you all now : 
 you would, perhaps, stay away three months if 
 you had fifty pounds. "There are ten ; is it not 
 plenty?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, but now you owe me five." 
 
 " Come back for it, then : I am your banker 
 for forty pounds." 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention 
 another matter of business to you while I have 
 the opportunity." 
 
 " Matter of business ? I'm curious to hear 
 it." 
 
 " You have as good as informed me, sir, that 
 you are going shortly to be married 1" 
 
 "Yes; what then?" 
 
 " In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to 
 school ; I am sure you will perceive the ne- 
 cessity of it." 
 
 " To get he^ out of my bride's .way ; who 
 might otherwise walk over her rather too em- 
 phatically. There's sense in the suggestion ; 
 not a doubt of it : Adele, as you say, must go 
 to school ; and you, of course, must march 
 straight to — the devil !" 
 
 " I hope not, sir ; but I must seek another 
 situation somewhere." 
 
 " In course !" he exclaimed, with a twang of 
 voice and, a distortion of features equally fan- 
 tastic and ludicrous. He looked at me sotne 
 minutes. 
 
 " And old Madam Reed, or the misses, her 
 daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a 
 place. I suppose?" 
 
 " No, sir ; I am not on such terms with my 
 relatives as would justify me in asking favors 
 of them — but I shall advertise." 
 
 " You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt !" 
 he growled. " At your peril you advertise ! I 
 wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead 
 of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, 
 Jane ; I've a use for it." 
 
 "And so have I, sir," I returned, putting mj 
 hands and my purse behind me. " I could not 
 's{ am the money on any account." 
 
 " Liiue ;;.;,•. 'd'" said he, "refusing me 
 a pecuniary reqi-dt! Give me five puuKda> 
 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 prcunise you any thing, sir, that I think 
 I am likely to perform." 
 
 " Not to advertise : and to trust this quest 
 of a situation to me. I'll find you one in time." 
 
 " I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your 
 turn, will promise that I and Adole shall bo 
 boih 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." 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 87 
 
 "Then you and I must bid good-bye for a 
 little while r* 
 
 " I suppose so, sir." 
 • " And iiow do people perform that ceremony 
 of ptirting, Jane 1 Teach me: I'm not quite 
 up to it." 
 
 " They say farewell ; or any other form they 
 prefer." 
 
 "Then say it." 
 
 " Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present." 
 
 " What must I say ?" 
 
 "The same, if you like, sir." 
 
 " Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present ; is 
 that alii" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "It seems stingy to my notions, and dry, 
 and unfriendly. I should like something else : 
 a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, 
 for instance ; but no, that would not content me 
 either. So you'll do no more than say ' fare- 
 well.' Jane 1" 
 
 "It is enough sir; as much good-will may 
 be conveyed In one hearty word as in many." 
 
 " Very likely ; but it is blank and cool — 
 •farewell.'" 
 
 "How long is he going to stand with his 
 back against that door?" I asked myself; "I 
 want to commence my packing." Tlje dinner- 
 bell rung, and suddenly away he bolted, with- 
 out another syllable : 1 saw him no more during 
 the day, and was off before he had risen in the 
 morning. 
 
 I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five 
 o'clock in the afternoon of the first of May ; I 
 stepped in there before going up to the Hall. It 
 was very clean and neat ; the ornamental win- 
 dows were hung with little white curtains, the 
 floor was spotless, the grate and fireirons were 
 burnished bright, and the fire burned clear. 
 Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, 
 and Robert and his sister played quietly in a 
 corner. 
 
 " Bless you ! I knew you would come !" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered. 
 
 " Yes, Bessie," said 1, after I had kissed her ; 
 " and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. 
 Reed 1 Alive still, I hope." 
 
 " Yes, she is alive, and more sensible and 
 collected than she was. The doctor says she 
 may linger a week or two yet ; but he hardly 
 thinks she will finally recover." 
 
 " Has she mentioned me lately 1" 
 
 "Sli"e was talking of you only this morning, 
 and wishing you would come ; but she is sleep- 
 ing now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was 
 up at the house. She generally lies in a kind 
 of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up 
 about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here 
 an hour, miss, and then I will go up with jou 1" 
 
 Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her 
 sleeping child in the cradle and went to wel- 
 come him ; afterward she insisted on my taking 
 off my bonnet and having some tea, for she said 
 I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept 
 her hospitality, and I submitted to be relieved 
 of my traveling garb just as passively as I used 
 to let her undress me when a child. 
 
 Old times crowded fast hack on me as I 
 watched her bustling about — setting out the 
 tea-tray with her best china, cutting brcud and 
 butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, 
 giving iiltlti Robert or Jane an occasional tap 
 
 or push, ju-st aa she used to give me in former 
 days. Bessie had retained her quick temper 
 as well as htr light foot and good looks. 
 
 T;'a ready, I was goiii^^ to appr:);ich the table ; 
 but she desired me to sit still, qiijie in her old, 
 peremptory tones. I must be served at the 
 fireside, §he said ; and she placed before me a 
 little round stand with my cup and a plate of 
 toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate 
 me with some privately purloined dainty on a 
 nursery chair ; and I smiled and obeyed her as 
 in by-gone days. 
 
 She wanted to know if I was happy at Thorn-* 
 field Hall, and what sort of a person the mis- 
 tress was ; and when I told her there was only 
 a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, 
 and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an 
 ugly man, but quite a gentleman ; and that he 
 treated me kindly, and I was content. Then I 
 went on to describe to her (he gay company 
 that had lately been staying at the house; and 
 to these details Bessie listened with interest; 
 they were precisely of the kind she relished. 
 
 In such conversation an hour was soon gone ; 
 Bessie restored to me my bonnet, &c., and, ac- 
 companied by her, I quitted the lodge for the 
 Hall. It was also accompanied by her that I 
 had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the 
 path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, 
 raw morning in January, I had left a hostile 
 roof with a desperate and embittered heart — a 
 sense of outlawry and almost of reprobaliou— 
 to seek the chilly harborage of Lowood, that 
 bourn so far away and unexplored. The same 
 hostile roof now again rose before me ; my pros- 
 pects were doubtful yet ; and J had yet an ach- 
 ing hea'.t. I still fell as a wanderer on the face 
 of the earth ; but I experienced firmer trust in 
 myself and my own powers, and less withering 
 dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my 
 wrongs, too, was now quite healed, and the 
 flame of resentment extinguished. 
 
 " You shall go into the breakfast-room first," 
 said Bessie, as she preceded me through the 
 hall; "the young ladies will, he there." 
 
 In another moment I was within that apart- 
 ment. There was every article of furniture 
 looking just as it did on the morning I was first 
 introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst — the very rug' 
 he had stood upon still covered the hearth. 
 Glancing at the book-cases, I thought I could 
 distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's Brit- 
 ish Birds occupying their old place on the third 
 shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the Arabian 
 Nights ranged just above. The inanimate ob- 
 jects were not changed, but the living things 
 had altered past recognition 
 
 Two young ladies appeared before me ; one 
 very tall — almost as tall as Miss Ingram — very 
 tiiin, too, with a sallow face and severe mien. 
 There was something ascetic in her look, which 
 was augmented by the extreme plainness of a 
 strait-skirted, black stuff dress, a starched linen 
 collar, hair combed away from the temples, and 
 the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads 
 and a crucifix. This, I felt sure, was Eliza, 
 though I could trace little resemblance to her 
 former self in that elongated and colorless 
 visage. 
 
 The other was as certainly Georgiana ; but 
 not the Georgiana I remembered — the slim and 
 fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown. 
 
88 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 very plump damsel, fair as wax-work, with 
 handsome and regular features, languishing 
 blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The hue 
 of her dress was black too ; but its fashion was 
 so different from her sister's — so much more 
 flowing and becoming — it looked as stylish as 
 the other's looked puritanical. 
 
 In each of the sisters there was one trait of 
 the mother, and only one ; the thin and pallid 
 elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm eye ; 
 the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her 
 contour of jaw and chin, perhaps a little soft- 
 ened, but still imparting an indescribable hard- 
 ness to the countenance, otherwise so volup- 
 tuous and buxom. 
 
 Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome 
 me, and both addressed me by the name of 
 "Miss Eyre." Eliza's greeting was delivered 
 in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile ; and 
 then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the 
 fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgiana 
 added to her " How d'ye do 1" several common- 
 places about my journey, the weather, and so 
 on, uttered in rather a drawling tone, and ac- 
 companied by sundry side-glances that meas- 
 ured me from head to foot — now traversing the 
 folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lin- 
 gering on the plain trimming of my cottage 
 bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way 
 of letting you know that they think you a 
 "quiz," without actually saying the words. A 
 certain superciliousness of look, coolness of 
 manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their 
 sentiments on the point, without committing 
 them by any positive rudeness in word or deed. 
 
 A sneer, however, whether covert or open, 
 had now no longer that power over me it once 
 possessed ; as I sat between my cousins, I was 
 surprised to find how easy I felt under the total 
 neglect of the one and the semi-sarcastic atten- 
 tions of the other — Eliza did not mortify, nor 
 Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had 
 other things to think about; within the last 
 few months feelings had been stirred in me so 
 much more potent than any they could raise — 
 pains and pleasures so much more acute and 
 exquisite had been excited than any it was in 
 their power to inflict or bestow — that their airs 
 gave me no concern either for good or bad. 
 
 " How is Mrs. Reed !" I asked soon, looking 
 calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle 
 at the direct address, as if it were an unexpect- 
 ed liberty. 
 
 " Mrs. Reed 1 Ah ! mamma you mean ; she 
 , is extremely poorly ; I doubt if you can see her 
 to-night." 
 
 "If," said I, " you would just step up stairs 
 and tell her I am come, I should be much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 Georgiana almost started, and she opened 
 her blue eyes wdd and wide. " I know she had 
 a particular wish to see me," I added, "and I 
 would not defer attending to her desire longer 
 than is absolutely necessary." 
 
 " Mamma dislikes being disturbed in an even- 
 ing," remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took 
 oflfmy bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said 1 
 would just step out to Bessie, who was, I dared 
 say, in the kitchen, and ask her to ascertain 
 whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me 
 or not tonight. I went, and, having found 
 Bessie and dispatched her on my errand, I pro- 
 
 ceeded to take further measures. It had here- 
 tofore been my habit always to shrink from ar- 
 rogance ; received as I had been to-day, I should, 
 a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead tM 
 very next morning ; now, it was disclosed to 
 me all at once, that that would be a foolish plan. 
 I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see 
 my aunt,' and I must stay with her till she wag 
 better or dead ; as to her daughters' pride or 
 folly, I must put it on one side — make myself 
 independent of it. So I addressed the house- 
 keeper — asked her to show me a room, told her 
 I should probably be a visitor here for a week 
 or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber, 
 and followed it thither myself I met Bessie 
 on the landing. 
 
 " Missis is awake," said she ; " I have told 
 her you are here ; come and let us see if she 
 will know you." 
 
 I did not need to be guided to the well-known 
 room, to which I had so often been summoned 
 for chastisement or reprimand in former days. 
 I hastened before Bessie and softly opened the 
 door ; a shaded light stood on the table, for it 
 was now getting dark. There' was the great 
 four-post bedstead with amber hangings as of 
 old ; there the toilet-table, the arm-chair, and 
 the footstool, at which I had a hundred times 
 been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for of- 
 fenses by me uncommitted. I looked into a 
 certain corner near, half expecting to see the 
 slim outline of a once dreaded switch, which 
 used to lurk there, waiting to leap out, imp-like, 
 and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. 
 I approached the bed ; I opened the curtains 
 and leaned over the high-piled pillows. 
 
 Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and 
 I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is 
 a happy thing that time quells the longings of 
 vengeance, and hushes the promptings of rage 
 and aversion : I had left this woman in bitter- 
 ness and hate, and I came back to her now 
 with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for 
 her great sufferings, and a strong yearning to 
 forget and forgive all injuries — to be reconciled, 
 and clasp hands in amity. 
 
 The well-known face was there, stern, re- 
 lentless as ever ; there was that peculiar eye 
 which nothing could melt, and the somewhat 
 raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. How 
 often had it lowered on mc menace and hate [ 
 and how the recollection of childhood's terrors 
 and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line 
 now ! And yet I stooped down and kissed 
 her ; she looked at me. 
 
 " Is this Jane Eyre V she said. 
 
 "Yes. Aunt Reed. How are you, dear 
 auntr' 
 
 I had once vowed that I would never call 
 her aunt again ; I thought it no sin to f6rget 
 and break that vow now. My fingers had 
 fastened on her hand which lay outside the 
 sheet ; had she pressed mine kindly, I should 
 at that moment have experienced true pleas- 
 ure. But unimpressionable natures are not so 
 soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so 
 readily eradicated ; Mrs. Reed took her hand 
 away, and turning her face rather from me, 
 she remarked that the night was warm, Agaia 
 she regarded me, so icily, I felt at once that 
 her opinion of me— her feeling toward me — 
 was unchanged and unchangeable I knew by 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 89 
 
 I 
 
 her stony eye, opaque to tenderness, indissoluble 
 to tears, that she was resolved to consider me 
 bad to the last ; because to believe rne good, 
 "would give her no generous pleasure, only a 
 sense of mortification. 
 
 I felt pain, and then I felt ire, and then I felt 
 a determination lo subdue her ; to be her mis- 
 tress in spite both of her nature and her will. 
 My tears had risen, just as in childhood ; I or- 
 dered them back to their source. I brought a 
 chair to the bed-head ; I sat down and leaned 
 over the pillow. 
 
 " You sent for me," I said, " and I am here, 
 and it is my intention to stay till I see how you 
 get on." 
 
 " Oh, of course ! You have seen my daugh- 
 ters?' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, you may tell them I wish you lo 
 stay, till I can talk some things over with you 
 I have on my mind ; to-night it is too late ; 
 and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But 
 there was something I wished to say — let me 
 see — " 
 
 The wandering look and changed utterance 
 told what wreck had taken place in her once 
 vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew 
 the bed-clothes round her ; my elbow, resting 
 on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down ; she 
 was at once irritated. 
 
 "Sit up!" said she, "don't annoy me with 
 noldmg the clothes fast ; are you Jane EyreV 
 
 " I am Jane Eyre." 
 
 "I have had more trouble with that child 
 than any one would believe. Such a burden 
 to be left on my hands, and so much annoyance 
 as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her 
 incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden 
 starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural 
 watchings of one's movements ! I declare she 
 talked to me once like something mad, or like a 
 iiend ; no child ever spoke or looked as she 
 did : ,1 was glad to get her away from the 
 house. What did they do with her at Lowood 1 
 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 sol" 
 
 " I had a dislike to her mother, always ; for 
 she was my husband's only sister, and a great 
 favorite with him ; he opposed the family's dis- 
 owning her when she made her low marriage ; 
 and when news came of her death, he wept 
 like a simpleton. He would send for the baby, 
 though I entreated him rather to put it out to 
 nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it 
 the first time I set my eyes on it, a sickly, 
 whining, pining thing ! It would wail in its 
 cradle all night long, not screaming heartily 
 like any other child, but whimpering and moan- 
 ing. Reed pitied it, and he used to nurse it 
 and notice it as if it had been his own ; more, 
 indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that 
 age. He would try to make my children friend- 
 ly to the little beggar ; the darlings could not 
 bear it, and he was angry with them when they 
 showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had 
 it brought continually to his bedside ; and but 
 an hour before he died, he bound me by a vow 
 to keep the creature. I would as soon have 
 been charged with a pauper brat out of a work- 
 
 house ; but he was weak, naturally weak. 
 John does not at all resemble his father, and I am 
 glad of it : John is like me and like my brothers, 
 he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would 
 cease tormenting me with letters for money ! 
 I have no more money to give him, we are 
 getting poor. I must send away half the serv- 
 ants and shut up part of the house, or let it 
 oflT. I can never submit to do that ; yet how 
 are we to get on 1 Two thirds of my income 
 goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John 
 gambles dreadfully, and always loses, poor hoy ! 
 He is beset by sharpers ; John is sunk and de- 
 graded, his look is frightful, I feel ashamed for 
 him when I see him." 
 
 She was getting much excited. " I think I 
 had better leave her now," said I to Bessie, 
 who stood on the other side of the bed. 
 
 " Perhaps you had, miss ; but she often talks 
 in this way toward night ; in the morning she 
 is calmer." 
 
 I rose. "Stop!" exclaimed Mrs. Reed. 
 "There is another thing I wished to say. He 
 threatens me — he continually threatens me 
 with his own death or mine ; and I dream 
 sometimes that I see him laid out with a great 
 wound in his throat, or with a swelled and 
 blackened face. I am come to a strange pass ; 
 I have heavy troubles. What is to be done ? 
 How is the money to be had 1" 
 
 Bessie now endeavored to persuade her to 
 take a sedative draught : she succeeded with 
 difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more 
 composed, and sunk into a dozing state. I then 
 left her. 
 
 More than ten days elapsed before I had 
 again any conversation with her. She contin- 
 ued either delirious or lethargic, and the doctor 
 forbade every thing which could painfully excite 
 her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could 
 with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very 
 cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the 
 day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely _ 
 utter a word either to me or her sister. Geor- 
 giana would chatter nonsense to her canary- 
 bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. 
 But I was determined not to seem at a loss for 
 occupation or amusement ; I had brought my 
 drawing materials with me, and they served 
 me for both. 
 
 Provided with a case of pencils, and some 
 sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart 
 from them, near the window, and busy myself 
 in sketching fancy vignets, representing any 
 scene that happened momentarily to shape 
 itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of im- 
 agination : a glimpse of sea between two rocks ; 
 the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk ; 
 a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad's 
 head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out 
 of them ; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow's 
 nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom. 
 
 One morning I fell to sketching a face ; what 
 sort of a face it was to be 1 did not care or 
 know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a 
 broad point, and worked away. Soon I had 
 traced on the paper a broad and prominent fore- 
 head, and a square lower outline of visage ; that 
 contour gave me pleasure ; my fingers proceed- 
 ed actively to fill it with features. Strongly 
 marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced 
 under that brow ; then followed, naturally, a 
 
90 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 well-defined nose, willi a straight ridge and 
 full nostrils; then a flexible-looiting mouth, by 
 no means narrow ; then a firm chin, with a 
 decided cleft down the middle of it : of course, 
 some black whiskers were wauled, and some 
 jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved 
 above the forehead. Now for the eyes ; I had 
 left them to the last, because they required the 
 most careful working. I drew them large ; I 
 shaped them well ; the eyelashes I traced long 
 and somber ; the irids lustrous and large. 
 •' Good ! but not quite the thing," I thought, as 
 I surveyed the effect ; " they want more force 
 and spirit ;" and I wrought the shades blacker, 
 that the lights might flash more brilliantly — a 
 happy touch or two secured success. There, I 
 had a friend's face under my gaze ; and what 
 did it signify that those young ladies turned 
 their hacks on mel I looked at it ; I smiled at 
 the speaking likeness ; I was absorbed and con- 
 tent. 
 
 " Is that a portrait of some one you know ■?" 
 asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. 
 I responded that it was merely a fancy head, 
 and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of 
 course, I lied ; it was, in fact, a very faithful 
 representation of Mr. Rochester. But what 
 was that to her; or to any one but myself^ 
 Georgiana also advanced to look. The other 
 drawings pleased her much, but she called that 
 an " ugly man." They both seemed surprised 
 at my skill. I offered to sketch, their portraits ; 
 and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. 
 Then Georgiana produced her album. I prom- 
 ised to contribute a water-color drawing ; 
 Ibis put her at once into good-humor. She 
 proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we 
 had been out two hours, we were deep in a 
 confidential conversation ; she had favored me 
 with a description of the brilliant winter she 
 had spent in London two seasons ago — of the 
 admiration she had there exciled — the atten- 
 tion she had received ; and I even got hints of 
 the tilled conquest she had made. In the 
 course of the afternoon and evening these 
 hints were enlarged on ; various soft conver- 
 sations were reported, and sentimental scenes 
 represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel 
 of fashionable 'life was that day improvised by 
 her for my benefit. The communications were 
 renewed from day to day ; they always ran on 
 the same theme — herself, her loves, and woes. 
 It was strange she never once adverted either 
 to her mother's illness or her brother's death, 
 or the present gloomy stale of the family pros- 
 pects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up 
 with reminiscences of past gayety,'and aspira- 
 rations after dissipations to come. She pass- 
 ed about five minutes each day in her mother's 
 sick-room, and no more. 
 
 Eliza still spoke little ; she had evidently no 
 time to talk. 1 never saw a busier person 
 than she seemed to be ; yet it was difficult to 
 say what she did ; or, rather, to discover any 
 result of her diligence. She had an alarm to 
 call her up early. I know not how she oc- 
 cupied herself before breakfast, but after that 
 meal she divided her lime into regular por- 
 tions; and each hour had its allotted task. 
 Three limes a-day she studied a little book, 
 which I found, on inspection, was a Common 
 Prayer Bolk. I asked her once what was the 
 
 great attraction of that volume, and she said 
 " the Rubric." Three hours she gave to stitch- 
 ing, with gold thread, the border of a square 
 crimspn cloth, almost large enough for a car- 
 pet. In answer to my inquiries after the use 
 of this article, she informed me it was a cov- 
 ering for the altar of a new church lately erect- 
 ed near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted 
 to her diary ; two to working by herself in the 
 kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of 
 her accounts. She seemed to want no com- 
 pany — no conversation. I Relieve she was 
 happy in her way ; this routine sufficed to her ; 
 and nothing annoyed her so much as the oc- 
 currence of any incident which forced her to 
 vary its clock-work regularity." 
 
 She told me o-ne evening, when more dis- 
 posed to be communicative than usual, that 
 John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the 
 family, had been a source of profound affliction 
 to her; but she had now, she said, settled her 
 mind, and formed her resolution. Her own 
 fortune she had taken care to secure; and 
 when her mother died — and it was wholly im- 
 probable, she tranquilly remarked, that sho 
 should either recover or linger long, she would 
 execute a long-cherished project — seek a re- 
 tirement where punctual habits would be per- 
 manently secured from disturbance, and place 
 safe barriers between herself and a frivolous 
 world. I asked if Georgiana would accom- 
 pany her. 
 
 " Of course not. Georgiana and she had 
 nothing in common ; they never had had. Sho 
 would not be burdened with her society for any 
 consideration. Georgiana should take her own 
 course ; and she, Eliza, would take hers." 
 
 Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart 
 to me, spent most of her time in lying on the 
 sofa, fretting about the dullness of the house, 
 and wishing over and over again that her aunt 
 Gibson would send her an invitation up to 
 town. " It would be so much better," she 
 said, " if she could only get out of the way for 
 a month or two, till all was over." I did not 
 ask what she meant by " all being over," but I 
 suppose she referred to the expected decease 
 of her mother, and the gloomy sequel of funeral 
 rites. Eliza generally look no more notice of 
 her sister's indolence and complaints than if no 
 such murmuring, lounging object had been be- 
 fore her. One day, however, as she put away 
 her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, 
 she suddenly took her up thus : 
 
 " Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal 
 than you was certainly never allowed to cum- 
 ber 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 be- 
 ing ought, you seek only to fasten your feeble- 
 ness on some other person's strength ; if no 
 one can be found willing to burden her or him- 
 self with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, 
 you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, 
 miserable. Then, too, existence for you must 
 be a scene of continual change and excitement, 
 or else the world is a dungeon : you must be 
 admired, you must be cointed, you must be 
 flattered — you must have music, dancing, and 
 society — or you languish, you die away. Have 
 you no sense to devise a system which will 
 make you mdependenl of all eflbrls, and all 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 91 
 
 wili$, but your own 1 Take one day ; share it 
 into sections ; to each section apportion its 
 task ; leave no stray unemployed quarters of an 
 hour, ten minutes, five minutes — include all ; 
 do each piece of business in its turn wiib 
 method, with rigid regularity. The day will 
 close almost before you are aware it has be- 
 gun ; and you are indebted to no one for help- 
 ing you to gel rid of one vacant moment : yuu 
 have had toseek noone'scompany,conversation, 
 sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in sliort, 
 as an independent being ought to do. Take this 
 advice : the first and last I shall ofler you ; then 
 you will not want me or any one else, happen 
 what may. • Neglect it — go on as heretofore, 
 craving, whining, and idlmg — and sufTer the 
 results of your idiocy, however bad and insuf- 
 ferable they niay be. I tell you this plainly; 
 and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what 
 I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on 
 it. After my mother's death, I wash my hands 
 of you; from the day her coffin is carried to the 
 vault in Gateshead church, you and I will be as 
 separate as if we had never known each other. 
 You need not tbink that, because we chanced 
 to be born of the same parents, I shall sufl'er 
 vou to fasten me down by even the feeblest 
 claim; I tell you this — if the whole human 
 race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, 
 and we two stood alone on the earth, I would 
 leave you in the old world, and betake myself 
 to the new " She closed her lips. 
 
 " You might have spared yourself the trouble 
 of delivering that tirade," answered Georgiana. 
 " Every body knows you are the most selfish, 
 heartless creature in existence ; and / know 
 your spiteful hatred toward me ; I have had a 
 specimen of it before in the trick you played 
 me about Lord Edwin Vere ; you could not 
 bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, 
 to be received into circles where you dare not 
 show your face, and so you acted the spy and 
 informer, and ruined my prospects forever." 
 Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew 
 her nose for an hour afterward ; Eliza sat cold, 
 impassible, and assiduously industrious. 
 
 True, generous feeling is made small ac- 
 count of by some ; but here were two natures 
 rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other 
 despicably savorless for the want of it. Feeling 
 without judgment is a washy draught indeed ; 
 but judgment untempercd by feeling is too bit- 
 ter and husky a morsel for human deglutition. 
 
 It was a wet and windy afternoon : Georgi- 
 fina had fallen asleep on the sofa over the pe- 
 •'i.sal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend 
 :. samt's-day service at the new church — for 
 :;u matters of religion she was a rigid formal- 
 ist ; no weather ever prevented the punctual 
 discharge of what she considered her devo- 
 tional duties; fair or foul, she went to church 
 thrice every Sunday, and as often on week days 
 as there were prayers. 
 
 1 bethought myself to go up stairs and see 
 how the dying woman sped, who lay there al- 
 most unheeded ; the very servants paid her but 
 a remittent attention ; the hired nurse, being 
 little looked after, would slip out of the room 
 whenever she could. Bessie was failhlul ; but 
 she had her own family to mind, and could only 
 oorae occasionally to the Hall. I found the 
 sick-room anwatched, as I had expected ; no 
 
 nurse wasi there ; the patienl lay still, and 
 seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in tho 
 pillows ; the fire was dying in the grate. I re- 
 newed the fuel, rearranged the bed-clothes, 
 gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze 
 on me, and then I moved away to the window. 
 
 The rain beat strongly against the panes, the 
 wind blew tempestuously. " One lies there,"' 
 I thought, " who will so(m be beyond the war 
 of earthly elements. Whither will thai spirit 
 — now struggling to quit its material tenement 
 — flit when at length released 1" 
 
 in pondering the great mystery, I thought of 
 Helen Burns ; recalled her dying words — her 
 faith— rher doctrine of the equality of disem- 
 bodied souls. I was still listening in thought 
 to her well-remembered tones— still piclurmg 
 her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face 
 and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid 
 death-bed, and whispered her longing to be re- 
 stored to her divine Father's bosom — when 
 a feeble voice murmured from the couch be- 
 hind, "Who is that?" 
 
 I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days : 
 was she reviving? I went up to her. 
 
 "It is f, aunt Reed." 
 
 "Who — H" was her answer. "Who are 
 youT' h)oking at me with surprise and a sort 
 of alarm, but still not wildly. " You are quite 
 a stranger to me — where is Bessie 1" 
 
 " She is at the lodge, aunt." 
 
 "Aunt!" she repeated. "Who calls me. 
 aunt ! You are not one of the Gibsons ; and 
 yet I know you — that face, and the eyes and 
 forehead are quite familiar to me ; you are like 
 — why, you are like Jane Eyre !" 
 
 1 said nothing : I was afraid of occasioning 
 some shock by declaring my identity. 
 
 " Yet," said she, " I am afraid it is a mis- 
 take ; my thoughts deceive me. 1 wished to 
 see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where 
 none exists ; besides, in eight years she must 
 be so changed." I now gently assured her 
 that I was the person she supposed and de- 
 sired me to be; and seeing that I was under- 
 stood, and that her senses were quite collect- 
 ed, I explained how Bessie had sent her hus- 
 band to fetch me from Thornfield. 
 
 " I am very ill, I know," she said ere long; 
 "I was trying to turn myself a few minutos 
 since, and find I can not move a limb. It is aa 
 well I should ease my mind before I die ; what 
 we think little of in health burdens us at such 
 an hour as the present is to me. Is the nurso 
 herel or is there no one in the room but you!" 
 
 I assured her we were alone. 
 
 "Well, I have twice done you a wrong 
 which I regret now. One was in breaking 
 the promise which I gave my husband to brinR 
 you up as my own child ; the other — " She 
 stopped. " After all, it is of no great import- 
 ance, perhaps," she murmured to herself ; " and 
 then I may get better ; and to humble myself 
 so to her is painful." 
 
 She made an effort to alter her position, but 
 failed : her face changed ; she seemed to ex- 
 perience some inward sensation — the precur- 
 sor, perhaps, of the last pang. 
 
 " 'Well, I must get it over. Eternity is be 
 fore me : I had better tell her. Go to my 
 dressing-case, open it, and lake out a letter you 
 will see there." 
 
92 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 I obeyed her directions. " Read the letter," 
 she said. 
 
 It was short, and thus conceived : 
 
 " Mad.*m — Will you have the goodness to 
 send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, 
 and to tell me how she is ; it is my intention 
 to write shortly and desire her to come to me 
 at Madeira. Providence has blessed my en- 
 deavors to secure a competency ; and as I am 
 unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her 
 during my life, and bequeath her at my death 
 whatever I may have to leave." 
 
 "I am, madam, &c., &c., 
 "John Eyre, Madeira." 
 
 It was dated three years back. 
 
 " Why did I never hear of this V I asked. 
 
 " Because I disliked you too fixedly and 
 thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to 
 prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to 
 me, Jane — the fury with which you once turned 
 on me ; the tone in which you declared you 
 abhorred me the worst of any body in the 
 world ; the unchildlike look and voice with 
 which you affirmed that the very thought of 
 me made you sick, and asserted that I had 
 treated you with miserable cruelty. I could 
 not forget my own sensations when you thus 
 started up and poured out the venom of your 
 mind ; I felt fear, as if an animal that I had 
 struck or pushed had looked up at me with hu- 
 man eyes and cursed me in a man's voice. 
 Bring me some water I Oh, make haste !" 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as I offered her 
 the draught she required, " think no more of 
 all this, let it pass away from your mind. 
 Forgive me for my passionate language : I was 
 a child then ; eight, nine years have passed 
 since that day." 
 
 She heeded nothing of what I said ; but 
 when she had tasted the water and drawn 
 breath, she went on thus : — 
 
 " I tell you I could not forget it, and I took 
 my revenge ; for you to be adopted by your 
 uncle, and placed in a state of ease and com- 
 fort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to 
 him ; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, 
 but Jane Eyre was dead — she had died of 
 typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you 
 please ; write and contradict my assertion — 
 expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You 
 were born, I think, to be my torment ; my last 
 hour is racked by the recollection of a deed 
 which, but for you, I should never have been 
 tempted to commit." 
 
 "If you could but be persuaded to think no 
 more of it, aunt, and to regard me with kind- 
 ness and forgiveness — " 
 
 " You have a very bad disposition," said she, 
 " and one to this day I feel it impossible to 
 understand ; how for nine years you could be 
 patient and quiescent under any treatment, 
 and in the tenth break out all firb and violence, 
 I can never comprehend." 
 
 " My disposition is not so bad as you think : 
 I am passionate, but not vindictive. Many a 
 time, as a little child, I should have been glad 
 to love you if you would have let me ; and I 
 long earnestly to be reconciled to you now; 
 kiss me, aunt." 
 
 I approached my cheek to her lips ; she 
 would not touch it. She said I oppressed her 
 by leaning over the bed, and again demanded 
 
 water. As I laid her down — for I raised her 
 and supported her on my arm while she drank 
 — I covered her. ice-cold and clammy hand 
 with mine ; the feeble fingers shrank from my 
 touch — the glazing eyes shunned my gaze. 
 
 " Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," 
 I said at last, " you have my full and free 
 forgiveness ; ask now for God's, and be at 
 peace." 
 
 Poor, suffering woman ! it was too late for 
 her to make now the effort to change her 
 habitual frame of mind ; living, she had ever 
 hated me — dying, she must hate me still. 
 
 The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. 
 I yet lingered half an hour longer, hoping to 
 see some sign of amity ; but she gave none. 
 She was fast relapsing into stupor ; nor did 
 her mind again rally. At twelve o'clock that 
 night she died. I was not present to close her 
 eyes ; nor were either of her daughters. They 
 came to tell us the next morning that all was 
 over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza 
 and I went to look at her ; Georgiana, who 
 had burst out into loud weeping, said she 
 dared not go. There was stretched Sarah 
 Reed's once robust and active frame, rigid and 
 still ; her eye of flint was covered with its cold 
 lid ; her brow and strong traits wore yet the 
 impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and 
 solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed 
 on it with gloom and pain ; nothing soft, 
 nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or 
 subduing, did it inspire ; only a grating anguish 
 for her woes — not my loss — and a somber tear- 
 less dismay at the fearfulness of death in such 
 a form. 
 
 Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a 
 silence of some minutes she observed — 
 
 " With her constitution she should have 
 lived to a good old age ; her life was shortened 
 by trouble." And then a spasm constricted 
 her mouth for an instant ; as it passed away 
 she turned and left the room, and so did I. 
 Neither of us had dropped a tear 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Mr. Rochester had given me but one week's 
 leave of absence ; yet a month elapsed before 
 I quitted Gateshead. I wished to leave im- 
 mediately after the funeral, but Georgiana en- 
 treated me to stay till she could get off to 
 London — whither she was now at last invited 
 by her uncle, Mr. Gibson, who had come 
 down to direct his sister's interment, and settle 
 the family affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded 
 being left alone with Eliza ; from her she got 
 neither sympathy in her dejection, support in 
 her fears, nor aid in her preparations ; so I 
 bore with her feeble-minded quailings and 
 selfish lamentations as well as I could, and did 
 my best in sewing for her and packing her 
 dresses. It is true, that wliile I worked, she 
 would idle ; and I thought to myself, " If you 
 and I were destined to live always together, 
 cousin, we would commence matters on a 
 different footing. 1 should not settle tamely 
 down into being the forbearing party ; I should 
 assign you your share of labor, and compel 
 you to accomplish it, or else it should be left 
 undone ; I should insist, also, on your keeping 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 93 
 
 some of those drawling, half- insincere com- 
 plaints hushed in your own breast. It is only 
 because our connection happens to be very 
 transitory, and comes at a peculiarly mournful 
 season, that I consent thus to render it so 
 patient and compliant on my part." 
 
 At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was 
 Eliza's turn to request me to stay another 
 week. Her plans required all her time and 
 attention, she said ; she was about to depart 
 for some unknown bourn ; and all day long 
 she stayed in her own room, her door bolted 
 within, filling trunks, emptying drawers, burn- 
 ing papers, and holding no communication with 
 any one. She wished me to look after the 
 house, to see callers, and answer notes of 
 condolence. 
 
 One morning she told me I was at liberty. 
 "And," she added, "I am obliged to you for 
 your valuable services and discreet conduct. 
 There is some difference between living with 
 such a one as you, and with Georgiana ; you 
 perform your own part in life, and burden no 
 one. To-morrow," she continued, " I set out 
 for the continent. I shall take up my abode in 
 a religious house, near Lisle — a nunnery you 
 would call it ; there I shall be quiet and un- 
 molested. I shall devote myself for a time to 
 the examination of the Roman Catholic dog- 
 mas, and to a careful study of the workings of 
 their system ; if 1 find it to be, as I half sus- 
 pect it is, the one best calculated to insure the 
 doing of all things decently and in order, I 
 shall embrace the tenets of Rome and probably 
 take the veil." 
 
 I neither expressed surprise at this resolu- 
 tion nor attempted to dissuade her from it. 
 " The vocation will fit you to a hair," I thought ; 
 " much good may it do you !" 
 
 When we parted, she said : " Good-bye, 
 cousin Jane Eyre, I wish you well ; you have 
 some sense." 
 
 I then returned : " You are not without 
 sense, cousin Eliza ; but what you have, I 
 suppose, in another year will be walled up 
 alive in a French convent. However, it is not 
 my business, and, so it suits you, I don't much 
 care." 
 
 "You are in the right," said she; and with 
 these words we each went our separate way. 
 As I shall not have occasion to refer either to 
 her or her sister again, I may as well mention 
 here that Georgiana made an advantageous 
 match with a wealthy worn-out man of fashion ; 
 and that Eliza actually took the veil, and is at 
 this day superior of the convent where she 
 passed the period of her novitiate, and which 
 she endowed with her fortune. 
 
 How people feel when they are returning 
 home after an absence, long or short, I did not 
 know. I had never experienced the sensation. 
 I had known what it was to come back to 
 Gateshead, when a child, after a long walk — 
 to be scolded for looking cold or gloomy ; and i 
 later, what it was to come back from church j 
 to Lowood — to long for a plenteous meal and 
 a" good fire, and to be unable to get either. 
 Neither of these returnings were very pleasant 
 or desirable ; no magnet drew me to a given j 
 point, increasing in its strength of attraction I 
 the nearer I came. The return to Thornfield j 
 was yet to be tried. 1 
 
 My journey seemed tedious — very tedious ; 
 fifty miles one day, a night spent at an inn ; 
 fifty miles the next day. During the first 
 twelve hours I thought of Mrs. Reed in her 
 last moments ; I saw her disfigured and dis- 
 colored face, and heard her strangely-altered 
 voice ; I mused on the funeral day, the coffin, 
 the hearse, the black train of tenants and ser- 
 vants — few was the number of relatives — the 
 gaping vault, the silent church, the solemn ser- 
 vice. Then I thought of Eliza and Georgiana. 
 I beheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, the 
 other the inmate of a convent cell ; and I dwelt 
 on and analyzed their separate peculiarities of 
 person and character. The evening arrival at 
 
 the great town of scattered thc-se thoughts ; 
 
 night gave them quite another turn. Laid down 
 on my traveler's bed, I left reminiscence for an- 
 ticipation. 
 
 I was going back to Thornfield ; but how 
 long was I to stay there 1 Not long — of that I 
 was sure. I had heard from Mrs. Fairfax in 
 the interim of my absence. The party at the 
 Hall was dispersed ; Mr. Rochester had left for 
 London three weeks ago, but he was then ex- 
 pected to return in a fortnight. Mrs. Fairfax 
 surmised that he was gone to make arrange- 
 ments for his wedding, as he had talked of pur- 
 chasing a new carriage. She said, the idea of 
 his marrying Miss Ingram still seemed strange 
 to her ; but from what every body said, and from 
 what she had herself seen, she could no longer 
 doubt that the event would shortly take place. 
 " You would be strangely incredulous if you did 
 doubt it," was my mental comment ; " I don't 
 doubt it." 
 
 The question followed, -'Where was I to go 1" 
 I dreamed of Miss Ingram all the night. In a 
 vivid morning dream, I saw her closing the gates 
 of Thornfield against me and pointing me out 
 another road ; and Mr. Rochester looked on 
 with his arms folded, smiling sardonically, as it 
 seemed, at both her and me. 
 
 I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax the exact 
 day of my return, for I did not wish either car 
 or carriage to meet me at Millcote. I proposed 
 to walk the distance quietly by myself; and 
 very quietly, after leaving my box in the 
 hostler's care, did I slip away from the George 
 Inn, about six o'clock of a June evening, and 
 take the old road to Thornfield ; a road which 
 lay chiefly through fields, and was now little 
 frequented. 
 
 It was not a bright or splendid summer even- 
 ing, though fair and soft. The hay-makers were 
 at work all along the road, and the sky, though 
 far from cloudless, was such as promised well 
 for the future — its blue, where blue was visible, 
 was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high 
 and thin. The west, too, was warm ; no wa- 
 tery gleam chilled it ; it seemed as if there was 
 a fire lighted — an altar burning behind its screen 
 of marbled vapor — and out of apertures shone 
 a golden redness. 
 
 I felt glad as the road shortened before me — 
 so glad that I stopped once to ask myself 
 what that joy meant, and to remind reason 
 that it was not to my home I was going, or to 
 a permanent resting-place, or to a place where 
 fond friends looked out for me and waited iny 
 arrival. " Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calm 
 welcome, to be sure," said I ; " and little 
 
04 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Ad^le will clap her hands and jump to see you ; 
 but you know very well you are thinking of an- 
 other than they, and rhat he is not thinking of 
 you." 
 
 But what is so headstrong as youth — what so 
 blind as inexperience 1 These affirmed that it 
 was pleasure enough to have the privilege of 
 again looking on Mr. Rociiester, whether he 
 looked on me or not ; and tliey added — " Has- 
 ten ! hasten ! be with him while you may ; but 
 a few more days or weeks, at most, and you are 
 parted from him forever I" And then I stran- 
 gled a new-born agony — a deformed thing which 
 I could not persuade myself to own and rear — 
 and ran on. 
 
 They are making hay, too, in Thornfield 
 meadows ; or, rather, the laborers are just 
 quitting their work, and returning home with 
 their rakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour 
 I arrive. I have but a field or two to traverse, 
 and then I shall cross the road and reach the 
 gates. How full the hedges are of roses ! but 
 I have no time to gather any ; I want to be at 
 the house. I pass a tall brier, shooting leafy 
 and flowery branches across the path ; I see 
 the narrow stile with stone steps ; and I see — 
 Mr. Rochester sitting there, a book and a pencil 
 in his hand. He is writing. 
 
 Well, he js not a ghost — yet every nerve I 
 have is unstrung ; for a moment I am beyond 
 my own mastery. What does it mean 1 I did 
 not think 1 should tremble in this way when I 
 saw him, or lose my voice or the power of 
 motion in his presence. I will go back as soon 
 as I can stir; I need not make an absolute fool 
 of myself; I know another way to the house ; 
 it does not signify if I knew twenty ways, for 
 he has seen me. 
 
 " Hillo !" he cries ; and he puts up his book 
 and his pencil ; "there you are ! Come on, if 
 you please." 
 
 I suppose I do come on, though in what fash- 
 ion I know not ; being scarcely cognizant of my 
 movements, and solicitofUs only to appear calm ; 
 and, above all, to control the working muscles 
 of my face, which I feel rebel insolently against 
 my will, and struggle to express what 1 had re- 
 solved to conceal. But I have a veil — it is 
 dov/n ; I may make shift yet to behave with 
 decent composure. 
 
 " And this is Jane Eyre ! Are you coming 
 from Millcote, and on foot 1 Yes ; just one of 
 your tricks — not to send for a carriage, and 
 come clattering over street and road, like a 
 common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage 
 of your home along with twilight, just as if 
 you were a dream or a shade. What the 
 deuce have you done with yourself this last 
 month 1" 
 
 "I have been with my aunt, sir, who is 
 dead." 
 
 " A true Janian reply ! Good angels be my 
 guard ! She comes from the other world — from 
 the abode of people who are dead — and tells me 
 60 when she meets me alone here in the gloam- 
 ing ! If I dared, I'd touch you, to see if you are 
 substance or shadow, you elf I but I'd as soon 
 offer to take hold of a blue ignis fatuus light in 
 a marsh. Truant ! truant !" he added, when 
 he had paused an instant, " absent from me a 
 whole month, and forgetting me quite, I'll be 
 sworn 1" 
 
 I knew there would be pleasure in meeting 
 my master again, even though broken by the 
 foar that he was so soon to cease to be my 
 master, and by the knowledge that I was 
 nothing to him ; but there was ever in Mr. 
 Rochester (so, at least, I thought) such a wealth 
 of the power of communicating happiness, that 
 to taste but of the crumbs he scattered to 
 stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast 
 genially. His last words were halm. They 
 seemed to imply that it imported something to 
 him whether I forgot him or not. And he had 
 spoken of Thornfield as my home — would that 
 it were my home ! 
 
 He did not leave the stile, andj hardly liked 
 to ask to go by. I inquired soon if he had not 
 been to London. 
 
 " Yes ; I suppose you found that out by sec- 
 ond sight." 
 
 " Mrs. Fairfax told me in a letter." 
 
 " And did she inform you what I went to 
 dol" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir ! Every body knew your er- 
 rand." 
 
 " You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell 
 ,me if you don't think it will suit Mrs. Roches- 
 ter exactly ; and whether she won't look like 
 Queen Boadicea, leaning hack against those 
 purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle 
 better adapted to match with her externally. 
 Tell me now, fairy as you are, can't you give 
 me a charm, or a philter, or something of that 
 sort, to make me a handsome mani" 
 
 " It would be past the power of magic, sir V 
 and, in thought, I added, "A loving eye is all 
 the charm needed ; to such you are handsome 
 enough, or, rather, your sternness has a power 
 beyond beauty." 
 
 Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my un- 
 spoken thoughts with an acumen to me incom- 
 prehensible ; in the present instance he took no 
 notice of my abrupt vocal response, but he 
 smiled at me with a certain smile he had of his 
 own, and which he used but on rare occasions. 
 He seemed to think it too good for common 
 purposes ; it was the real sunshine oi feeling — 
 he shed it over me now. 
 
 " Pass Janet," said he, making room for me 
 to cross the stile ; " go up home, and stay your 
 weary little wandering feet at a friend's thresh- 
 old." 
 
 All I had now to do was to obey him in si- 
 lence ; no need for me to colloquize further. I 
 got over the stile without a word, and meant 
 to leave him calmly. An impulse held me 
 fast — a force turned me round ; I said — or 
 something in me said for me, and in spite of 
 me — 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great 
 kindness. I am strangely glad to get back 
 again to you ; and wherever you are is my 
 home — my only home." 
 
 I walked on so fast that even he could hardly 
 have overtaken me had he tried. Little Ad^le 
 was half wild with delight when she saw me. 
 Mrs. Fairfax received me with her usual plaia 
 friendliness. Leah smiled, and even Sophia 
 hid me " bon soir" with glee. This was very 
 pleasant ; there is no happiness like that of 
 being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feel- 
 ing that your presence is an addition to their 
 comfort 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 ^& 
 
 I ihat evening shut my eyes resolutely 
 against the future ; I stopped my ears against 
 the voice that kept warning me of near separa- 
 tion and coming grief When tea was over, 
 and Mrs. Fairfax had taken her knitting, and I 
 had assumed a low seat near her, and Ad^le, 
 kneeling on the carpet had nestled close up to 
 me, and a sense of mutual affection seemed to 
 surround us wiih a ring of golden peace, I 
 uttered a silent prayer that we might not be 
 parted far or soon ; but when, as we thus sat, 
 Mr. Rochester entered, unannounced, and look- 
 ing at us, seemed to take pleasure in the 
 spectacle of a group so amicable — when he 
 said he supposed the old lady was all right now 
 that she had got her adopted daughter back 
 again, and added that he saw Adele was 
 " prfete a croquer sa petite maman Anglaise" 
 — I half ventured to hope that he would, even af- 
 ter his marriage, keep us together somewhere 
 under the shelter of his protection, and not quite 
 exiled from the sunshine of his presence. 
 
 A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my 
 return to Thornfield Hall. Nothing was said 
 of the master's marriage, and I saw no prepa- 
 ration going on fur such an event. Almost ev- 
 ery day I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had yet 
 heard any thing decided ; her answer was al- 
 ways in the negative. Once she said she had 
 actually put the question to Mr. Rochester as 
 to when he was going (o bring his bride home ; 
 but he had answered her only by a joke, and 
 one of his queer looks, and she could not tell 
 what to make of him. 
 
 One thing specially surprised me, and that 
 was, there were no journeyings backward and 
 forward, no visits to Ingram Park ; to be sure 
 it v/as twenty miles off, on the borders of an- 
 other county ; but what was that distance to an 
 ardent lover? To so practiced and indefatiga- 
 ble a horseman as Mr. Rochester, it would be 
 but a morning's ride. I began to cherish hopes 
 I had no right to conceive — that the match was 
 broken off — that rumor had been mistaken — 
 that one or both parties had changed their 
 minds. 1 used to look at my master's face to 
 see if it were sad or fierce ; but I could not re- 
 member the time when it had been so uniform- 
 ly clear of clouds or evil feelings. If, in the 
 moments I and my pupil spent with him, I 
 lacked spirits and sunk into inevitable dejec- 
 tion, he became even gay. Never had he 
 called me more frequently to his presence — 
 never been kinder to me when there — and, 
 alas ! never had I loved him so well. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A SPLENDID midsummer shone over England ; 
 skies so pure, suns so radiant as were then seen 
 in long succession, seldom favor, even singly, 
 our wave-girt land. It was as if a band of 
 Italian days had come from the South, like a 
 flocn. of glorious passenger-birds, and lighted to 
 rest vhem on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was 
 all got in ; the fields round Thornfield were 
 green and shorn ; the roads white and baked ; 
 the trees were in their dark prime ; hedge and 
 •wood, full-leaved and deeply-tinted, contrasted 
 well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows 
 between. 
 
 On midsummer eve, Adele, weary with galh^ 
 ering wild strawberries in Hay-lane half the day, 
 had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her 
 drop asleep, and when I left her I sought the 
 garden. 
 
 It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty- 
 four. " Day its fervid fires had wasted," and 
 dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched 
 summit. Where the sun had gone down in 
 simple state— pure of the pomp of clouds — 
 spread a solemn purple, burning with the light 
 ofred jewel and furnace flame at one point, on 
 one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft 
 and still softer, over half heaven. The east had 
 its own charm of fine, deep blue, and its own 
 modest gem, a rising and solitary star ; soon it 
 would boast the moon, but she was yet beneath 
 the horizon. 
 
 I walked awhile on the pavement, but a subtile, 
 well-known scent — that of a cigar — stole from 
 some window ; I saw the library casement open 
 a handbreadth ; I knew I might be watched 
 thence, so I went apart into the orchard. No 
 nook in the grounds more sheltered and more 
 Eden-like ; it was full of trees, it bloomed with 
 flowers ; a very high wall shut it out from the 
 court, on one side ; on the other, a beech avenuo 
 screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was 
 a sunk fence, its sole separation from lonely 
 fields : a winding walk, bordered with laurels 
 and terminating in a giant horse-chestnut, cir- 
 cled at the base by a seat, led down to the fence. 
 Here one could wander unseen. While such 
 honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloam- 
 ing gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such shado 
 forever ; but in threading the flower and fruit- 
 parterres at the upper part of the inclosure, 
 enticed there by the light the now rising moon 
 casts on this more open quarter, my step is 
 stayed — not by sound, not by sight, but once 
 more by a warning fragrance. 
 
 Sweet-brier and southern-wood, jasmine, 
 pink, and rose have long been yielding their 
 evening sacrifice of incense : this-new scent is 
 neither of shrub nor flower ; it is — I know it 
 well — it is Mr. Rochester's cigar. I look round 
 and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening 
 fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood 
 half a mile off; no moving form is visible, no 
 coming step audible ; but that p6rfume in 
 creases : I must flee. I make for the wicket 
 leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr. Roch- 
 ester entering. I step aside into the ivy re- 
 cess ; he will not stay long ; he will soon return 
 whence he came, and if I sit here he will nev- 
 er see me. 
 
 But no — eventide is as pleasant to him as to 
 me, and this antique garden as attractive ; and 
 he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tred 
 branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, 
 with which they are laden — now taking a ripo 
 cherry from the wall — now stooping toward a 
 knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance 
 or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A 
 great moth goes humming by me ; it alights on 
 a plant at Mr. Rochester's feet ; he sees it, and 
 bends to examine it. 
 
 " Now he has his back toward me," thought 
 I, "and he is occupied, too ; perhaps, if I walk 
 softly, I can slip away unnoticed." 
 
 I trod on an edging of turf, that the crackle 
 of the pebbly gravel might not betray me ; he 
 
96 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 was standing among the beds at a yard or two 
 distant from wliere I had to pass ; the moth ap- 
 parently engaged him. " I shall get by very 
 well," I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, 
 thrown long over the garden by the moon, not 
 yet risen high, he said quietly, without turning, 
 
 "Jane, come and look at this fellow."' 
 
 I had made no noise — he had not eyes behind 
 — could his shadow feel 1 I started at first, and 
 then I approached him. 
 
 " Look at his wings," said he ; " he reminds 
 me rather of a West Indian insect ; one does 
 not often see so large and gay a night-rover in 
 England. There! he is flown." 
 
 The moth roamed away ; I was sheepishly 
 retreating also, but Mr. Rochester followed me, 
 and when we reached the wicket he said — 
 
 " Turn back : on so lovely a night it is a 
 shame to sit in the house ; and surely no one 
 can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at 
 meeting with moonrise." 
 
 It is one of my faults, that though my tongue 
 is sometimes prompt enough at answer, there 
 are times when it sadly fails me in framing an 
 excuse ; and always the lapse occurs at some 
 crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext 
 is specially wanted to get me out of painful em- 
 barrassment. I did not like to walk at this 
 hour alone with Mr. Rochester in the shadowy 
 orchard ; but I could not find a reason to allege 
 for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, 
 and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means 
 of extrication ; but he himself looked so com- 
 posed and so grave also, I became ashamed of 
 feeling any confusion ; the evil — if evil existent 
 or perspective there was — seemed to lie with 
 me only ; his mind was unconscious a^d quiet. 
 
 "Jane," he recommenced, as we entered the 
 laurel- walk, and slowly strayed down in the di- 
 rection of the sunk fence and the horse-chest- 
 nut, " Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, 
 is it notr' 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " You must have become in some degree at- 
 tached to the house — you, who have an eye for 
 natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ 
 of adhesiveness V 
 
 " I am attached to it, indeed." 
 
 " And, though I don't comprehend how it is, 
 I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard 
 for that foolish little child Adcle, too ; and even 
 for simple dame Fairfax V 
 
 " Yes, sir ; in different ways, I have an af- 
 fection for both." 
 
 " And would be sorry to part with them 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Pity !" he said, and sighed and paused. " It 
 is always the way of events in this life," ho 
 continued presently ; " no sooner have you got 
 settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice 
 calls out to you to rise and move on, for the 
 hour of repose is expired." 
 
 "Must I move on, sir?" I asked. "Must I 
 leave Thornfield 1" 
 
 "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 pros- 
 trate 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 arc going to be married, sir?" 
 
 " Ex-act-ly — pre-cise-ly ; with your usueil 
 acuteness. you have hit the nail straight on the 
 head." 
 
 "Soon, sirl" 
 
 " Very soon, my , that is. Miss Eyre ; 
 
 and you'll remember, Jane, the first time I, or 
 Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was ■ 
 my intention to put my old bachelor's neck into ^ 
 the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate 
 of matrimony — to take Miss Ingram to my bo- 
 som, in short (she's an extensive armful -. but 
 that's not to the point — one can't have too 
 much of such a very excellent thing as my 
 beautiful Blanche) — well, as I was saying — 
 listen to me Jane ! You're not turning your 
 head to look after more moths, are you ? That 
 was only a lady-clock, child, ' flying away 
 home.' I wish to remind you that it was you 
 who first said to me, with that discretion I re- 
 spect in you — with that foresight, prudence, and 
 humility which befit your responsible and de- 
 pendent position — that in case I married Miss 
 Ingram, both you and little Adele had better 
 trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur con- 
 veyed in this suggestion on the character of my 
 beloved ; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, 
 I'll try to forget it ; I shall notice only its wis- 
 dom, which is such that I have made it my law 
 of action. AdMe must go to school, and you, 
 'Miss Eyre, must get a new situation." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately ; and 
 meantime, I suppose—" I was going to say, 
 " I suppose I may stay here till I find another 
 shelter to betake myself to;" but I stopped, 
 feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, 
 for my voice was not quite under command. 
 
 " In about a month I hope to be a bride- 
 groom," continued Mr. Rochester; "and in the 
 interim, I shall myself look out for employment 
 and an asylum for you." 
 
 " Thank you, sir ; I am sorry to give — " 
 
 " Oh, no need to apologize ! I consider that 
 when a dependent does her duty as well as you 
 have done yours she has a sort of claim upon 
 her employer for any little assistance he can 
 conveniently render her ; indeed, I have already, 
 through my future mother-in-law, heard of a 
 place that I think will suit ; it is to undertake 
 the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dio- 
 nysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, 
 Ireland. You'll like Ireland. I think: they're 
 such warm-hearted people there, they say." 
 
 " It is a long way off, sir." 
 
 "No matter — a girl of your sense will not 
 object to the voyage or the distance." 
 
 " Not the voyage, but the distance ; and then 
 the sea is a barrier — " 
 
 " From what, Jane ?" 
 
 "FromEngland; and from Thornfield; and — " 
 
 "WelH" 
 
 " From you, sir." 
 
 I said this almost involuntarily ; and, with as 
 little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. 
 I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I 
 avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O'Gall 
 and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart ; 
 and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, 
 destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and 
 the master, at whose side I now walked ; and 
 coldest at the remembrance of the wider ocean 
 — wealth, caste, custom intervened between me 
 and what I naturally and inevitably loved." 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 97 
 
 "It is a long way," I again said. 
 
 " It is, to be sure ; and when you get to Bit- 
 ternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall nev- 
 er see you again, Jane : that's morally certain. 
 I never go over to Ireland, not having myself 
 much of a fancy for the country. We have 
 been good friends, Jane, have we nof!" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " And when friends are on the eve of separa- 
 tion, they like to spend the little time that re- 
 mains to them close to each other. Come, 
 we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quiet- 
 ly, half an hour or so, while the stars enter into 
 their shining life up in heaven yonder; here is 
 the chestnut-tree ; here is the bench at its old 
 roots. Come, we will sit.^here in peace to- 
 night, though we should never more be destined 
 to sit there together." He seated me and him- 
 self. 
 
 " It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am 
 sorry to send my little friend on such weary 
 travels ; but if I can't do better, how is it to be 
 helped 1 Are you any thing akin to me, do you 
 think, Jane V 
 
 I could risk no sort of answer by this time ; 
 my heart was full. 
 
 "Because," he said, "I sometimes have a 
 queer feeling with regard to you, especially 
 when you are near me, as now ; it is as if I 
 had a string somewhere under my left ribs, 
 tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar 
 string situated in the corresponding quarter of 
 your little frame. And if that boisterous chan- 
 nel, and two hundred miles or so of land come 
 broad between us, I am afraid that cord of com- 
 munion will be snapped ; and then I've a nerv- 
 ous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. 
 As for you, you'd forget me." 
 
 " That I never should, sir ; you know—" im- 
 poR.sible to priicced. 
 
 " Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing 
 in the wood 1 Listen !" 
 
 In listening, I sobbed convulsively ; for I 
 could repress what I endured no longer ; I was 
 obliged to yield ; and I was shaken from head 
 to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, 
 it was only to express an impetuous wish that 
 I had never been born, or never come to Thorn- 
 field. 
 
 " Because you are sorry to leave itl" 
 
 The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief 
 and love within me, was claiming mastery, and 
 struggling for full sway and asserting a right 
 to predominate — to overcome, to live, rise, and 
 reign at last ; yes, and to speak. 
 
 " I grieve to leave Thornfield ; I love Thorn- 
 field ; I love it, because I have lived in it a full 
 and delightful life, momentarily at least. I 
 have not been trampled on. I have not been 
 petrified. I have not been buried with inferior 
 minds, and excluded from every glimpse of com- 
 munion with what is bright, and energetic, and 
 high. I have talked, face to face, with what I 
 reverence ; with what I delight in, with an 
 original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have 
 known you, Mr. Rochester ; and it strikes me 
 with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely 
 must be tori> from you forever. I see the ne- 
 cessity of departure ; and it is like looking on 
 the necessity of death." 
 
 "Where do you see the necessity?' he ask- 
 ed, suddenly. 
 
 G 
 
 " Where 1 You, sir, have placed it before me." 
 
 " In what shape 1" 
 
 " In the shape of Miss Ingram ; a noble and 
 beautiful woman, your bride." 
 
 " My bride ! What bride 1 I have no bride !" 
 
 " But you will have." 
 
 " Yes ; I will ! I will !" He set his teeth. 
 
 " Then I must go ; you have said it yourself" 
 
 " No ; you must stay ! I swear it, and the 
 oath shall be kept." 
 
 " I tell you I must go !" I retorted, roused to 
 something like passion. "Do you think I can 
 stay to become nothing to you 1 Do you think 
 I am an automaton ] a machine without feel- 
 ings 1 and can bear to have my morsel of bread 
 snatched from my lips, and my drop of living 
 water dashed from my cup? Do you think, be- 
 cause I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am 
 soulless and heartless 1 You think wrong ! I 
 have as much soul as you, and full as much 
 heart ! And if God had gifted me with some 
 beauty, and much wealth, I should have made 
 it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for 
 me to leave you. I am not talking to you now 
 through the medium of custom, conventionali- 
 ties, nor even of mortal flesh ; it is my spirit 
 that addresses your spirit ; just as if both had 
 passed through the grave, and we stood at 
 God's feet, equal — as we are !" 
 
 "As we are!" repeated Mr. Rochester — 
 " so," he added, inclosing me in his arms, 
 gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on 
 my lips : so, Jane !" 
 
 " Yes, so, sir," I rejoined : " and yet not so ; 
 for you are a married man — or as good as a 
 married man, and wed to one inferior to you — 
 to one with whom you have no sympathy — 
 whom I do not believe you truly love ; for I 
 have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would 
 scorn such a union ; therefore I am better than 
 you — let me go !" 
 
 "Where, Jane 1 to Ireland 1" 
 
 " Yes — to Ireland. I have spoken mymind, 
 and can go any where now." 
 
 " Jane, be still ; don't struggle so, like a wild, 
 frantic bird that is rending its own plumage ia 
 its desperation." 
 
 " I am no bird ; and no net insnares me : I 
 am a free, human being, with an independent 
 will; which I now exert to leave you." 
 
 Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood 
 erect before him. 
 
 " And your will shall decide your destiny," 
 he said : I offer you my hand, my heart, and a 
 share of all my possessions." 
 
 " You play a farce, which I merely laugh at." 
 
 " I ask you to pass through life at my side — 
 to be my second self, and best earthly com- 
 panion." 
 
 " For that fate you have already made your 
 choice, and must abide by it." 
 
 " Jane, be still a few moments : you are 
 overexcited : I will be still too." 
 
 A waft of wind came sweeping down the 
 laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs • 
 of the chestnut : it wandered away — away — to 
 an indefinite distance — it died. The nightin- 
 gale's song was then the o[ily voice of the hour : 
 in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester 
 sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. 
 Some time passed before he spoke ; he at last 
 said — 
 
98 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " 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 can not return." 
 
 " But, Jane, I summon you as my wife : it is 
 you only I intend to marry." 
 I was silent : I thought he mocked me. 
 "Come, Jane — come hither." 
 " Your bride stands between us." 
 He rose, and with a stride reached me. 
 "My bride is here," he said, again drawing 
 me to him, " because my equal is here, and my 
 likeness. Jane, will you marry me 1" 
 
 Still I did not answer, and still I writhed 
 myself from his grasp ; for I was still incred- 
 ulous. 
 
 "Do you doubt me, Janel" 
 "Entirely." 
 
 " You have no faith in me 1" 
 "Not a whit." 
 
 "Am I a liar in your eyesi" he asked pas- 
 eionately. " Little skeptic, you shall be con- 
 vinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram"! 
 None, antf that you know. What love has she 
 for me "! None, as I have taken pains to prove : 
 I caused a rumor to reach her that my fortune 
 was not a third of what was supposed, and after 
 that I presented myself to see the result : it 
 was coldness both from her and her mother. I 
 would not — I could not — marry Miss Ingram. 
 You — you strange — you almost unearthly 
 thing ! I love as my own flesh. You — poor 
 and obscure, and small and plain as you are — I 
 entreat to accept me as a husband." 
 
 " What, me !" I ejaculated, beginning in his 
 earnestness — and especially m his incivility — 
 to credit his sincerity ; "me, who have not a 
 friend in the world but you — if you are my 
 friend ; not a shilling but what you have given 
 mel" 
 
 " You, Jane. I must have you for my own 
 — entirely my own. Will you be mine '\ Say 
 yes, quickly." 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face ; 
 turn to the moonlight." 
 "Why!" 
 
 " Because I want to read your countenance ; 
 turn !" 
 
 " There ; you will find it scarcely more legi- 
 ble than a crumpled, scratched page. Head 
 on ; only make haste, for I suffer." 
 
 His face was very much agitated and very 
 much flushed, and there were strong workings 
 in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes. 
 "Oh, Jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed. 
 " With that searching and yet faithful and gen- 
 erous look you torture me !" 
 
 " How can I do that 1 If you are true, and 
 your offer real, my only feelings to you must 
 be gratitude and devotion — they can not tor- 
 ture." 
 
 " Gratitude !" he ejaculated ; and added 
 wildly — "Jane, accept me quickly. Say, Ed- 
 ward — give me my name — Edward, I will mar- 
 ry you." 
 
 "Are you in earnest] Do you truly love 
 me] Do you sincerely wish me to be your 
 wife ]" 
 
 " I do ; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy 
 vou, 1 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, speak- 
 ing in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, 
 "Make my happiness — I will make yours." 
 
 " God pardon me !" he subjoined ere long, 
 " and man meddle not with me ; I have her, 
 and will hold her." 
 
 " There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no 
 kindred to interfere." 
 
 " No — that is the best of it," he said. And 
 if I had loved him less I should have thought 
 his accent and look of exultation savage ; but, 
 sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of 
 parting — called to the paradise of union — I 
 thought only of the bliss given me to drink in 
 so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, 
 " Are you happy, Jane !" And again and again 
 I answered, " Yes." After which he murmur- 
 ed, " It will atone — it will atone. Have I not 
 found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless 1 
 Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? 
 Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in 
 my resolves 1 It will expiate at God's tribunal. 
 I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For 
 the world's judgment — I wash my hands there- 
 of. For man's opinion — I defy it." 
 
 But what had befallen the night 1 The moon 
 was not yet set, and we were all in shadow ; I 
 could scarcely see my master's face, near as I 
 was. And what ailed the chestnut-tree 1 It 
 writhed and groaned, while wind roared in the 
 laurel-walk, and came sweeping over us. 
 
 "We must go in," said Mr. Roches'ler : 
 " the weather changes. I could have sat with 
 thee till morning, Jane." 
 
 "And so," thought I, "could I with you." I 
 should have said so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid 
 spark leaped out of a cloud at which I was 
 looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a 
 close rattling peal ; and I thought only of hid- 
 ing my dazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester's 
 shoulder. The rain rushed down. He hurried 
 me up the walk, through the grounds, and into 
 the house ; but we were quite wet before we 
 could pass the threshold. He was taking off 
 my shawl in the hall, and shaking the water 
 out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax 
 emerged from her room. I did not observe 
 her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp 
 was lighted. The clock was on the stroke of 
 twelve. 
 
 " Hasten to take off your wet things," said 
 he : " and before you go, good-night — good- 
 night, my darling!" 
 
 He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked 
 up, on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, 
 pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, 
 and ran up stairs. " Explanation will do for 
 another time." thought I. Still, when I reach- 
 ed my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she 
 should even temporarily misconstrue what she 
 had seen. But joy soon effaced every other 
 feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and 
 deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and fre- 
 quent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as 
 the rain fell d'uring a storm of two hours' du- 
 ration, I experienced no fear, and little awe. 
 Mr. Rochester came thrice to my door in the 
 course of it, to ask if I was safe and tranquil ; 
 and that was comfort, that was strength for 
 any thing. 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 99 
 
 Before I left my bed in the morning, little 
 Adele came running in to tell me that the 
 great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the or- 
 chard had been struck by lightning in the night, 
 and half of it split away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 As I rose and dressed, I thought over what 
 had happened, and wondered if it were a 
 dream. I could not be certain of the reality 
 till I had seen Mr Rochester again, and heard 
 him renew his words of love and promise. 
 
 While arranging my hair, I looked at my face 
 in the glass, and felt it was no longer plain ; 
 there was hope in its aspect and life in its col- 
 or ; and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld 
 the fount of fruition, and borrowed beams from 
 the lustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling 
 to look at my master, because I feared he could 
 not be pleased at my look, but I was sure I 
 might lift my face to his now and not cool his 
 affection by its expression. I took a plain but 
 clean and light summer dress from my drawer 
 and put it on ; it seemed no attire had ever so 
 well become me, because none had I ever worn 
 in so blissful a mood. 
 
 I was not surprised, when I ran down into 
 the hall, to see that a brilliant Jime morning 
 had succeeded to the tempest of the night, and 
 to feel, through the open glass door, the breath- 
 ing of a fresh and fragrant breeze. Nature 
 must be gladsome when I was so happy. A 
 beggar-woman and her little boy, pale, ragged 
 objects both, were coming up the walk, and I 
 ran down and gave them all the money I hap- 
 pened to have in my purse, some three or four 
 shillings ; good or bad they must partake of my 
 jubilee. Ttie rooks cawed, and blither birds 
 sung ; but nothing was so merry or so musical 
 as my own rejoicing heart. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of 
 the window with a sad countenance, and say- 
 ing, gravely, "Miss Eyre, will you come to 
 breakfast 1" During the meal she was quiet 
 and cool, hut I could not undeceive her then. 
 I must wait for my master to give explana- 
 tions ; and so must she. I ate what I could, 
 and then I hastened up stairs. I met Adele 
 leaving the school-rooiri. 
 
 " Where are you going ■ It is time for les- 
 sons." 
 
 " Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the 
 nursery." 
 
 "Where is he?' 
 
 " In there," pointing to the apartment she 
 had left ; and I went in, and there he stood. 
 
 " Come, and bid me good-morning," said he. 
 I gladly advanced, and it was not merely a cold 
 Word now, or even a shake of the hand that I 
 received, but an embrace and a kiss. It seem- 
 ed natural ; it seemed genial to be so well- 
 loved, so caressed by him. 
 
 "Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and 
 pretty," said he ; " truly prelty this morning. 
 Is this my pale little elf! Is this my mustard- 
 seed 1 This little sunny-faced girl, with the 
 dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smoolh 
 hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes!" (I 
 had green eyes, reader ; but you must excuse 
 
 the mistake, for him, they were new-dyed, I 
 supijose.) 
 
 " It is Jane Eyre, sir." 
 
 "Soon to be Jane Rochester," he added; 
 " in four weeks, Janet, not a day more. Do 
 you hear that V 
 
 I did, and I could not quite comprehend it ; 
 it made me giddy. The feeling, the announce- 
 ment sent through me, was something stronger 
 than was consistent with joy, something that 
 smote and stunned ; it was, I think, almost 
 fear. 
 
 " You blushed, and now you are white, Jane ; 
 what is that fori" 
 
 " Because you gave me a new name — Jane 
 Rochester ; and it seems so strange." 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Rochester," said he; "young 
 Mrs. Rochester ; Fairfax Rochester's giii- 
 bride." 
 
 " It can never be, sir ; it does not sound 
 likely. Human beings never enjoy complete 
 happiness in this world. I was not born for a 
 different destiny to the rest of my species; to 
 imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale, 
 a day-dream." 
 
 "Which I can and will realize. I shall be- 
 gin to-day. This morning I wrote to rny banker 
 in London to- send me certain jewels he has in 
 his keeping, heir-looms for the ladies of Thorn- 
 field, in a day or two I hope to pour them into 
 your lap ; for every privilege, every attention 
 shall be yours, that I would accord a peer's 
 daughter, if about to marry her." 
 
 " Oh, sir I never mind jewels ! I don't like 
 to hear them spoken of Jewels for Jane Eyre 
 sounds unnatural and strange ; I would rather 
 not have them." 
 
 " I will myself put the diamond chain round 
 your neck, and the circlet on your forehead, 
 which it will become : for nature, at least, has 
 stamped her patent of nobility on this brow, 
 Jane ; and I will clasp the bracelets on these 
 line wrists, and load these fairy-like fingers 
 w^ith rings." 
 
 " No, no, sir ! think of other subjects, and 
 speak of other things, and in another strain. 
 Don't address me as if I were a beauty ; I am 
 your plain, Quakerish governess." 
 
 " You are a beauty, in my eyes ; and a beau- 
 ty just after the desire of my own heart, deli- 
 cate and aerial." 
 
 " Puny and insignificant, you mean. You 
 are dreaming, sir--or, you are sneering. For 
 God's sake, don't be ironical I" 
 
 " I will make the world acknowledge you a 
 beauty, too," he went on, while I really be- 
 came uneasy at the strain he had adopted ; be- 
 cause I felt he was either deluding himself or 
 trying to delude me. " I will attire my Jane 
 in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in 
 her hair, and I will cover the head I love best 
 with a priceless veil." 
 
 " And then you won't know me, sir ; and I 
 shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an 
 ape in a harlequin's jacket — a jay in borrowed 
 plumes. I would as soon see you, Mr. Roches- 
 ter, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself 
 clad in a court-lady's robe ; and I don't call 
 you handsome, sir, though I love you most 
 dearly — far too dearly to flatter you. Don't 
 flatter me." 
 He pursued his theme, however, without.. 
 
100 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 noticing my deprecation. " This very day I 
 shall lake jou in the carriage to Millcote, and 
 you must choose some dresses for yourself. I 
 told you we shall be married in four weeks. 
 The wedding is to take place quietly, in the 
 church down below yonder ; and then I shall 
 waft you away at once to town. After a brief 
 stay there, 1 shall bear my treasure to regions 
 nearer the sun ; to French vineyards and Ital- 
 ian plains ; and she shall see whatever is fa- 
 mous in old story and in modern record ; she 
 shall taste, too, of the life of cities ; and she 
 shall learn to value herself by just comparison 
 with others." 
 
 " Shall I travel 1 and with you, sir 1" 
 
 " You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Na- 
 ples ; at Florence, Venice, and Vienna ; all the 
 ground I have wandered over shall be re-trod- 
 dren by you ; wherever I stamped my hoof, 
 your sylph's foot shall step also. Ten years 
 since, I flew through Europe half mad, with 
 disgust, hate, and rage, as my companions ; 
 now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with 
 a very angel as my comforter." 
 
 I laughed at him as he said this. " I am not 
 an angel," I asserted; "and I will not be one 
 till I die : I will be myself, Mr. Rochester ; you 
 must neither expect nor exact any thing celes- 
 tial of me, for you will not get it any more than 
 I shall get it of you, which I do not at all an- 
 ticipate." 
 
 "What do you anticipate of mel" 
 
 " 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 capri- 
 cious ; and then you will be stern, and I shall 
 have much ado to please you ; but when you 
 get well used to me, you will, perhaps, like me 
 again, like me, I say not love me. I suppose 
 your love will eflTervesce in six months, or less. 
 I have observed in books written by men, that 
 period assigned as the farthest to which a hus- 
 band's ardor extends. Yet, after all, as a friend 
 and companion, I hope never to become quite 
 distasteful to my dear master." 
 
 " Distasteful ! and like you again ! I think I 
 shall like you again and yet again ; and I will 
 make you confess I do not only like, but love 
 you— rwiih truth, fervor, constancy." 
 
 " Yet, are you not capricious, sir?" 
 
 "To women who please me only by their 
 faces, I am the very devil when I find out they 
 have neither souls nor hearts — when they open 
 to me a perspective of flatness, triviality, and, 
 perhaps, imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper ; 
 but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the 
 soul made of fire, and the character that bends 
 but does not break — at once supple and stable, 
 tractable and consistent — I am ever tender and 
 true." 
 
 " Had you ever experience of such a charac- 
 ter, sir 1 Did you ever love such a one 1" 
 
 " I love it now." 
 
 " But before me ; if I, indeed, in any respect 
 come up to that difiicult standard?" 
 
 " I never met your likeness, Jane ; you please 
 me, and you master me — you seem to submit, 
 and I like the sense of pliancy you impart ; and 
 while I am twining the soft, silken skein round 
 my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my 
 heart. I am influenced — conquered ; and the 
 influence is sweeter than I can express ; and 
 
 the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond 
 any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, 
 Jane 1 What does that inexplicable, that un- 
 canny turn of countenance mean?" 
 
 "I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the 
 idea ; it was involuntary), I was thinking of 
 Hercules and Samson with their charmers — " 
 
 "You were, you little, elfish — " 
 
 " Hush, sir ! You don't talk very wisely 
 just now ; any more than those gentlemen 
 acted very wisely. However, had they been 
 married, they would, no doubt by their severity 
 as husbands, have made up for their softness as 
 suitors ; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how 
 you will answer me a year hence, should I ask 
 a favor 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 swear conces- 
 sion before I know to what, and that will make 
 a fool of me." 
 
 " Not at all, sir : I ask only this ; don't send 
 for the jewels, and don't crown me with roses ; 
 you might as well put a border of gold lace 
 round that plain pocket-handherchief you have 
 there." 
 
 " I might as well ' gild refined gold.' I know 
 it ; your request is granted, then — for the time. 
 I will remand the order I dispatched to my 
 banker. But you have not yet asked for any 
 thing ; you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn ; 
 try again." 
 
 " Well, then, sir ; have the goodness to 
 gratify my curiosity, which is much piqued on 
 one point." 
 
 He looked disturbed. "What? what?" he 
 said hastily. " Curiosity is a dangerous peti- 
 tioner; it is well I have not taken a vow to 
 accord every request — " 
 
 "But there can be no danger in complying 
 with this, sir." 
 
 " Utter it, Jane ; but I wish that instead of 
 a mere inquiry into, perhaps a secret, it was a 
 wish for half my estate.') 
 
 " Now, king Ahasuerus ! What do I want 
 with half your estate ? Do you think I am a 
 Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land? 
 I would much rather have all your confidence. 
 You will not exclude me from your confidence, 
 if you admit me to your heart ?" 
 
 " You are welcome to all of my confidence 
 that is worth having, Jane; but, for God's 
 sake, don't desire a useless burden ! Don't 
 long for poison — don't turn out a downright 
 Eve on my hands !" 
 
 "Why not, sir? You have just been telling 
 me how much you like to be conquered, and 
 how pleasant overpersuasion is to you. Don't 
 you think I had better take advantage of the 
 confession, and begin and coax, and entreat — 
 even cry and be sulky if necessary — for the 
 sake of a mere essay of my power ?" 
 
 " I dare you to any such experiment. En- 
 croach, presume and the game is up." 
 
 "Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern 
 you look now ! Your eyebrows have become 
 as thick as my finger, and your forehead re- 
 sembles, what, in some very astonishing jx>etr7, 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 101 
 
 I once saw styled, *a blue-piled Ihunder-loft.' 
 That will be your married look, sir, I suppose 1" 
 
 " If that will be your married look, I as a 
 Christian, will soon give up the notion of con- 
 sorting with a mere sprite or salamander. But 
 what had you to ask, thing? — out with it." 
 
 " There, you are less than civil now ; and I 
 like rudeness a great dear better than flattery. 
 I had rather be a thing than an angel. This is 
 what I have to ask : Why did you take such 
 pains to make me believe you wished to marry 
 Miss Ingram V 
 
 " Is that all 1 Thank God, it is no worse !" 
 And now he unknit his black brows ; looked 
 down, smihng at me, and stroked my hair, as if 
 well pleased at seeing a danger averted. " I 
 think I may confess," he continued, " even al- 
 though I should make you a little indignant, 
 Jane — and I have seen what a fire-spirit you 
 can be when you are indignant. You glowed 
 in the cool moonlight last night, when you 
 mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank 
 as my equal. Janet, by the by, it was you who 
 made me the offer." 
 
 " Of course I did. But to the point, if you 
 please, sir — Miss Ingram!" 
 
 " Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, 
 because I wished to render you as madly in 
 love with me as I was with you ; and I knew 
 jealousy would be the best ally I could call in 
 for the furtherance of that end." 
 
 " Excellent ! Now you are small — not one 
 whit bigger than the end of my little finger. It 
 was a burning shame, and a scandalous dis- 
 grace to act in that way. Did you think noth- 
 ing of Miss Ingram's feelings, sirV 
 
 " Her feelings are concentrated in one — 
 pride ; and that needs humbling. Were you 
 jealous, Jane!" 
 
 " Never mind, Mr. Rochester ; it is in no 
 way interesting to you to know that. Answer 
 me truly once more. Do you think Miss In- 
 gram will not suflfer from your dishonest 
 coquetry ? Won't she feel forsaken and de- 
 serted 1" 
 
 " Impossible ! — when I told you how she, on 
 the contrary, deserted me ; the idea of my in- 
 solvency cooled, or. rather, extinguished, her 
 flame in a moment." ' 
 
 "You have a curious designing mind, Mr. 
 Rochester. I am afraid your principles on 
 some points are eccentric." 
 
 " My principles were never trained, Jane ; 
 they may have grown a little awry for want of 
 attention." 
 
 " Once again, seriously. May I enjoy the 
 great good that has been vouchsafed to me, 
 without fearing that any one else is suffering 
 the bitter pain I myself felt a while agol" 
 
 " That you may, my good little girl : there is 
 not another being in the world has the same 
 pure love for me as yourself — for I lay that 
 pleasant unction to my soul, Jane, a belief in 
 your affection." 
 
 I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my 
 shoulder. I loved him very much — more than 
 I could trust myself to say — more than words 
 had power to express. 
 
 " Ask something more," he said presently ; 
 " it is my delight to be entreated, and to yield." 
 " I was again ready with my request. " Com- 
 municate 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 mis- 
 judged by so good a woman." 
 
 " Go to your room, and put on your bonnet," 
 he replied. " I mean you to accompany me to 
 Millcote this morning ; and while you prepare 
 for the drive, I will enlighten the old lady's un- 
 derstanding. Did she think, Janet, you had 
 given the world for love and considered it well 
 lost V 
 
 "T believe she thought I had forgotten my 
 station ; and you yours, sir." 
 
 " Station ! station ! — your station is in my 
 heart, and on the necks of those who would 
 insult you, now or hereafter. Go." 
 
 " I was soon dressed ; and when I heard Mr. 
 Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax's parlor, I hurried 
 down to it. The old lady had been reading her 
 morning portion of Scripture — the lesson for the 
 day ; her Bible lay open before her, and her 
 spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, sus- 
 pended by Mr. Rochester's announcement, 
 seemed now forgotten ; her eyes, fixed on the 
 blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a 
 quiet mind, stirred by unwonted tidings. See- 
 ing me, she roused herself; she made a sort 
 of effort to smile, and framed a few words of 
 congratulation ; but the smile expired, and the 
 sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put 
 up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed 
 her chair back from the table. 
 
 " I feel so astonished," she began, "I hardly 
 know what to say to you, Miss Eyre. I have 
 surely not been dreaming, have 1 1 Sometimes 
 I half fall asleep when I am sitting alone, and 
 fancy things that have never happened. It 
 has seemed to me more than once, when I 
 have been in a doze, that my dear husband, 
 who died fifteen years since, has come in and 
 sat down beside me ; and that I have even 
 heard him call me by my name, Alice, as he used 
 to do. Now, can you tell me whether it is ac- 
 tually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you 
 to marry him! Don't laugh at me. But I 
 really thought he came in here five minutes ago, 
 and said that in a month you would be his 
 wife." 
 
 " He has said the same thing to me," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 " He has ! Do you believe him 1 Have you 
 accepted him!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She looked at me bewildered. 
 
 " I could never have thought it. He is a 
 proud man ; all the Rochesters were proud ; 
 and his father at least liked money. He, too, 
 has always been called careful. He means to 
 marry you!" 
 
 " He tells me so." 
 
 She surveyed my whole person ; in her eyes 
 I read that they had found no charm powerful 
 enough to solve the enigma. 
 
 "It passes me!" she continued; "bat no 
 doubt it is true, since you say so. How it will 
 answer I can not tell ; I really don't know. 
 Equality of position and fortune is often advisa- 
 ble in such cases ; and there are twenty years 
 of difference in your ages. He might almost 
 be your father." 
 
 " No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax !" exclaimed I, 
 nettled ; " he is nothing like my father ^ No 
 
103 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 6ne, who saw us together, would suppose it for 
 an instant. Mr. Kochester 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 skepticism, 
 that the tears rose to -my eyes. 
 
 " I am sorry to grieve you," pursued the 
 widow, " but you are so young and so little ac- 
 quainted with men, I wished to put you on your 
 guard. It is an old saying that 'all is not gold 
 that glitters ;' and in this case I do fear there 
 will be something found to be different to what 
 either you or I expect." 
 
 "Why! am I a monsterV I said; "is it 
 impossible that Mr. Rochester should have a 
 sincere affection for mel" 
 
 " No, you are very well, and much improved 
 of late ; and Mr. Rochester, I dare say, is fond 
 of you. I have always noticed that you were 
 a sort of pet of his. There arc times when, for 
 your sake, I have been a little uneasy at his 
 marked preference, and have wished to put you 
 on your guard ; but I did not like to suggest 
 even the possibility of wrong. I knew such 
 an idea would shock, perhaps offend you ; and 
 yon were so discreet and so thoroughly modest 
 and sensible, I hoped you might be trusted to 
 protect yourself Last night I can not tell you 
 ■what I suffered when I sought ail over the 
 house, and could find you nowhere, nor the 
 master either ; and then, at twelve o'clock, saw 
 you come in with him." 
 
 "Well, never mind that now," I interrupted, 
 impatiently ; " it is enough that all was right." 
 
 "I hope all will be right in the end," she 
 said ; " but, believe me," you can not be too 
 careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a dis- 
 tance ; distrust yourself as well as him. Gen- 
 tlemen in his station are not accustomed to 
 marry their governesses." 
 
 I was growing truly irritated ; happily, Adele 
 ran in. 
 
 "Let me go — let me go to Millcote, too !" 
 she cried. " Mr. Rochester won't, though 
 there is so much room in the new carriage. 
 Beg him to let me go, mademoiselle." 
 
 " That I will, Adtle ;" and I hastened away 
 with her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress. 
 The carriage was ready ; they were bringing 
 it round to the front, and my master was pacing 
 the pavement, Pilot following him backward 
 and forward. 
 
 'Adele may accompany us, may she not. 
 
 sir 
 
 ■J" 
 
 " I told her no. I'll have no brats ! I'll have 
 only you." 
 
 " Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please ; 
 jt would be better." 
 
 " Not it — she will be a restraint." 
 
 He was quite peremptory, both in look and 
 voice. The chill of Mrs. Fairfax's warnings, 
 and the damp of her doubts, were upon me ; 
 something of unsubstantiality and uncertainty 
 had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense of 
 power over him. I was about mechanically to 
 obey him, without further remonstrance ; but 
 as he helped me into the carriage, he looked at 
 my face. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked; "all the 
 sunshine is gone. Do you really wish the bairn 
 to go 1 Will it annoy you if she is left behind ?" 
 
 " I would far rather she went, sir." 
 " Then off for your bonnet, and back, like a 
 flash of lightning !" cried he to Adele. 
 
 She obeyed him with what speed she might. 
 "After all, a single morning's interruption 
 will not matter much," said he, " when I mean 
 shortly to claim you, your thoughts, conversa- 
 tion, and company, for life." 
 
 Ad6le, when lifted in, commenced kissing 
 me, by way of expressing her gratitude for my 
 intercession ; she was instantly stowed away 
 into a corner on the other side of him. She 
 then peeped round to where I sat ; so stern a 
 neighbor was too restrictive; to him, in his 
 present fractious mood, she dared whisper no 
 observations, nor ask of him any information. 
 
 " Let her come to me," I entreated ; " she 
 will, perhaps, trouble you, sir ; there is plenty 
 of room on this side." 
 
 He handed her over as if she had been a lap- 
 dog ; " I'll send her to school yet," he said, but 
 now he was smiling. 
 
 Ad^le heard him, and asked if she was to go 
 to school "sans mademoiselle 1" 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "absolutely sans made- 
 moiselle ; fori am to take mademoise'le to the 
 moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of 
 the white valleys among the volcano-tops, and 
 mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only 
 me." 
 
 " She will have nothing to eat — you will 
 starve her," observed Adele. 
 
 "I shall gather manna for her morning and 
 night ; the plains and hillsides in the moon are 
 bleached with manna, Adele." 
 
 " She will want to warm herself; what will 
 she do for a fire 1" 
 
 " Fire rises out of the lunar mountains ; when 
 she is cold, I'll carry her up to a peak and lay 
 her down on the edge of a crater." 
 
 " Oh, qu'elle y sera mal — pen comfortable ! 
 And her clothes, they will wear out ; how can 
 she get new ones'!" 
 
 Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. 
 "Hem!" said he. "What would you do, 
 Adele 1 Cudgel your brains for an expedient. 
 How would a white or a pink cloud answer for 
 a gown, do you think? And one could cut a 
 pretty enough scarf outof a" rainbow." 
 
 "She is far better as she is," concluded 
 Adele, after musing some time ; "besides, she 
 would get tired of living with only you in the 
 mt)on. If I were mademoiselle, I would never 
 consent to go with you." 
 
 "She has consented — she has pledged her 
 word." 
 
 " But you can't get her there ; there is no 
 road to the moon — it is all air, and neither you 
 nor she can fly." 
 
 "Adele, look at that field." We were now 
 outside Thornfield gates, and bowling lightly 
 along the smooth road to Millcote, where the 
 dust was well laid by the thunder-storm, and 
 where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on 
 each side glistened green, and rain-refreshed. 
 
 " In that field, Adele, I was walking late one 
 evening about a fortnight since — the evening 
 of the day you helped me to make hay in the 
 orchard meadows ; and as I was tired with 
 raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on a 
 stile ; and there I took out a little book and a 
 pencil, and began to write about a misfortune 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 103 
 
 that befell me long ago, and a wish I had for 
 happy days to come : I was writing away very 
 fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf, 
 when something came up the path and stopped 
 two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a lit- 
 tle thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. 
 I beckoned it to come near me : it stood soon 
 at my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never 
 spoke to me, in words : but I read its eyes, 
 and it read mine ; and our speechless colloquy 
 ■was to this effect : 
 
 " It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it 
 said; and its errand was to make me happy; 
 I must go with it out of the common world to 
 a lonely place — such as the moon, for instance 
 — and it nodded its head toward her horn, rising 
 over Hay-hill : it told me of the alabaster cave 
 and silver vale where we might live. I said I 
 should like to go ; but reminded it, as you did 
 me, that I had no wings to fly. 
 
 " ' Oh,' returned the fairy, ' that does not sig- 
 nify ! Here is a talisman will remove all diffi- 
 culties ;' and she held out a pretty gold ring. 
 'Put it,' she said, 'on the fourth finger of my left 
 hand, and I am yours, and you are mine ; and 
 we shall leave earth, and make our own heaven 
 yonder.' She nodded again at the moon. The 
 ring, Adele, is in my breeches-pocket under the 
 disguise of a sovereign : but I mean soon to 
 change it to a ring again." 
 
 "But what has mademoiselle to do with 
 if? I don't care for the fairy; you said it 
 was mademoiselle you would take to the 
 moon — !"' 
 
 " Mademoiselle is a fairy," he said, whisper- 
 ing mysteriously. Whereupon I told her not 
 to mind his badinage ; and she, on her part, 
 evinced a fund of genuine French skepticism ; 
 denominating Mr Rochester " un vrai men- 
 teur," and assuring him that she made no ac- 
 count whatever of his " Contes de fee," and 
 that "du reste, il n'y avait pas de fees etquand 
 roSme il y en avait ;" she was sure they would 
 never appear to him, nor ever give him rings, 
 or offer to live with him in the moon. 
 
 The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat 
 harassing one to me. Mr. Rochester obliged 
 me to go to a certain silk warehouse ; there I 
 was ordered to choose half a dozen dresses. I 
 hated the business, I begged leave to defer it ; 
 uo — it should be gone through with now. By 
 dint of entreaties expressed in energetic whis- 
 pers, I reduced the half-dozen to two ; these, 
 however, he vowed he would select himself 
 With anxiety I watched his eye rove over the 
 gay stores ; he fixed on a rich silk of the most 
 brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin. 
 I told him, in a new series of whispers, that he 
 might as well buy me a gold gown and a silver 
 bonnet at once ; I sliould certainly never ven- 
 ture to wear his choice. With infinite difficul- 
 ty (for he was stubborn as a stone) I persuaded 
 him to make an exchange in favor of a sober 
 black satin and pearl-gray silk. " It might pass 
 for the present," he said ; " but he would yet 
 see me glittering like a parterre." 
 
 Glad was I to get him out of the silk ware- 
 house, and then out of a jeweler's shop ; the 
 more he bous^ht me, the more my cheek burned 
 with a sense of annoyance and degradation. 
 As we re-entered the carriage, and I sat back 
 feverish and fagged, I remembered what in the 
 
 hurry of events, dark and bright, I had wholly 
 forgotten — the letter of my uncle, John Eyre, 
 to Mrs. Reed ; his intention to adopt me and 
 make me his testatrix. " It would, indeed, be 
 a relief," I thought, " if I had ever so small aa 
 independency ; I never can bear being dressed 
 like a doll by Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a 
 second Danae with the golden shower falling 
 daily round me. I will write to Madeira the 
 moment I get home, and tell my uncle John I 
 am going to be married, and to whom ; if I had 
 but a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Roches- 
 ter an accession of fortune, I could better en- 
 dure to be kept by him now." And somewhat 
 relieved by this idea (which I failed not to ex- 
 ecute that day), I ventured once more to meet 
 my master's and lover's eye ; which most per- 
 tinaciously sought mine, though I averted both 
 face and gaze. He smiled ; and I thought his 
 smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful 
 and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold 
 and gems had enriched : I crushed his hand, 
 which was ever hunting mine, vigorously, and 
 thrust it back to him, red with the passionate 
 pressure. 
 
 "You need not look in that way," I said; 
 " if you do, I'll wear nothing hut my old Lo- 
 wood frocks to the end of the chapter. I'll be 
 married in this lilac gingham — you may make 
 a dressing-gown for yourself out of the pearl- 
 gray silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats 
 out of the black satm." 
 
 He chuckled ; he rubbed his hands. " Oh, 
 it is rich to see and hear her !" he exclaimed 
 " Is she original 1 Is she piquant ! I would 
 not exchange this one little English girl for 
 the grand Turk's whole seraglio, gazelle-eyes, 
 houri-forms and all I" 
 
 The eastern allusion bit me again : " I'll not 
 stand you an inch in the stead of a seraglio," I 
 said ; " so don't consider me an equivalent for 
 one ; if you have a fancy for any thing in that 
 line, away with you, sir, to the bazars of 
 Stambonl without delay ; and lay out in exten- 
 sive slave-purchases some of that spare cash 
 you seem at a loss to spend satisfactorily here." 
 
 " And what will you do, Janet, while I am 
 bargaining for so many tons of flesh and such 
 an assortment of black eyes '" 
 
 " I'll be preparing myself to go out as a mis- 
 sionary to preach liberty to them that are en- 
 slaved — your harem inmates among the rest. 
 I'll get admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny ; 
 and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, 
 shall in a trice find yourself fettered among 
 our hands ; nor will I, for one, consent to cut 
 your bonds till you have signed a charter, the 
 most liberal that despot ever yet conferred." 
 
 "I would consent to be at your mercy, 
 
 Jane." 
 
 " I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if 
 you supplicated for it with an eye like that. 
 While you looked so, I should be certain that 
 whatever charter you might grant under coer- 
 cion, your first act, when released, would be to 
 violate its conditions." 
 
 •'Why. Jane, what would you have' I fear 
 you will compel me to go through a private 
 marriage ceremony, besides that performed at 
 the altar. You will stipulate, I see, for pecu- 
 liar terms — what will they be V 
 
 " I only want an easy mind, sir ; not crushed 
 
104 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 by crowded obligations. Do you remember 
 
 what you said of Celine Varens'! — of the dia- 
 monds, the cashmeres you gave herl I will 
 not be your English Celine Varens. I shall 
 continue to aCt as Adele's governess ; by that, 
 I shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty 
 pounds a-year besides. I'll furnish my own 
 wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give 
 me nothing, but — " 
 
 ♦'Well, but whaf!" 
 
 " Your regard ; and if I give you mine in re- 
 tQrn, that debt will be quit." 
 
 " Well, for cool native impudence, and pure 
 innate pride, you haven't your equal," said he. 
 We are now approaching Thornfield. " Will 
 it please you to dine with me to-day 1" 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 1 You delight in half phrases." 
 
 "Till I can't help it." 
 
 " Do you suppose I eat like an ogre, or a 
 ghoul, that you dread being the companion of 
 my repast?" 
 
 " I have formed no suppositions on the sub- 
 ject, sir ; but I want to go on as usual for an- 
 other month." 
 
 " You will give up your governessing slavery 
 at once." 
 
 " Indeed I begging your pardon, sir, I shall 
 not. I shall just go on with it as usual. I shall 
 keep out of your way all day, as i have been ac- 
 customed to do ; you may send for me in the 
 evening, when you feel disposed to see me, 
 and I'll come then ; but at no other time." 
 
 " I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff. 
 to comfort me under all this ' pour me donner 
 une contenance,' as Adele would say ; and un- 
 fortunately, I have neither my cigar-case nor 
 my snuff-box. But listen — whisper — it is your 
 time, now, little tyrant, but it will be mine 
 presently ; and when once I have fairly seized 
 you, to have and to hold, I'll just — figuratively 
 speaking — attach you to a chain like this 
 (touching his watch-guard). Yes, bonny wee 
 thing, I'll wear you in my bosom, lest my jew- 
 el I should tyne." 
 
 He said this as he helped me to alight from 
 the carriage ; and while he afterward lifted out 
 Ad^le, I entered the house, and made good my 
 retreat up stairs. 
 
 He duly summoned me to his presence in the 
 evening. I had prepared an occupation for 
 him ; ior I was determined not to spend the 
 whole time in a tete-a-tcte conversation : I re- 
 membered his fine voice ; I knew he liked to 
 sing — good singers generally do. I was no 
 vocalist myself, and, in his fastidious judgment, 
 no musician either ; but I delighted in listening 
 when the performance was good. No sooner 
 had twilight, that hour of romance, begun to 
 lower her blue and starry banner over the lat- 
 tice, than I rose, opened the piano, and en- 
 treated him, for the love of Heaven, to give me 
 a song. He said I was a capricious witch, and 
 that he would rather sing another time ; but I 
 averred that no limc was like the present. 
 
 " Did I like his voice ?" he asked. 
 
 " Very much." I was not fond of pampering 
 
 that susceptible vanity of his ; but for onoe, 
 and from motives of expediency, I would e'en 
 soothe and stimulate it. 
 
 " Then, Jane, you must play the accompani- 
 ment. " 
 
 " Very well, sir, I will try." 
 
 I did try, but was presently swept oflf the 
 stool and denominated, " a little bungler." Be- 
 ing pushed unceremoniously to one side — which 
 was precisely what I wished — he usurped my 
 place, and proceeded to accompany himself; 
 for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to 
 the window-recess ; and while I sat there and 
 looked out on the still tiee^ and dim lawn, to a 
 sweet air was sung in mellow tones, the follow- 
 ing strain : 
 
 The truest love that ever heart 
 
 Felt at its kindled core 
 Did through each vein, in quickened 'start. 
 
 The lido 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, 
 luireamed it would be nnnneless bliss, 
 
 As I loved, loved lo 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 hind'rance Ecorned ; 
 
 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 ; 
 Far glorious rose upon my sight 
 
 That child of Shower and Gleam. 
 gtill 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 Uiat wedlock's sacred band 
 
 Our natures 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 1 1 
 
 He rose and came toward me, and I saw his 
 face all kindled, and his full falcon-eye flashing, 
 and tenderness and passion in every lineament. 
 I quailed momentarily — then I rallied. Soft 
 
 i scene, daring demonstration, I would not have ; 
 and I stood in peril of both ; a weapon of de- 
 fense must be prepared — I whetted my tongue ; 
 as he reached me, I asked with asperity, " whom 
 he was going to marry now?" 
 
 I " That was a strange question to be put by 
 his darling Jane." 
 
 " Indeed ! I considered it a very natural and 
 
 I necessary one ; he had talked of his future wife 
 
 dying with him. AVhat did he mean by such a 
 
 pagan idea? / had no intention of d>'ing with 
 
 him — he might dejiend on that." 
 
 "Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 106 
 
 that I might Hve with him ! Death was not 
 for such as I." 
 
 " Indeed it was ; I had as good a right to die 
 when my time came as he had ; but I should 
 bide that time, and not be hurried away in a 
 suttee." 
 
 "Would I forgive him fot the selfish idea, 
 and prove my pardon by a reconciling kiss'?" 
 
 " No, I would rather be excused." 
 
 Here I heard myself apostrophized as a 
 "hard little thing;" and it was added, "any 
 other woman would have been melted to mar- 
 row at hearing such stanzas crooned in her 
 praise." 
 
 I assured him I was naturally hard — very 
 flinty, and that he would often find me so ; and 
 that, moreover, I was determined to show him 
 divers rugged points in my character before the 
 ensuing four weeks elapsed ; he should know 
 fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while 
 there was yet time to rescind it. 
 
 " Would I be quiet, and talk rationally 1" 
 
 " I would be quiet if he liked ; and as to talk- 
 ing rationally, I flattered myself I was doing 
 that now." 
 
 He fretted, pished and pshawed. " Very 
 good," I thought; "you may fume and fidget 
 as you please, but this is the best plan to pursue 
 with you, I am certain. I like you more than 
 I can say ; but I'll not sink into a bathos of 
 sentiment ; and with this needle of repartee I'll 
 keep you from the edge of the gulf too ; and, 
 moreover, maintain by its pungent aid that dis- 
 tance between you and myself most conducive 
 to our real mutual advantage." 
 
 From less to more, I worked him up to con- 
 siderable irritation ; then, after he had retired, 
 in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, 
 I got up, and saying, " I wish you good-night, 
 sir," in my natural and wonted respectful man- 
 ner, I slipped out by the side-door and got 
 away. 
 
 The system thus entered on, I pursued during 
 the whole season of probation ; and with the 
 best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather 
 cross and crusty ; but on the whole I could see 
 he was excellently entertained ; and that a 
 lamb-like submission and turtle-dove sensibility, 
 while fostering his despotism more, would have 
 pleased his judgment, satisfied his common- 
 sense, and even suited his taste, less. 
 
 In other people's presence I was, as formerly, 
 deferential and quiet ; any other line of conduct 
 being uncalled-for ; it was only in the evening 
 conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. 
 He continued to send for me punctually the 
 moment the clock struck seven ; though when 
 I appeared before him now, he had no such 
 honeyed terms as " love" and " darling" on 
 his lips ; the best words at my service were 
 "provoking puppet," "malicious elf," "sprite," 
 " changeling," &c. For caresses, too, I now 
 got grimaces ; for a pressure of the hand, a 
 pinch on the arm ; for a kiss on the cheek, a 
 severe tweak of the ear. It was all right : at 
 present I decidedly preferred these fierce favors 
 to any thing more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, 
 approved me ; her anxiety on my account van- 
 ished ; therefore I was certain I did well. 
 Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmed I was wear- 
 ing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful 
 vengeance for my present conduct at some 
 
 period fast coming. I laughed in my sleeve at 
 his menaces ; " I can keep you in reasonable 
 check now," I reflected ; " and I don't doubt to 
 be able to do it hereafter ; if one expedient 
 loses its virtue, another must be devised." 
 
 Yet, after all, my task was not an easy one ; 
 often I would rather have pleased than teased 
 him. My future husband was becoming to me 
 my whole world, and more than the world — 
 almost my hope of heaven. He stood between 
 me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse 
 intervenes between man and the broad sun. I 
 could not, in those days, see God for his crea 
 ture, of whom I had made an idol. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The month of courtship had wasted ; its 
 very last hours were being numbered. There 
 was no putting off the day that advanced — the 
 bridal day ; and all preparations for its arrival 
 were complete. I, at least, had nothing more 
 to do. There were my trunks, packed, locked, 
 corded, ranged in a row along the wall of my 
 little chamber ; to-morrow, at this time, they 
 would be far on their road to London ; and so 
 should I (D. v.), or, rather, not I, but one Jane 
 Rochester, a person whom as yet I knew not. 
 The cards of address alone remained to nail 
 on ; they lay, four little squares, on the drawer. 
 Mr. Rochester had himself written the direc- 
 tion, " Mrs. Rochester, Hotel, London," 
 
 on each ; I could not persuade myself to afBx 
 them, or to have them affixed. Mrs. Roches- 
 ter ! she did not exist ; she would not be born 
 till to-morrow, some time after eight o'clock 
 A.M., and I would wait to be assured she had 
 come into the world alivfe, before I assigned to 
 her all that property. It was enough that, in 
 yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, gar- 
 ments said to be hers had already displaced my 
 black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet ; for 
 not to me appertained that suit of wedding 
 raiment — the pearl-colored robe, the vapory 
 veil, pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I 
 shut the closet, to conceal the strange, wraith- 
 like apparel, it contained, which, at this even- 
 ing hour — nine o'clock — gave out certainly a 
 most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of 
 my apartment. " I will leave you by yourself, 
 white dream," I said ; " I am feverish ; I hear 
 the wind blowing, I will go out of doors and 
 feel it." 
 
 It was not only the hurry of preparation that 
 made me feverish ; not only the anticipation of 
 the great change — the new life which was to 
 commence to-morrow ; both these circum- 
 stances had their share, doubtless, in pro- 
 ducing that restless, excited mood which 
 hurried me forth at this late hour into the 
 darkening grounds, but a third cause influenced 
 my mind more than they. 
 
 I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. 
 Something had happened which I could not 
 comprehend. No one knew of or had seen the 
 event but myself; it had taken place the pre- 
 ceding night. Mr. Rochester, that night, was 
 absent from home, nor was he yet returned. 
 Business had called him to a small estate of 
 two or three farms he possessed, thirty miles 
 oflf^business it was requisite he should settla 
 
106 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 in person, previously to his meditated depart- I 
 ure from England. I waited now his return, 
 eager to disburden my mind, and to seek of 
 him the' solution of the enigma that perplexed 
 me. Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I 
 disclose my secret to him, you shall share the 
 confidence. 
 
 I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by 
 the wind, which all day had blown strong and 
 full from the south, without, however, bringing 
 a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as niglit 
 drew on, it seemed to augment its rush and 
 deepen its roar. The trees blew- steadfastly 
 one way, never writhing round, and scarcely 
 tossing back their boughs once in an hour, 
 so continuous was the strain bending their 
 branchy heads northward ; the clouds drifted 
 from pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass ; 
 no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that 
 July day. 
 
 It was not without a certain wild pleasure I 
 ran before the wind, delivering my trouble of 
 mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering 
 through space. Descending the laurel-walk, 
 I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree ; it 
 stood up, black and riven ; the trunk, split 
 down the center, gaped ghastly. The cloven 
 halves were not broken from each other, for 
 the firm base and strong roots kept them un- 
 sun-dered below ; though community of vitality 
 was destroyed — the sap could flow no more ; 
 their great boughs on each side were dead, and 
 next winter's tempests would be sure to fell 
 one or both to earth ; as yet, however, they 
 might be said to form one tree — a ruin — but an 
 entire ruin. 
 
 "You did right to hold fast to each other," 
 I said, as if the monster splinters were living 
 things and could hear me; "I think, scathed 
 as you look, and charred and scorched, there 
 must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising 
 out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest 
 roots ; you will never have green leaves more — 
 never more see birds making nests, and sing- 
 ing idyls in your boughs ; the time of pleasure 
 and love is over with you ; but you are not 
 desolate ; each of you has a comrade to sym- 
 pathize with hiin in his decay." As I looked 
 up at them, the moon appeared momentarily 
 in that part of the sky which filled their fis- 
 sure ; her disk was blood-red and half over- 
 cast ; she seemed to throw on me one be- 
 wildered, dreary glance, and buried herself 
 again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. 
 The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield ; 
 but far away, over wood and water, poured a 
 wild, melancholy wail ; it was sad to listen to, 
 and I ran off again. 
 
 Here and there I strayed through the or- 
 chard, gathering up the apples with which the 
 grass round the tree-roots was thickly strewed. 
 Then I employed myself in dividing the ripe 
 from the unripe ; I carried them into the house 
 and put them away in the store-room. Then 
 I repaired to the library to ascertain whether 
 the fire was lighted ; for, though summer, I 
 knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Roch- 
 ester would like to see a cheerful hearth 
 when became in; yes, the fire had been kin- 
 dled some time, and burned well. I placed 
 his arm-chair by the chimney-corner ; I wheel- 
 ed the table near it ; I let down the curtain, and 
 
 had the candies brought in ready for lighting. 
 More restless than ever, when I had completed 
 these arrangements I could not sit still, nor 
 even remain in the house. A little time-piece 
 in the room and the old clock in the hall simul- 
 taneously struck ten. 
 
 "How late it grows!" I said. "I will run 
 down to the gates ; it is moonlight at intervals ; , 
 I can see a good way on the road. He may be ' 
 coming now, and to meet him will save some 
 minutes of suspense." 
 
 The wind roared high in the great trees 
 which embowered the gates ; but the road, as 
 far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, 
 was all still and solitary ; save for the shadows 
 of clouds crossing it at intervals, as the moon 
 looked out, it was but a long, pale line, unvaried 
 by one moving speck. 
 
 A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked 
 — a tear of disappointment and impatience; 
 ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered ; 
 the moon shut herself wholly within her cham- 
 ber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud; 
 the night grew dark ; rain came driving fast ou 
 the gale. 
 
 "I wish he would come ! I wish he would 
 come !" I exclaimed, seized with hypochon- 
 driac foreboding. I had expected his arrival 
 before tea ; now it was dark ; what could keep 
 him 1 Had an accident happened 1 The event 
 of last night again recurred to me. I inter- 
 preted it as a warning of disaster ; I feared my 
 hopes were too bright to be realized ; and I had 
 enjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my 
 fortune had passed its meridian, and must now 
 decline. 
 
 " Well, I can not return to the house," I 
 thought ; " I can not sit by the fireside while 
 he is abroad in inclement weather. Better tire 
 my limbs than strain my heart; I will go for- 
 ward and meet him." 
 
 I set out. I walked fast, but not far. Ere I 
 had measured a quarter of a mile, I heard the 
 tramp of hoofs. A horseman came on, full 
 gallop — a dog ran by his side. Away with evil 
 presentiment! It was he. Here he was, mount- 
 ed on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me, 
 fiir 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 raa to 
 meet him. 
 
 "There!" he exclaimed, as he stretched 
 out his hand and bent from the saddle ; 
 " You can't do without me, that is evident. 
 Step on my boot-toe; give me both hands; 
 mount !" 
 
 I obeyed ; joy made me agile ; I sprung up 
 before him. A hearty kissing I got for a wel- 
 come, and some boastful triumph, which I swal- 
 lowed as well as I could. He checked himself 
 in his exultation to demand, " But is there any 
 thing the matter, Janet, that you come to 
 meet me at such an hour? Is there any thing 
 wrong!" 
 
 " No ; but I thought you would never come. 
 I could not bear to wait in the house for you, 
 especially wiih this rain and wind." 
 
 " Rain and wind indeed I Ves. you are 
 dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak round 
 you ; but I think you are feveri.sb, Jane ; both 
 your cheek and hand are burning hot. I ask 
 again, is there any thing the matter?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 107 
 
 " Nothing, now ; I am neither afraid nor un- 
 happy." 
 
 " Then you have been both?" 
 
 " Rather — but I'll tell you all about it by and 
 by, sir ; and 1 dare say you will only laugh at 
 me for my ()ains." 
 
 " I'll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow 
 is past ; till then I dare not ; my prize is not 
 certain. This is you ; who have been as slip- 
 pery as an eel this last month, and as thorny 
 as a brier-rose! I could not lay a finger any 
 where but I was pricked ; and now I seem to 
 have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms ; 
 you wandered out of the fold to seek your 
 shepherd ; did you, Jane 1" 
 
 " I wanted you ; but don't boast. Here we 
 are at Thornfield ; aovv let me get down." 
 
 He landed me on the pavement. As John 
 took his horse, and he followed me into the 
 hall, he told me to make haste and put something 
 dry on, and then to return to him in the library ; 
 and he stopped me, as I made for the stair- 
 case, to extort a promise that I would not be 
 long ; nor was I long ; in five minutes I rejoin- 
 ed him. I found him at supper. 
 
 " Take a seat, and bear me company, Jane ; 
 please God, it is the last meal but one you will 
 eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time." 
 
 I sat down near him ; but told him I could 
 not eat. 
 
 " Is it because you have the prospect of a jour- 
 ney before you, Jane ! Is it the thoughts of go- 
 ing to London that takes away your appetite V' 
 
 " I can not see my prospects clearly to night, 
 sir ; and I hardly know what thoughts I have 
 in my head. Every thing 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 1" said he, placing it close to my eyes. 
 He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous 
 hand, as well as a long, strong arm. 
 
 " Yes ; though I touch it, it is a dream," 
 said I, as I put it down from before rny face. 
 ♦'Sir, have you finished supper 1" 
 
 " Yes, Jane." 
 
 I rung the bell, and ordered away the tray. 
 "When we were again alone, I stirred the fi're, 
 and then took a low seat at my master's knee. 
 
 " It is near midnight," I said. 
 
 "Yes ; but remember, Jane, you promised to 
 wake with me the night before my wedding." 
 
 "I did ; and I will keep my promise, for an 
 hour or two at least ; I have no wish to go to 
 bed." 
 
 " Are all your arrangements complete?" 
 
 "All, sir." 
 
 " And on my part, likewise," he returned. 
 "I have settled every thing:; and we shall 
 leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half an hour 
 after our return from church." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 "With what an extraordinary smile you 
 uttered that word, ' very well,' Jane I What 
 a bright spot of color you have on each cheek ! 
 and how strangely your eyes glitter ! Are you 
 well?" 
 
 " I believe I am." 
 
 " Believe ! What is the matter 1 Tell me 
 what you feel." 
 
 " I could not, sir ; no words could tell you 
 what I feel. I wish this present hour would 
 never end ; who knows with what fate the 
 next may come charged!" 
 
 " This is hypochondria, Jane. You have 
 been overexcited or overfatigued." 
 
 " Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?" 
 
 " Calm? no; but happy — to the heart's core." 
 
 I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss 
 in his face ; it was ardent and flushed. 
 
 "Give me your confidence, Jane," he said; ' 
 " relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses 
 it, by imparting it to me. What do you fearl 
 — that I shall not prove a good husband?" 
 
 " It is the idea farthest from my thoughts." 
 
 " Are you apprehensive of the new sphere 
 you are about to enter? of the life into which 
 you are passing?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " You puzzle me, Jane ; your look and tone 
 of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain rae. I 
 want an explanation." 
 
 " Then, sir, listen. You were from home 
 last night?" 
 
 " I was ; I know that ; and you hinted a 
 while ago at something which had happened 
 in my absence — nothing, probably, of conse- 
 quence ; but, in short, it has disturbed you. Let 
 me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said something, 
 perhaps? or you have overheard the servants 
 talk? Your sensitive self-respect has been 
 wounded ?" 
 
 "No, sir." It struck twelve — I waited till 
 the time-piece had concluded its silver chime, 
 and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and 
 then I proceeded. 
 
 " All day, yesterday, I was very busy, and 
 very happy in my ceaseless bustle ; for I am 
 not, as you seem to think, troubled by any 
 haunting fears about the new sphere, et cetera ; 
 I think it a glorious thing to have the hope of 
 living with you, because I love you. No, sir, 
 don't caress me now — let me talk undisturbed. 
 Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and 
 believed that events were working together for 
 your good and mine ; it was a fine day, if you 
 recollect — the calmness of the air and sky for- 
 bade apprehensions respecting your safety or 
 comfort on your journey. I walked a little 
 while on the pavement after tea, thinking of 
 you ; and I beheld you in imagination so near 
 me, I scarcely missed your actual presence. 
 I thought of the life that lay before me — your 
 life, sir — an existence more expansive and 
 stirring than my own ; as much more so as the 
 depths of the sea to which the brook runs, are 
 than the shallows of its own strait channel. I 
 wondered why moralists call this world a 
 dreary wilderness ; for me it blossomed hke a 
 rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and 
 the sky cloudy ; I went in. Sophie called me 
 up stairs to look at my wedding-dress, which 
 they had just brought ; and under it in the box 
 I found your present — the veil which, in your 
 princely extravagance, you sent for from Lon- 
 don ; resolved, I suppose, since I would not 
 have jewels, to cheat me into accepting some- 
 thing as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and 
 devised how I would tease you about your 
 aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to mask 
 your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peer- 
 ess. I thought how I would carry down to you 
 
108 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 the square of unembroidered blond I had myself 
 prepared as a covering for my low-born head, 
 and ask if that was not good enough for a wom- 
 an who could bring her husband neither fortune, 
 beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how 
 you would look ; and heard your impetuous re- 
 publican answers, and your haughty disavowal 
 of any necessity on your part»to augment your 
 •wealth, or elevate your standing, by marrying 
 either a purse or a coronet." 
 
 "How well you read me, you witch !" inter- 
 posed Mr. Rochester : " but what did you find 
 in the veil besides its embroidery ■! Did you 
 find poison, or a dagger, that you look so mourn- 
 ful nowl" 
 
 " No, no, sir ; besides the delicacy and rich- 
 ness of the fabric, I found nothing save Fair- 
 fax Rochester's pride ; and that did not scare 
 me, because I am used to the sight of the de- 
 mon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose 4 
 it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now, 
 wild and high, but ' with a sullen, moaning 
 sound,' far more eerie. I wished you were at 
 home. I came into this room, and the sight of 
 the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me. 
 For some time after I went to bed I could not 
 sleep — a sense of anxious excitement distressed 
 me. The gale still rising, seemed to my ear 
 to muffle a mournful undersound ; whether in 
 the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but 
 it recurred, doubtful yet doleful, at every lull ; 
 at last I made out it must be some dog howl- 
 ing at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. 
 On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of 
 a dark and gusty night. I continued also the 
 wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, 
 regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing 
 us. During all my first sleep, I was following 
 the windings of an unknown road ; total obscu- 
 rity environed me ; rain pelted me ; I was bur- 
 dened with the charge of a little child ; a very 
 small creature, too young and feeble to walk, 
 and which shivered in my cold arms, and wail- 
 ed piteously in my ear. I thought, sir, that 
 you were on the road a long way before me ; 
 and I strained every nerve to overtake you, and 
 made effort on effort to utter your name and 
 entreat you to stop, but my movements were 
 fettered, and my voice still died away inarticu- 
 late ; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and 
 farther every moment." 
 
 " And these dreams weigh on your spirits 
 now, Jane, when I am close to youl 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 
 can not deny it. Those words did not die inar- 
 ticulate on your lips. I heard them clear and 
 soft : a thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet 
 as music, ' I think it is a glorious thing to have 
 the hope of living with you, Edward, because I 
 love you.' Do you love me, Jane ? repeat it." 
 
 "I do, sir, I do, with my whole heart." 
 
 " Well," he said, after some minutes' silence, 
 " it is strange ; but that sentence has penetra- 
 ted my breast painfully. Why? I think be- 
 cause you said it with such an earnest, religious 
 energy ; and because your upward gaze at me 
 now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and de- 
 votion ; it is too much as if some spirit were 
 near me. Look wicked, Jane, as you know 
 well how to look , coin one of your wild, sly, 
 
 provoking smiles ; tell me you hate me — tease 
 me, vex me ; do any thing but move me ; I 
 would rathei be incensed than saddened." 
 
 *' 1 will tease you and vex you to your heart's 
 content when I have finished my tale ; but hear 
 me to the end." 
 
 " I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I 
 thought I had found the source of your melan- 
 choly in a dream !" 
 
 I shook my head. "What! is there more? 
 But I will not believe it to be any thing import- 
 ant. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. 
 Go on." 
 
 The disquietude of his air, the somewhat ap- 
 prehensive impatience of his manner, surprised 
 me ; but I proceeded. 
 
 " I dreamed another dream, sir : that Thorn- 
 field Hall was a dreary ruin, the retreat of bats 
 and owls. I thought that of all the stately front 
 nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very 
 high and very fragile-looking. I wandered, on 
 a moonlight night, through the grass-grown in- 
 closure within ; here I stumbled over a marble 
 hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cor- 
 nice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried 
 the unknown little child ; I might no'i. lay it 
 down any where, however tired were my arms 
 — however much its weight impeded my prog- 
 ress, 1 must retain it. I heard the gallop of a 
 horse at a distance on the road ; I was sure it 
 was you ; and you were departing for many 
 years, and for a distant country. I climbed the 
 thin wall with frantic, perilous haste, eager to 
 catch one glimpse of you from the top; the 
 stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy 
 branches I grasped gave way, the child clung 
 round my neck in terror, and almost strangled 
 me ; at last I gained the summit. I saw you 
 like a speck on a white track, lessening every 
 moment. The blast blew so strong I could not 
 stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge; I 
 hushed the scared infant in my lap ; you turned 
 an angle of the road ; I bent forward to take a 
 last look ; the wall crumbled ; I was shaken ; 
 the child rolled from my knee; I lost my bal 
 ance, fell, and woke." 
 
 "Now, Jane, that is all." 
 
 " All the preface, sir ; the tale is yet to come. 
 On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes ; I thought 
 — oh, it is daylight ! But I was mistaken ; it 
 was only candle-light. Sophie, I supposed, had 
 come in. There was a light on the dressing- 
 table, and the door of the closet, ^vhere, before 
 going to bed, I had hung my wedding dress and 
 veil, stood open ; I heard a rustling there. I 
 asked, 'Sophie, what are you doing?' No one 
 answered ; but a form emerged from the closet ; 
 it took the light, held it aloft and surveyed the 
 garments pendent from the portmanteau. ' So- 
 phie ! Sophie !' I again cried ; and still it was 
 silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward ; 
 first surprise, then bewilderment, came over 
 me ; and then my blood crept cold through my 
 veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it 
 was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax ; it was 
 not — no, I was sure of it, and am still — it was 
 not even that strange woman, Grace Poole." 
 
 " It must have been one of them, "-interrupt- 
 ed my master. 
 
 " No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the con- 
 trary. The shape standing before me had nevei 
 crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thorn- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 109 
 
 field Hall before ; the height, the contour were 
 new to me." 
 
 " Describe it, Jane." 
 
 «• It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large 
 with thick and dark hair hanging long down 
 her back. 1 know not what dre&s she had on ; 
 it was white and straight; but whether gown, 
 sheet, or shroud, I can not tell." 
 
 "Did you see her facel" 
 
 "Not at first. But presently she took my 
 veil from its place; she held it up, gazed at it 
 long, and then she threw it over her own head, 
 and turned to the mirror. At that moment I 
 saw the reflection of the visage and features 
 quite distinctly in the dark, oblong glass." 
 
 "And how were they V 
 
 " Fearful and ghastly to me — oh, sir, I never 
 saw a face like it ! It was a discolored face — 
 it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the 
 roll of the red eyes and the fearful blackened 
 inflation of the lineaments !" 
 
 " Ghosts are usually pale, Jane." 
 
 " This, sir, was purple ; the lips were swell- 
 ed and dark ; the brow furrowed ; the black 
 eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes. 
 Shall I tell you of what it reminded me V' 
 
 "You may." 
 
 "Of the foul German specter, the Vampyre." 
 
 "Ah! What did it dor- 
 
 " Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, 
 rent it in two parts, and, flinging both on the 
 floor, trampled on them." 
 
 " Afterward r' 
 
 "It drew aside the window-curtain and look- 
 ed out ; perhaps it saw dawn approaching, for, 
 taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just 
 at my bedside the figure stopped ; the fiery eye 
 glared upon me — she thrust up her caudle close 
 to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. 
 I was aware her wild visage flamed over mine, 
 and I lost consciousness ; for the second lime 
 in my life — only the second time — I became in- 
 sensible from terror." 
 
 " Who was with you when you revived T' 
 
 "No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, 
 bathed my head and face in water, drank a long 
 draught ; felt that though enfeebled I was not 
 ill, and determined that lo none but you would 
 I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell who and 
 what that woman was 1" 
 
 " The creature of an over-stimulated brain ; 
 that is certain. Pmust be careful of you, my 
 treasure ; nerves like yours were not made for 
 rough handling." 
 
 " Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in 
 fault; the thing was real; the transaction ac- 
 tually took place." 
 
 " And your previous dreams, were they real, 
 too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruini Am I sev- 
 ered from you by insuperable obstacles 1 Am 
 I leaving you without a tear, without a kiss, 
 without a wordl" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "Am I about to do it? Why the day is al- 
 ready commenced which is to bind us indisso- 
 lubly ; and when we are once united, there 
 shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors, 
 I guaranty that." 
 
 "Mental terrors, sir ! I wish I could be- 
 lieve them to be only such ; I wish it more 
 now than ever, since even you can not explain 
 to me the mystery of that awful visitant." 
 
 " And since I can not do it.^ Jane, it must 
 have been unreal." 
 
 "But, sir, when I said so to myself 6n rising 
 this morning, and when I looked round the 
 room to gather courage and comfort from the 
 cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full 
 daylight, there, on the carpet, I saw, what gave 
 the distinct lie to my hypothesis— the veil, torn 
 from top to bottom in two halves !" 
 
 I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder ; he 
 hastily flung his arms round me: "Thank 
 God I" he exclaimed, " that, if any thing malig- 
 nant did come near you last night, it was only 
 the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what 
 might have happened !" 
 
 He drew his breath short, and strained me 
 so close to him I could scarcely pant. After 
 some minutes' silence, he continued, cheerily, 
 
 " Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. 
 It was half dream, half reality ; a woman did, 
 I doubt not, enter your room ; and that woman 
 was, must have been, Grace Poole. You call 
 her a strange being yourself; from all you 
 know, you have reason so to call her ; what 
 did she do to me ? what to Mason 1 In a state 
 between sleeping and waking, you noticed her 
 entrance and her actions ; but feverish, almost 
 delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a 
 goblin appearance different from her own ; the 
 long disheveled hair, the swelled black face, 
 the exaggerated stature, were figments of im- 
 agination, results of nightmare ; the spiteful 
 tearing of the veil was real, and it is like her. 
 I see you would ask why I keep such a woman 
 in my house ; when we have been married a 
 year and a day I will tell you, but not now. 
 Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my 
 solution of the mystery V* 
 
 I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me 
 the only possible one ; satisfied I was not, but 
 to please him I endeavored to appear so : re- 
 lieved, I certainly did feel ; so I answered him 
 with a contented smile. And now, as it was 
 long past one, I prepared to leave him. 
 
 " Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the 
 nursery V he asked, as I lighted ray candle. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And there is room enough in Adele's little 
 bed for you. You must share it with her to- 
 night, Jane; it is no wonder that the incident 
 you have related should make you nervous, and 
 I would rather you did not sleep alone ; prom- 
 ise me to go to the nursery." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to do so, sir." 
 
 " And fasten the door securely on the inside. 
 Wake Sophie when you go up stairs, under 
 pretense of requesting her to rouse you in good 
 time to-morrow -, for you must be dressed and 
 have finished breakfast before eight. And now, 
 no more somber thoughts ; chase dull care 
 away, Janet. Don't you hear to what soft 
 whispers the wind has fallen 1 and there is no 
 more beating of rain against the window-panes ; 
 look here (he lifted up the curtain), it is a lovely 
 night!" 
 
 /t was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: 
 the clouds, now trooping before the wind, which 
 had shilled to the west, were filing off east- 
 ward in long, silvered columns. The moon 
 shone peacefully. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquir 
 ingly into my eyes, "how is my Janet now «" 
 
lie 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 "The night is serene, sir ; and so am I." 
 " And you will not dream of separation and 
 sorrow to-night, but of happy love and blissful 
 union." 
 
 This prediction was but half fulfilled; I did not 
 indeed dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream 
 of joy, for I never slept at all. With little Adele 
 in my arms, I watched the slumber of child- 
 hood, so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent, 
 and waited for the coming day ; all my life was 
 awake and astir in my frame ; and as soon as 
 the sun rose, I rose too. I remember Adele 
 clung to me as I left her ; I remember I kissed 
 her as I loosened her little hands from my neck, 
 and I cried over her with strange emotion, and 
 quitted her because I feared my sobs would 
 break her still sound repose. She seemed the 
 emblem of my past life, and he, I was now to 
 array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, 
 type of my unknown future day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Sophie came at seven to dress me ; she was 
 very long indeed in accomplishing her task, so 
 long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose im- 
 patient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did 
 not come. She was just fastening my veil (the 
 plain square of blond after all) to my hair with 
 a brooch ; I hurried from under her hands as 
 soon as I could. 
 
 "Stop!" she cried, in French. "Look at 
 yourself in the mirrow, you have not taken one 
 peep." 
 
 So I turned at the door ; I saw a robed and 
 veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that 
 it seemed almost the image of a stranger. 
 " Jane !" called a voice, and I hastened down. 
 I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. 
 Rochester. 
 
 " Lingerer," he said, " my brain is on fire 
 with impatience, and you tarry so long ! 
 
 He took me into the dining-room, surveyed 
 me keenly all over, pronounced me " fair as a 
 lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the 
 desire of his eyes," and then telling me he 
 would give me but ten minutes to eat some 
 breakfast, he rung the bell. One of his lately- 
 hired seH'ants, a footman, answered it. 
 
 "Is John getting the carriage ready 1" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Is the luggage brought downV 
 
 "They are bringing it down now, sir." 
 
 "Go you to the church : see if Mr. Wood 
 (the clergyman) and the clerk are there ; return 
 and tell me." 
 
 The church, as the reader knows, was but 
 just beyond the gates ; the footman soon re- 
 turned. 
 
 " Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on 
 his surplice." 
 
 " And the carriage 1" 
 
 "The horses are harnessing." 
 
 " We shall not want it to go to church, but it 
 must be ready the moment we return ; all the 
 boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, 
 and the coachman in his seat." 
 
 " Ves, sir." 
 
 "Jane, are you ready"!" 
 
 I rose. There were no groomsmen, no 
 bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or mar- 
 
 shal ; none but Mr. Rochester and I? Mrs. 
 Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I 
 would fain have spoken to her, but my hand 
 was held by a grasp of iron ; I was hurried 
 along by a stride I could hardly follow ; and to 
 look at Mr. Rochester's face was to feel that 
 not a second of delay would be tolerated for 
 any purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom 
 ever looked as he did — so bent up to a purpose, 
 so grimly resolute ; or w ho, under such stead- 
 fast brows, ever revealed such flanfing and 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 I know not whether the day was fair or foul ; 
 in descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky 
 nor earth : my heart was with my eyes — and 
 both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's 
 frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on 
 which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten 
 a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the 
 thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and 
 resisting. 
 
 At the church-yard wicket he stopped ; he 
 discovered I was quite out of breath. •' Am I 
 cruel in my love V he said. " Delay an in- 
 stant ; lean on me, Jane." 
 
 And now I can recall the picture of ihe gray 
 old house of God rising calm before me, of a 
 rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy 
 morning sky beyond. I remember something, 
 too, of the green grave-mounds ; and I have 
 not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers, 
 straying among the low hillocks, and reading 
 the mementoes graven on the few mossy head- 
 stones. I noticed them, because, as they saw 
 us, they passed round to the back of the 
 church ; and I doubled not they were going to 
 enter by the side-aisle door, and witness the 
 ceremony. By Mr. Rcchester they were not 
 observed ; he was earnestly looking at my 
 face, from which the blood had, I dare sa}', 
 momentarily fled ; for I felt my forehead dewy, 
 and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, 
 which I soon did, he walked gently with me up 
 the path to the porch. 
 
 We entered the quiet and humble temple ; 
 the priest waited in his white surplice at the 
 lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was 
 still ; two shadows only moved in a remote 
 corner. My conjecture had been correct ; the 
 strangers had slipped in before us, and they 
 now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, 
 their backs toward us, viewing through the 
 rails the old, time-stained marble tomb, where 
 a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer 
 de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the 
 time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his 
 wife. 
 
 Our place was taken at the communion-rails. 
 Hearing a cautious step behind me, I glanced 
 over my shoulder ; one of the strangers — a 
 gentleman, evidently — was advancing up the 
 chancel. The service began. The ex|)lanation 
 of the intent of matrimony was gone through ; 
 and then the clergyman came a step farther 
 forward, and, bendmg slightly toward Mr. 
 Rochester, went on. 
 
 " I require and charge you both (as ye will 
 answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when 
 the secrets of all hearts shall bo disclosed) that 
 if either of you know any impediment why ye 
 may not lawfully be jomed together in matri- 
 mony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 HI 
 
 assured that so many as are coupled together 
 otliervvise than God's Word doth allow, are not 
 joined together by God, neither is their matri- 
 mony lawful." 
 
 He paused, as the custom is. When is the 
 pause afier that sentence ever broken by reply! 
 Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And 
 the clergyman, who had not lified his eyes 
 from hts book, and had held his breath but for 
 a moment, was proceeding; his hand was 
 already stretched toward Mr. Rochester, as his 
 lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this 
 woman for thy wedded wife?" — when a dis- 
 tinct and near voice said — 
 
 " The marriage can not go on ; I declare the 
 existence of an impediment." 
 
 The clergyman looked up at the speaker, 
 and stood mule ; the clerk did the same : Mr. 
 Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake 
 had rolled under his leet ; taking a firmer loot- 
 ing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, 
 "Proceed." 
 
 Profound silence fell when he had uttered 
 that word, with deep but low intonation. 
 Presently Mr. Wood said — 
 
 " I can not proceed without some investi- 
 gation into what has been asserted, and evi- 
 dence of its truth or falsehood." 
 
 "The ceremony is quite broken off," sub- 
 joined the voice behind us. " I am in a con- 
 dition to prove my allegation ; an insuperable 
 impediment to this marriage exists." 
 
 Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded no^; he 
 stood stubborn and rigid, making no move- 
 ment 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 eyes 
 shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath ! 
 
 Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. " What is ^le 
 nature of the impediment 1" he asked. "Per- 
 haps it may be got over — explained away 1" 
 
 " Hardly," was the answer. " I have called 
 it insuperable, and I speak advisedly." 
 
 The speaker came forward, and leaned on 
 the rails. He continued, uttering each word 
 distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly, 
 
 " It simply consists in the existence of a 
 previous marriage ; Mr. Rochester lias a wife 
 now living." 
 
 My nerves vibrated to these low-spoken 
 words as they had never vibrated to thunder — 
 my blood felt their subtile violence as it. had 
 never felt frost or fire ; but I was collected, 
 and in no danger of swooning. I looked at 
 Mr. Rochester ; I made him look at me. His 
 whole face was colorless rock ; his eye was 
 both spark and fiint. He disavowed nothing ; 
 he seemed as if he would defy all things. 
 Without speaking, without smiling, without 
 seeming to recognize in me a human being, he 
 only twined my waist with his arm, and riveted 
 me to his side. 
 
 " Who are you 1" 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 ex- 
 istence, sir ; which the law recognizes, if you 
 do not." 
 
 "Favor me with an account of her — with 
 her name, her parentage, her place of abode." 
 
 " Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper 
 from his pocket, and read out, in a sort of 
 official, nasal voice — 
 
 " I affirm and can prove that on the 20lh of 
 
 October, a.d (a date of fifteen years back), 
 
 Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, 
 
 in the county of , and of Ferndean Manor, 
 
 in shire, England, was married to my sis- 
 ter. Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of 
 Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his 
 
 wife, a Creole — at church, Spanish Town, 
 
 Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be 
 found in the register of that church — a copy of 
 it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard 
 Mason." 
 
 " That — if a genuine document — may prove 
 I have been married, but it does not prove that 
 the woman mentioned therein as my wife is 
 still living." 
 
 " She was living three months ago," returned 
 the lawyer. 
 
 " How do you knowl" 
 
 "I have a witness to the fact ; whose testi- 
 mony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert." 
 
 " Produce him — or go to hell." 
 
 " I will produce him first — he is on the spot ; 
 Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step for- 
 ward." 
 
 Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his 
 teeth ; he experienced, too, a sort of strong 
 convulsive quiver ; near to him as I was, I felt 
 the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run 
 through his frame. The second stranger, who 
 had hitherto lingered in the background, now 
 drew near ; a pale face looked over the solici- 
 tor's shoulder — yes, it was Mason himself. Mr. 
 Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, 
 as I have often said, was a black eye ; it had 
 now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; 
 and his face flushed — olive cheek and hueless 
 forehead received a glow, as from spreading, 
 ascending heart-fire ; and he stirred, lifted his 
 strong arm — he could have struck Mason — 
 dashed him on the church floor — shocked by 
 ruthless blow the breath from his body ; but 
 Mason shrunk away, and cried faintly, " Good 
 God!" Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rochester 
 — his passion died as if a blight had shriveled 
 it up ; he only asked, " What have tjou to say 1" 
 
 An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white 
 lips. 
 
 " The devil is in it if you can not answer 
 distinctly. I again demand, what have you to 
 sayl" 
 
 " Sir — sir — " interrupted the clergyman, " do 
 not forget you are in a sacred place." Then 
 addressing Mason, he inquired gently, " Are 
 you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's 
 wife is still living ?" 
 
 " Courage," urged the lawyer, "speak out." 
 
 " She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said 
 Mason, in more articulate tones; "I saw her 
 there last April. I am her brother." 
 
 "At Thornfield Hall !" ejaculated the clergy- 
 man. "Impossible! I am an old resident in 
 this neighborhood, sir, and I never heard of a 
 Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall." 
 
 I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's 
 lipand he muttered — 
 
 " No — by God ! 1 took care that none should 
 hear of it — or of her under that name." He 
 mused — for ten minutes he held counsel with 
 
112 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 himself; he formed his resolve, and announced 
 it— 
 
 " Enough — all shall bolt out at once, like the 
 bullet from the barrel. Wood, close your book 
 and take off your surplice ; John Green (to the 
 clerk), leave the church : there will be no wed- 
 ding to-day :" the man obeyed. 
 
 Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and reck- 
 lessly : " Bigamy is an ugly word ! I meant, 
 however, to be a bigamist ; but fate has out-ma- 
 ncenvered me, or Providence has checked me — 
 perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil 
 at this moment ; and, as my pastor there would 
 tell me, deserve, no doubt, the sternest judg- 
 ments of God, even to the quenchless fire and 
 deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken 
 up ! what this lawyer and his client say is true ; 
 I have been married ; and the woman to whom 
 I was married lives ! You say you never heard 
 of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder. 
 Wood : but I dare say you have many a time 
 inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious 
 lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some 
 have whispered to you that she is my bastard 
 half-sister; some, my cast-off mistress ; I now 
 inform you that she is my wife, whom I mar- 
 ried fifteen years ago — Bertha Mason by name ; 
 sister of this resolute personage, who is now, 
 with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, 
 showing you what a stout heart men may bear. 
 Cheer up, Dick ! never fear me ! I'd almost as 
 soon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is 
 mad ; and she came of a mad family — idiots 
 and maniacs through three generations I Her 
 mother, tiie Creole, was both a mad woman 
 and a drunkard ! as I found out after I had wed 
 the daughter: for they were silent on family 
 secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, 
 copied her parent in both points. I had a 
 charming partner — pure, wise, modest ; you 
 can fancy that I was a happy man. I went 
 through rich scenes ! Oh ! my experience has 
 been heavenly, if you only knew it ! But I owe 
 you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, 
 Mason — I invite you all to come up to the 
 house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and my 
 wife ! You shall see what sort of a being I 
 was cheated into espousing, and judge whether 
 or not I had a right to break the compact, and 
 seek sympathy with something at least human. 
 This girl," he continued, looking at me, " knew 
 no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting 
 secret ; she thought all was fair and legal ; and 
 never dreamed she was going to he entrapped 
 into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, 
 already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted 
 partner ! Come, all of you, follow !" 
 
 Still holding me fast, he left the church ; the 
 three gentlemen came after. At the front door 
 of the hall we found the carriage. 
 
 " Take it back to the coach-house, John," 
 said Mr. llochester, coolly ; " it will not be 
 wanted to-day." 
 
 At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, 
 Leah, advanced to meet and greet us. 
 
 "To the right about — every soul !" cried the 
 master ; " away with your congratulations ! 
 Who wants them 1 Not I ! they are fifteen 
 years too late !" 
 
 He passed on and ascended the stairs, still 
 holding my hand, and still beckoning the gen- 
 tlemen to follow him ; which they did. We 
 
 mounted the first stair-case, passed up the gal- 
 lery, proceeded to the third story ; the low, 
 black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master- 
 key, admitted us to the tapestried room, with 
 its great bed, and its pictorial cabinet. 
 
 " You know this place, Mason," said our 
 guide ; " she bit and stabbed you here." 
 
 He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncov- 
 ering the second door ; this, too, he opened. 
 In a room without a window, there burned a 
 fire, guarded by a high and strong fender, and 
 a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. 
 Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cook- 
 ing something in a saucepan. In the deep 
 shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure 
 ran backward and forward. What it was, 
 whether beast or human being, one could not, 
 at first sight, tell: it groveled,- seemingly, on 
 all fours ; it snatched and growled like some 
 strange wild animal ; but it was covered with 
 clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, 
 wild as a mane, hid its head and face. 
 
 " Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole !" said Mr. Roch- 
 ester. "How are you ! and how is your charge 
 to-day?" 
 
 " We're tolerable, sir, I thank you,'' replied 
 Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to 
 the hob ; " rather snappish, but not 'rageous." 
 
 A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her 
 favorable report ; the clothed hyena rose up, 
 and stood tall on its hind feet. 
 
 " Ah, sir, she sees you !" exclaimed Grace ; 
 "you'd better not stay." 
 
 " Only a few moments, Grace ; you must al- 
 low me a few moments." 
 
 " Take care then, sir ! for God's sake, take 
 care !" 
 
 The maniac bellowed ; she parted her shaggy 
 locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her 
 visitors. I recognized well that purple face — 
 those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced. 
 
 "Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, 
 thrusting her aside ; " she has no knilie now, I 
 suppose 1 and I'm on my guard." 
 
 " One never knows what she has, sir ; she is 
 so cunning ; it is not in mortal discretion to 
 fathom her craft." 
 
 " We had better leave her," whispered Mason. 
 
 "Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's 
 recommendation. 
 
 "Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentle- 
 men retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester 
 flung me behind him ; the lunatic sprung and 
 grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth, 
 to his cheek ; they struggled. She was a big 
 woman, in stature almost equaling her hus- 
 band, and corpulent besides : she showed virile 
 force in the contest — more than once she al- 
 most throttled him, athletic as he was. He 
 could have settled her with a well-planted 
 blow ; but he would not strike : he would only 
 wrestle. At last he mastered her arms : Grace 
 Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them 
 behind her : with more rope, which was at 
 hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation 
 was performed amid the fiercest yells and the 
 most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then 
 turned to the spectators ; he looked at them 
 with a smile both acrid and desolate. 
 
 " That is my wife," said he. " Such is (he 
 sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know — 
 such are the endearments which are tu solace 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 113 
 
 my leisure hours ! And this is wliat I wished 
 to have (laying his hand on my shoulder) : this 
 young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at 
 the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the 
 gambols of a demon. I wanted her just as a 
 change after that fierce ragout. Wood and 
 Briggs, look at the difference ! Compare these 
 clear eyes with the red balls yonder — this face 
 with that mask — this form with that bulk ; then 
 judge me, priest of the Gospel and man of the 
 law, and remember with what judgment ye 
 judge ye .shall be judged ! Off with you now. 
 I must shut up my prrze.'" 
 
 We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a 
 moment behind us, to give some further order 
 to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me 
 as we descended the stair. 
 
 "YoD, madam," said he, "are cleared from 
 all blame ; your uncle will be glad to hear it — 
 if, indeed, he should be still living — when Mr. 
 Mason returns to Madeira." 
 
 "My uncle ! What of himT Do you know 
 himr* 
 
 " Mr. Mason does : Mr. Eyre has been the 
 Funchal correspondent of his house for some 
 years. When your uncle received your letter 
 intimating the contemplated union between 
 yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who 
 was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on 
 his way back to Jamaica, happened to be with 
 him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence ; 
 for he knew tjiat my client here was acquainted 
 with a gentleman of the name of Rochester. 
 Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed, as you 
 may suppose, revealed the real state of matters. 
 Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a 
 sick-bed, frora which, considering the nature 
 of his disease — decline — and the stage it has 
 reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He 
 could not then hasten to England himself, to 
 extricate you frora«the snare into which you 
 had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose 
 no time in taking steps to prevent the false 
 marriage. He referred him to me for assist- 
 ance. I used all dispatch, and am thankful 
 I was not too late : as you doubtless must be 
 also. Were I not morally certain that your 
 uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, 
 I would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason 
 back : but as it is, I think you had better remain 
 in England till you can hear further, either from 
 or of Mr. Eyre. Have we any thing else to 
 stay fori" he inquired of Mr. Mason. 
 
 " No, no — let us be gone," was the anxious 
 reply ; and without waiting to take leave of Mr. 
 Rochester, they made their exit at the liall 
 door. The clergyman stayed to exchange a 
 few sentences, either of admonition or reproof, 
 with his haughty parishioner ; this duty 'done, 
 he, too, departed. 
 
 I heard him go as I stood at the half-open 
 door of my own room, to which I had now 
 withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself 
 in, fastened the bolt, that none might intrude, 
 and proceeded — not to weep, not to mourn ; I 
 was yet too calm for that — but mechanically to 
 take off the wedding dress, and replace it by the 
 stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought, 
 for thq last time. I then sat down ; I felt weak 
 and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and 
 my head dropped on them. And now I thought ; 
 till now I had only heard, seen, moved— foUow- 
 H 
 
 ed up and down where I was led or dragged — 
 watched event, rush on event, disclosure open 
 beyond disclosure ; but now I thought. 
 
 The morning had been a quiet morning 
 enough — all except the brief scene with the 
 lunatic ; the transaction in the church had not 
 been noisy ; there was no explosion of passion, 
 no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance or 
 challenge, no tcafl-s, no sobs ; a few words had 
 been spoken, a calmly-pronounced objection to 
 the marriage made ; some stern, short ques- 
 tions put by Mr. Rochester ; answers, explana- 
 tions given, evidence adduced; an open admis- 
 sion of the truth had been uttered by my master ; 
 then the living proof had been seen ; the in- 
 truders were gone, and all was over. 
 
 I was in my own room as usual — ^just myself, 
 without obvious change ; nothing had smitten 
 me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet, 
 where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday 1 where 
 was her life 1 w^here were her prospects 1 
 
 Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent expect- 
 ant woman — almost a bride — was a cold, sol- 
 itary girl again ; her life was pale ; her pros- 
 pects were desolate. A Christmas frost had 
 come at midsummer ; a white December storm 
 had whirled over June ; ice glazed the ripe 
 apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses ; on 
 hay-field and corn-field lay a frozen shroud : 
 lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, 
 to-day were pathless with untrodden snow ; 
 and the woods which twelve hours since waved 
 leafy and fragrant as groves between the tropics, 
 now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine- 
 forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all 
 dead — struck with a subtile doom, such as, in 
 one night, fell on all the first-born in the land 
 of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, 
 yesterday so blooming and glowing ; they lay 
 stark, chill, livid corpses that could never re- 
 vive. I looked at my love ; that feeling which 
 was my master's — which he had created ; it 
 shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a 
 cold cradle ; sickness and anguish had seized 
 it ; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms — it 
 could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, 
 never more could it turn to him ; for faith was 
 blighted — confidence destroyed ! Mr. Roches- 
 ter was not to me what he had been ; for he 
 was not what I had thought him. I would not 
 ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had 
 betrayed me : but the attribute of stainless 
 truth was gone from his idea ; and from his 
 presence I must go ; that I perceived well. 
 Wjjgjj — how — whither, I could not yet discern ; 
 but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me 
 from Thornficld. Real affection, it seemed, he 
 could not have for me ; it had been only fitful 
 passion ; that was balked ; he would want me 
 no more. I should fear even to cross his path 
 now : my view must be hateful to him. Oh, 
 how blind had been my eyes ! How weak my 
 conduct ! 
 
 My eyes were covered and closed ; eddying 
 darkness seemed to swim round me, and re- 
 flection came in as black and confu.sed a flow. 
 Self-abandoned, relaxed and effortless, I seem- 
 ed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of 
 a great river ; I heard a flood loosened in re- 
 mote mountains, I felt the torrent come ; to 
 rise I had no will, to flee I had no. strength. I 
 lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only 
 
TTf 
 
 JANE, irrRE. 
 
 still throbbed lifelike within me — a remem- 
 brance of God : it begot an unuttered prayer : 
 these words went wandering up and down in 
 my rayless mind, as something that should be 
 whispered : but no energy was found to ex- 
 press them : 
 
 " Be not far from me, for trouble is near ; 
 there is none to help." 
 
 It was near : and as I had lifted no petition 
 to Heaven to avert it — as I had neither joined 
 my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my 
 lips — it came ; in full, heavy swing, the torrent 
 poured over me. The whole consciousness of 
 my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, 
 my faith death-struck, swayed full and liiighty 
 above me in one sullen mass. That bitter 
 hour can not be described ; in truth, " the wa- 
 ters came into my soul ; I sunk in deep mire : 
 I felt no standing ; I came into deep waters ; 
 the floods overflowed me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Some time in the afternoon I raised my head, 
 and looking round and seeing the westering 
 sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, 
 I asked, " What am I to do I'i 
 
 But the answer my mind gave — "Leave 
 Thornfield at once" — was so prompt, so dread, 
 that I stopped my ears ; I said, I could not 
 bear such words now. '=That I am not Ed- 
 ward Rochester's bride is the least part of my 
 woe," I alleged ; " that I have wakened out of 
 most glorious dreams, and found them all void 
 and vain, is a horror I could bear and master ; 
 but that I must leave him decidedly, instantly, 
 entirely, is intolerable. I can not do it." 
 
 But, then, a force within me averred that I 
 could do it, and foretold that I should do it. I 
 wrestled with my own resolution ; I wanted to 
 be weak that I might avoid the awful passage 
 of further suffering I saw laid out for me ; and 
 conscience, turned tyrant, held passion by the 
 throat, told her, tauntingly, she had yet but 
 dipped her dainty foot in the slough, and swore 
 that with that arm of iron he would thrust 
 her down to unsounded depths of agony. 
 
 " Let me be torn away, then !" I cried. " Let 
 another help me !" 
 
 "No; you shall tear yourself away; none 
 shall help you ; you shall yourself pluck out 
 your right eye : yourself cut off your right 
 hand : your heart shall be the victim ; and you 
 the priest, to transfix it." 
 
 I rose up suddenly, terror-stricken at the sol- 
 itude which so ruthless a judge haunted — at 
 the silence which so awful a voice filled. My 
 head swam as I stood erect ; I perceived that 
 I was sickening from excitement and inanition ; 
 neither meat nor drink had passed my lips that 
 day, for I had taken no breakfast. And, with 
 a strange pang, I now reflected, that, long as I 
 had been shut up here, no message had been 
 sent to ask how I was, or to invite me to come 
 down : not even little Adole had tapped at the 
 door, nor even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me. 
 " Friends always forget those whom fortune 
 forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew the bolt 
 and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle : 
 my head was suii iiizzy, my sight was dim and 
 my limbs were feeble. I could not soon re- 
 
 cover myself ; I fell, but not on to the ground ; 
 an outstretched arm caught me ; I looked up — I 
 was supported by Mr. Rochester, who sat in a 
 chair across my chamber threshold. 
 
 " You come out at last," he said. " Well, I 
 have been waiting for you long, and listening ; 
 yet not one movement have I heard, nor one 
 sob : five minutes' more of that deathlike hush, 
 and I should have forced the lock like a burg- 
 lar. So, you shun me 1 — you shut yourself up 
 and grieve alone? I would rather you had 
 co;ne and upbraided me with vehemence. You 
 are passionate ; I expected a scene of some 
 kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears ; 
 only I wanted them to be shed on my breast : 
 now a senseless floor has received them, or 
 your drenched handkerchief. But I err ; you 
 have not wept at all ! I see a white cheek and 
 a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, 
 then, your heart has been weeping blood 1 
 
 "Well, Jane: not a word of reproach 1 
 Nothing bitter — nothing poignant 1 Nothing 
 to cut a feeling or sting a passion "? You sit 
 quietly where I have placed you, and regard me 
 with a weary, passive look. 
 
 " Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. 
 If the man who liad but one little ewe lamb 
 that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of 
 his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his 
 bosom, had by some mistake slaughtered it at 
 the shambles, he would not have rued his 
 bloody blunder more than I now rue mine 
 Will you ever forgive mel" 
 
 Reader ! — I forgave him at the moment, and 
 on the spot. There was such deep remorse in 
 his eye, such true pity in. his tone, such manly 
 energy in his manner ; and, besides, there was 
 such unchanged love in his whole look and 
 mien — I forgave him all : yet not in words, not 
 outwardly ; only at my heart's core. 
 
 "You know I am a scoundrel, Jane"!" ere 
 long he inquired wistfully — wondering, I sup- 
 pose, at my. continued silence and tameness ; 
 the result rather of weakness than of will. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then tell me so roundly and sharply — don't 
 .spare me." 
 
 " I can not : I am tired and sick. I want 
 some water." He heaved a sort of shuddering 
 sigh, and, taking me in his arms, carried me 
 down stairs. At first I did not know to what 
 room he had borne me ; all was cloudy to my 
 glazed sight ; presently I felt the reviving 
 warmth of a fire ; for, summer as it was, I had 
 become icy cold in my chamber. He put wine 
 to my lips ; I tasted it and revived ; then I ate 
 something he offered me, and was soon myself 
 I was in the library — sitting in his chair — he 
 was quite near. " If I could go out of life now, 
 without too sharp a pang, it would be well foi 
 me," I thought ; " then I should not have tt 
 make the effort of cracking my heart-strings in 
 rending them from among Mr. Rochester's. 1 
 must leave him, it appears. I do not want to 
 leave him — I can not leave him." 
 
 " How are you now, Jane?" 
 
 " Much better, sir ; I shall be well soon." 
 
 " Taste the wine again, Jane." 
 
 I obeyed him ; then he put the glass on the 
 table, stood before me, and looked at me atten- 
 tively. Suddenly he turned away, wiih an in- 
 articulate exclamation, full ol passionate emo- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 115 
 
 tion of some kind ; he walked fast through the 
 room and came back ; he stooped toward me as 
 if to kiss me ; but I remembered caresses were 
 now forbidden. I turned my face away, and 
 put his aside. 
 
 " What ! — How is this? " he exclaimed hast- 
 ily. " Oh, I know ! you won't kiss the hus- 
 band of Bertha Mason ' You consider my 
 arms filled, and my embraces appropriated V 
 >■ " At any rate, there is neither room nor claim 
 for me, sir." 
 
 " Why, Jane ? I will spare you the trouble 
 of much talking ; I will answer for you— be- 
 cause I have a wife already, you would reply. 
 I guess rightly 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " If you think so, you must have a strange 
 opinion of me ; you must regard me as a plot- 
 ting profligate — a base and low rake who has 
 been stimulating disinterested love in order to 
 draw you into a snare deliberately laid, and 
 strip you of honor, and rob you of self-respect. 
 What do you say to that? I see you can say 
 nothing; in the first place, you are faint, still, 
 and have enough to do to draw your breath ; in 
 the second place, you can not yet accustom your- 
 self to accuse and revile me ; and, besides, the 
 flood-gates of tears are opened, and they would 
 rush out if you spoke much ; and you have no 
 desire to expostulate, to upbraid, to make a 
 ' scene ; yon are thinking how to act — lalking, 
 you consider, is of no use. I know you — I am 
 on mygu,ard." 
 
 " Sir, I do not wish to act against you," I 
 said ; and my unsteady voice warned me to 
 curtail my sentence. 
 
 "Not in your sense of the word — but ia mine 
 you are scheming to destroy me. You have as 
 good as said that I am a married man — as a 
 married man you will shnn me,'keep out of my 
 way ; just now you have refused to kiss me. 
 You intend to make yourself a complete stran- 
 ger to me ; to live under this roof only as Ade- 
 le's governess ; if ever I say a friendly word to 
 you — if ever a friendly feeling inclines you 
 again to me, you will say — 'That man had 
 nearly made me his mistress ; I must be ice 
 and rock to him,' and ice and rock you will ac- 
 cordingly become." 
 
 I cleared and steadied my voice to reply, 
 " All is changed about me, sir ; I must change 
 too — there is no doubt of that ; and, to avoid 
 fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats 
 with recollections and associations, there is 
 only one way — Adele must have a new govern- 
 ess, sir." 
 
 " Oh, Adele will go to school — I have settled 
 that already ; nor do I mean to torment you 
 with the hideous associations and recollections 
 of Thornfield Hall — this accursed place — this 
 tentofAchan — this insolent vault offering the 
 ghaslliness of living deathto the light of theopen 
 sky— this narrovy stone hell, with its one real 
 fiend, worse than a legion of such as we imag- 
 ine. Jane, you shall not stay here, nor will I. 
 I was wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield 
 Hall, ktiowing as I did how it was haunted. I 
 charged them to conceal from you, befi)re I ever 
 saw you, all knowledge of the curse of the 
 place ; merely because I feared Adele never 
 would have a governess to stay if she knew 
 with what, inmate she was housed, and my 
 
 plans would not permit me to remove the ma- 
 niac elsewhere — though I possess an old house, 
 Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden 
 than this, where I could have lodged her safely 
 enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthi- 
 ness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, 
 made my conscience recoil from the arrange- 
 ment. Probably those damp walls would soon 
 have eased me of her charge ; but to each vil- 
 lain his own vice ; and mine is not a tendency to 
 indirect assassination, even of what I most hate. ' 
 
 " Concealing the madwoman's neighborhood ' 
 from you, however, was something like cover- i 
 ing a child with a cloak, and laying it down ; 
 near a upas-tree ; that demon's vicinage is ' 
 poisoned, and always was. But I'll shut up 
 Thornfield Hall ; I'll nail up the front door, and 
 board the lower-windows ; I'll give Mrs. Poole 
 two hundred a-year to live here with my wife, 
 as you term that fearful hag ; Grace will do 
 much for money, and she shall have her son, 
 the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to bear her 
 company and be at hand to give her aid in the 
 paroxysms, when my wife is prompted by her 
 familiar to burn people in their beds at night, 
 to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, 
 and so on — " 
 
 " Sir," I interrupted him, " you are inexera- 
 ble fur that unfortunate lady ; you speak of her 
 with hate — with vindictive antipathy. It is 
 cruel — she can not help being mad." 
 
 "Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, 
 for so you are), you don't know what you are 
 talking about ; you misjudge me again ; it is not 
 because she is mad I hate her. If you were 
 mad do you think I should hate youl" 
 
 "I do, indeed, sir." 
 
 " Then you are mistaken, and you know 
 nothing about me, and nothing about the sort 
 of love of which I am capable. Every atom of 
 your flesh is as dear to me as my own ; in pain 
 and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind 
 is my treasure, and if it were broken it would 
 be my treasure still ; if you raved, my arras 
 should confine you, and not a straight waist- 
 coat. Your grasp, even in fury, would have a 
 charm for me ; if you flew at me as wildly as 
 that woman did this morning, I should receive 
 you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would 
 be restrictive ; I should not shrink from yoa 
 with disgust as I did from her. In your quiet 
 moments you should have no watcher and no 
 nurse but me ; and I could hang over you with 
 untiring tenderness, though you gave me no 
 smile in return ; and never weary of gazing 
 into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray 
 of recognition for me. But why do I follow 
 that train of ideas 1 I was talking of remov- 
 ing you from Thornfield. All, you know, is 
 prepared for prompt departure ; to-morrow you , 
 shall go. I only ask you to endure one more 
 night under this roof, Jane ; and then, farewell 
 to Its miseries and terrors forever ! I have a 
 place to repair to which will be a secure sanc- 
 tuary from hateful reminiscences, from un- 
 welcome intrusion — even from falsehood and 
 slander." 
 
 "And take Adele with you, sir," I inter- 
 rupted ; " she will be a companion for you." 
 
 "What do you mean, Jane? I told you I 
 would send Adele to school. And what do 
 I want with' a chdd for a companion — and not 
 
116 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 my own child — a French dancer's bastard. ! 
 Why do you importune me about her 1 I say, | 
 why do you assign Adele to me for a com- 1 
 panion V 
 
 •' You spoke of a retirement, sir ; and 
 retirement and solitude are dull — too dull for 
 you." 
 
 "Solitude! solitude!'' he reiterated, with 
 irritation. " I see I must come to an explana- 
 tion. I don't know what sphinx-like expres- 
 sion is forming in your countenance. You 
 are to share my solitude. Do you under- 
 stand 1" 
 
 I shook my head. It required a degree of 
 courage, excited as he was becoming, even to 
 risk that mute sign of dissent. He had been 
 walking fast about the room, and he stopped, 
 as if suddenly rooted to one spot. He looked 
 at me long and hard. I turned my eyes 
 from him, fixed them on the fire, and tried 
 to assume and maintain a quiet, collected as- 
 pect. 
 
 " Now for the hitch in Jane's character," he 
 said, at last, speaking more calmly than, from 
 his look, I had expected him to speak. " The 
 reel of silk has run smoothly enough so far ; 
 but I always knew there would come a knot 
 and a puzzle — here it is. Now for vexation, 
 and exasperation, and endless trouble ! By 
 God ! I long to exert a fraction of Samson's 
 strength, and break the entanglement like 
 tow !" 
 
 He vecommenccd his walk, but soon again 
 stopped, and tliis time just before me. 
 
 " Jane ! will you hear reason 1 (he stooped 
 and approached his lips to my ear) because, 
 if you won't, I'll try violence." His voice was 
 hoarse ; his look that of a man who is just 
 about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge 
 headlong into wild license. I saw that in 
 another moment, and with one impetus of 
 frenzy more, I should bo able to do nothing 
 with him. The present — the passing second 
 ef time — was all I had in v/hich to control and 
 restrain him. A movement of repulsion, flight, 
 fear, would have sealed my doom — and his. 
 But I was not afraid — not in the least. I 
 felt an inward power — a sense of influence — 
 which supported me. The crisis was perilous,' 
 but not without its charm — such as the Indian, 
 perhapj, feels, when he slips over the rapid in 
 his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand, 
 loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him, 
 soothingly : 
 
 " Sit down ; I'll talk to you as long as you 
 like, and hear all you have to say, whether 
 reasonable or unreasonable." 
 
 He sat down ; but he did not get leave to 
 speak directly. I had been struggling with 
 tears for some time. 1 had taken great pains 
 to repress them, because I knew he would not 
 like to see me weep. Now, however, I con- 
 sidered it well to let them flow as freely and 
 as long as they liked. If the flood annoyed 
 him, so much the better. So I gave way, and 
 cried heartily. • 
 
 Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to 
 be composed. I said I could not while he was 
 in such a passion. 
 
 " But 1 am not angry, Jane ; I only love 
 you too well. And you luid steeled your lit- 
 tle pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, 
 
 I could not endure it. Hush, now, and wipe 
 your eyes." 
 
 His softened voice announced that he was 
 subdued ; so I, in my turn, became calm. Now 
 he made an effort to rest his head on my shoul- 
 der ; but I would not permit it : then he would 
 draw rae to him ; no. 
 
 " Jane ! Jane !" he said, in such an accent 
 of bitter sadness, it thrilled along every nerve 
 I had, " you don't love me, then 1 It was 
 only my station, and the rank of my wife, 
 that you valued 1 Now that you think me 
 disquahfied to become your husband, you re- 
 coil from my touch as if I were some toad or 
 ape." 
 
 These words cut me ; yet what could I do 
 or say 1 I ought, probably, to have done or 
 said nothing ; but I was so tortured by a sense 
 of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, I could 
 not control the wish to drop balm where I had 
 wounded. 
 
 " I do love you," I said, " more than ever ; 
 but I must not show or indulge the feeling ; and 
 this is the last time I must express it." 
 
 " The last time, Jane 1 What ! do you 
 think you can live with me, and see me daily, 
 and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and 
 distant 1" 
 
 " No, sir, that I am certain I could not ; and 
 therefore I see there is but one way — but you 
 will be furious if I mention it." 
 
 " Oh, mention it ! if I storm, you have the 
 art of weeping." 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, I must leave you." 
 
 " For how long, Jane 1 For a few minutes, 
 while you smooth your hair, which is some- 
 what disheveled, and bathe your face, which 
 looks feverish 1" 
 
 " I must leave Adele and Thornfield ; I must 
 part with you for my whole life ; I must begin 
 a new existence among strange faces and 
 strange scenes." 
 
 " 01 course ; I told you you should. I pass 
 over the madness about parting from rae. 
 You mean you must become a part of me. 
 As to the new existence, it is all right ; you 
 shall yet be my wife — I ani noi married. 'You 
 shall be Mrs. Rochester, both virtually and 
 nominally. I shall keep only to yon so long 
 as you and 1 live. You shall go to a place I 
 have in the south of France — a white-walled 
 villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. 
 There you shall live a happy, and guarded, and 
 most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to 
 lure you into error — to make you my mistress. 
 Why do you shake your head 1 Jane, you must 
 be reasonable, or, in truth, I shall again become 
 frantic." 
 
 His voice and hand quivered ; his large nos- 
 trils dilated ; his eye blazed ; still, 1 dared to 
 speak : 
 
 "Sir, your wife is living ; that is a fact ac- 
 knowledged this morning by yourself: if 1 
 lived with you as you desire, f should then be 
 your mistress ; to say otherwise is sophistical — 
 is false." 
 
 "Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man — you 
 forget that ; I am not long-enduring ; I am not 
 coo! and dispassionate. Out of pity to rae and 
 yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how 
 it throbs, and — beware !" 
 
 He bared his wrist, and offered it to me. 
 
JAJNE EYRE. 
 
 117 
 
 The blood was forsaking his cheek and lips ; 
 .hey were growing livid ; I was distressed on 
 all hands. To agitate him thus deeply, by a 
 resistance he so abhorred, was cruel ; to yield, 
 ■was out of the question. I did what human 
 beings do instinctively when they are driven to 
 utter extremity — looked for aid to one higher 
 than man ; the words " God help me !" burst 
 involuntarily from my lips. 
 
 *♦! am a fool!" cried Mr. Rochester, sud- 
 denly. "I keep telling her I am not married, 
 and do not explain to her why. I forget she 
 knows nothing of the character 'of that wom- 
 an, or of the circumstances attending my in- 
 fernal union with her. Oh, I am certain Jane 
 will agree with me in opinion, when she 
 knows all that I know ! Just put your hand 
 in mine, Janet — that I may have the evidence 
 of touch, as well as sight, to prove you are 
 near me — and I will, in a few words, show 
 you the real state of the case. Can you listen 
 tomel" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; for hours, if you will." , 
 
 " I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever 
 hear, or know, that I was not the eldest son 
 of my house — that I had once a brother older 
 than I ?" 
 
 "I remember Mrs. Fairfax told me so 
 once." 
 
 "And did you ever hear that my father was 
 an avaricious, grasping man 1" 
 
 "I have understood something to that ef- 
 fect." 
 
 " Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution 
 to keep the property together. He could not 
 bear the idea of dividing his estate and leaving 
 me a fair portion ; all, he resolved, should go 
 to my brother, Russell. Yet, as little could he 
 endure that a son of his should be a poor man. 
 I must be provided for by a wealthy marriage. 
 He sought me a partner betimes. Mr. Mason; 
 a West India planter and merchant, was his 
 old acquaintance. He was certain bis posses- 
 sions were real and vast ; he made inquiries. 
 Mr. Mason, he found, had a son and daughter ; 
 and he learned from him that he could and 
 would give the latter a fortune of thirty thou- 
 sand pounds ; that sufficed. When I left col- 
 lege, I was sent oijit to Jamaica, to espouse a 
 bride already courted for me. My father said 
 nothing abput her money, but he told me Miss 
 Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her 
 beauty, and this was no lie. I found her a fine 
 woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram, tall, 
 dark, and majestic. Her fathily wished to se- 
 cure me, because I was of a good race ; and so 
 did she. They showed her to me in parties, 
 splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, 
 and had veiy little private conversation with 
 her. She flattered me, and lavishly displayed 
 for my pleasure her charms and accomplish- 
 ments. All the men in her circle seemed to 
 admire her and envy me. I was dazzled — 
 stimulated ; my senses were excited ; and 
 being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I 
 thought I loved her. There is no folly so be- 
 sotted, that the idiotic rivalries of society, the 
 prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth 
 will not hurry a man to its commission. Her 
 relatives encouraged mp ; competitors piqued 
 me ; she allured me ; a marriage was achieved 
 almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I hqve 
 
 no respect for myself when I think of that act I 
 An agony of inward contempt masters me. I 
 never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even 
 know her. I was not sure of the existence of 
 one virtue in her nature. I had marked neither 
 modesty, nor benevolence, nor candor, nor re- 
 finement in her mind or manners ; and I mar- 
 ried her — gross, groveling, mole-eyed block- 
 head that I was! With less sin I might 
 have — but let me remember to whom I am 
 speaking. 
 
 " My bride's mother I had never seen ; I un- 
 derstood she was dead. The honey-moon over, 
 I learned my mistake ; she was only mad ; and 
 shut up in a lunatic asylum. There was a 
 younger brother, too ; a complete dumb idiot. 
 The elder one, whom you have seen (and whom 
 I can not hate, while I abhor all his kindred, 
 because he has some grains of affection in his 
 feeble mind, shown in the continued interest 
 he takes in his wretched sister, and also in a 
 doglike attachment he once bore me), will 
 probably be in the same state one day. My fa- 
 ther, and my brother Russell knew all this ; 
 but they thought only of the thirty thousand 
 pounds, and joined in the plot against me. 
 
 " These were vile discoveries ; but, except 
 for the treachery of concealment, I should have 
 made them no subject of reproach to my wife ; 
 even when I found her nature wholly alien to 
 mine ; her tastes obnoxious to me ; her cast of 
 mind common, low, narrow, and singularly in- 
 capable of being led to any thing higher, ex- 
 panded to any thing larger — when I found that 
 I could not pass a single evening, nor even a 
 single hour of the day with her in comfort ; 
 that kindly conversation could not be sustained 
 between us, because, whatever topic I started, 
 immediately received from her a turn at once 
 coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile — when 
 I perceived that I should never have a quiet or 
 settled household, because no servant would 
 bear the continued outbreaks of her violent and 
 unreasonable temper, or the vexations of her 
 absurd, contradictory, exacting orders — even 
 then I restrained myself: I eschewed upbraid- 
 ing, I curtailed remonstrance ; I tried to devour 
 my repentance and disgust in secret ; I repress- 
 ed the deep antipathy I felt. 
 
 " Jane, I will not trouble you with abomina 
 ble details ; some strong words shall express 
 what I have to say. I lived with that woman 
 up stairs four years, and before that time she 
 had tried rre indeed ; her character ripened and 
 developed with frightful rapidity ; lier vices 
 sprung-up fast and rank ; they were so strong, 
 only cruelty could check them ; and I would 
 not use cruelty. What a pigmy intellect she 
 had, and what giant propensities ! How fear- 
 ful were the curses those propensities entailed 
 on me ! Bertha Mason, the true daughter of 
 an infamous mother, dragged me through all 
 the hideous and degrading agonies which must 
 attend a man bound to a wife at once intem- 
 perate and unojiaste. 
 
 " My brother in the interval was dead ; and 
 at the end of the four years my father died too. 
 I was rich enough now, yet poor to hideous in- 
 digence ; a nature the most gross, impure, de- 
 praved 1 ever saw, was associated with mine, 
 and called by the law and by society a part of 
 me. And I could not rid myself of it by any 
 
118 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 legal proceedings ; for the doctors now discov- 
 ered that my wife was mad — her excesses had 
 prematurely developed the germs of insanity. 
 Jane, you don't like my narrative ; you look al- 
 most sick — shall I defer the rest to another 
 dayr* 
 
 " No, sir ; finish it now ; I pity you — I do 
 earnestly pity you." 
 
 " Pity, Jane, from some people, is a noxious 
 and insulting sort of tribute, which one is justi- 
 fied in hurling back in the teeth of those who 
 offer it ; but that is the sort of pity native to 
 callous, selfish hearts ; it is a hybrid, egotistical 
 pain at hearing of woes, crossed with ignorant 
 contempt for those who have endured them. 
 But that is not your pity, Jane ; it is not the 
 feeling of which your whole face is full at this 
 moment, with which your eyes are now almost 
 overflowing — with which your heart is heaving 
 — with which your hand is trembling in mine. 
 Your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother 
 of love ; its anguish is the very natal pang of 
 the divine passion. I accept it, Jane ; let the 
 daughter have free advent — my arms wait to 
 leceive her." 
 
 " Now, sir, proceed : what did you do when 
 you found she was madi" 
 
 " Jane — I approached the verge of despair ; a 
 remnant of self-respect was all that intervened 
 between me and the gulf In the eyes of the 
 world I was doubtless covered- with' grimy dis- 
 honor ; but I resolved to be clean in my own 
 sight, and to the last I repudiated the contami- 
 nation of her crimes, and wrenched myself from 
 connection with her mental defects. Still, so- 
 ciety associated my name and person with hers ; 
 I yet saw her and heard her daily ; something 
 of her breath (faugh!) mixed with the air I 
 breathed; and, besides, I remembered I had 
 once been her husband — that recollection was 
 then, and it is now, inexpressibly odious to me ; 
 moreover, I knew that while she lived I could 
 never be the husband of aflother and better 
 wife ; and, though five years my senior (her 
 family and my father had lied to me even in 
 the particular of her age), she was likely to live 
 as long as I, being as robust in frame as she 
 was infirm in mind. Thus, at the age of twen- 
 ty-six, I was hopeless. 
 
 " One night I had been awakened by her yells 
 — (since the medical men had pronounced her 
 mad, she had, of course, been shut up) — it was 
 a fiery West-Indian night ; one of the descrip- 
 tion that frequently precede the hurricanes of 
 those climates ; being unable to sleep in bed, 
 I got up and opened the window. The air was 
 like sulphur-steams — I could find no refresh- 
 ment any where. Mosquitoes came buzzing in 
 and hummed sullenly round the room ; the sea, 
 •which I could hear from thence, rumbled dull 
 like an earthquake — black clouds were casting 
 up over it ; the moon was setting in the waves, 
 broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball — she threw 
 her last bloody glance over a world quivering 
 with the ferment of tempest. I was physically 
 influenced by the atmosphere 'and scene, and 
 my ears were filled with the curses the maniac 
 still shrieked out ; wherein she momentarily 
 mingled my name with such a tone of demon- 
 hate, with such language ! no professed harlot 
 ever had a fouler vocabulary than she ; though 
 two rooms otf, I heard every word— the thin 
 
 partitions of the West-India house opposing but 
 slight obstruction to her wolfish cries. 
 
 '"This life,' said I, at last, 'is hell! this is 
 the air — those are the sounds of the bottomless 
 pit ! I have a right to deliver myself from it 
 if I can. The sufferings of this mortal state 
 will leave me with the heavy flesh that now 
 cumbers my soul- Of the fanatic's burning 
 eternity I have no fear , there is not a future 
 state worse than this present one — let me bteak 
 away, and go home to God !' 
 
 " I said this while I knelt down at and un- 
 locked a trunk which contained a brace of load- 
 ed pistols • I meant to shoot myself I only 
 entertained the intention for a moment ; for, 
 not being insane, the crisis of exquisite and 
 unalloyed despair which had originated ti. 
 wish and design of self-destruction was p^.; 
 in a second. 
 
 " A wind fresh from Europe blew over the 
 ocean and rushed through the open casement ; 
 the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, 
 and the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed 
 a'resolution. While I walked under the drip- 
 ping orange-trees of my wet garden, and among 
 its drenched pomegranates and pine-apples, and 
 while the refulgent dawn of the tropics kindled 
 round me — I reasoned thus, Jane : and now lis- 
 ten ; for it was true wisdom that consoled me 
 in that hour, and showed me the right path to 
 follow. 
 
 "The sweet wind frc«n Europe was still 
 whispering in the refreshed leaves, and the At- 
 lantic was thundering in glorious liberty ; my 
 heart, dried up and scorched for a long time, 
 swelled to the tone, and filled with living blood 
 — my being longed for renewal — my soul thirst- 
 ed for a pure draught. I saw Hope revive, and 
 felt regeneration possible. From a flowery arch 
 at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the 
 sea, bluer than the sky ; the old world was be- 
 yond ; clear prospects opened, thus : 
 
 " ' Go,' said Hope, ' and live again in Europe ; 
 there it is not known what a sullied name you 
 bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to you. 
 You may take the maniac with you to England ; 
 confine her with due attendance and precau- 
 tions at Thornfield ; then travel yourself to 
 what clime you will, and form what new tie 
 you like. That woman, who has so abused 
 your long-suffering, so sullied your name, so 
 outraged your honor, 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 connec- 
 tion with yourself, be buried in oblivion ; you 
 are bound to impart them to no living being. 
 Place her in safety and comfort ; shelter her 
 degradation with secrecy, and leave her.' 
 
 " I acted precisely on this suggestion. My 
 father and brother had not made my marriage 
 known to their acquaintance ; because, in the 
 very first letter I wrote to apprise them of the 
 union — having already begun to experience ex- 
 treme disgust of its consequences; and fiom 
 the family character and constitution, seeing a 
 hideous future opening to me— I added an ur- 
 gent charge to keep it secret : and very soon, 
 the infamous conduct of the wife my father had 
 selected for me was such as to make him blusk 
 to own her as his daughter-in-law. Far from 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 119 
 
 desiring to publish tiie connection, lie became 
 as anxious to conceal it as myself. 
 
 "To England, then, I conveyed her; a fear- 
 ful voyage I had with such a monster in the ves- 
 sel. Glad was I when I at last got her to 
 Thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in that 
 third story room, of whose secret inner cabi- 
 net she has now for ten years made a wild 
 beast's den — a goblin's cell. I had some trouble 
 in finding an attendant for her, as it was ne- 
 cessary to select one on whose fidelity depend- 
 ence could be placed ; for her ravings would 
 inevitably betray my secret : besides, she had 
 lucid intervals of days — sometimes weeks — 
 which she filled up with abuse of me. At last 
 I hired Grace Poole, from the Grirnsby Retreat. 
 She and the surgeon. Carter (who dressed Ma- 
 so,n's wounds that night he was stabbed and 
 worried), are the only two I have ever admit- 
 ted to my confidence. Mrs. Fairfax may, in- 
 deed, have suspected something ; but she could 
 have gained no precise knowledge as to facts. 
 Grace has, on the whole, proved a good keep- 
 er : though, owing partly to a fault of her own, 
 of which it appears nothing can cure her, and 
 which is incident to her harassing profession, 
 her vigilance has been more than once lulled 
 and battled. The lunatic is both cunning and 
 malignant ; she has never failed to take advan- 
 tage of her guardian's temporary lapses : once 
 to secrete the knife, with .which she stabbed 
 her brother, and twice to possess herself of the 
 key of her cell, and issue therefrom in the 
 night-time. On the first of these occasions, 
 she perpetrated the attempt to burn me in my 
 bed ; on the second she paid that ghastly visit 
 to you. I thank Providence, who watched over 
 you, that she then spent her fury on your wed- 
 ding apparel, which perhaps brought back vague 
 reminiscences of her own bridal days ; but on 
 what might have happened I can not endure to 
 reflect. When I think of the thing which flew 
 at my throat this morning, hanging its black 
 and scarlet visage over the nest of my dove, 
 my blood curdles — " 
 
 " And what, sir," I asked, while he paused, 
 " did you do when you had settled her here 1 
 "Where did you goT' 
 
 "What did I do, Jane1 I transformed my- 
 -^•^^'"into a Will-o'-the-Wisp. Where did I go 1 
 
 i.arsued wanderings as wild as those of the 
 jNlarch-spirit., I sought the Continent, and 
 went devious through all its lands. My fixed 
 desire was to seek and find a good and intelli- 
 gent woman, whom I could love ; a contrast to 
 the fury I left at Thornfield—" 
 
 " But you could not marry, sir." 
 
 " I had determined and was convinced that 
 I could and ought. It was not my original in- 
 tention to deceive, as I have deceived, you. I 
 meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my 
 proposals openly ; and it appeared to nie so ab- 
 solutely rational that I should be considered 
 ireeto love and be loved, I never doubted some 
 woman might be found willing and able to un- 
 derstand my case and accept me, in spite of 
 the curse with which I was burdened." 
 
 "Well, sir 1" 
 
 " When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always 
 make me smile. You open your eyes like an 
 eager bird, and make every now and then a 
 restless movement ; as if answers in speech 
 
 did not flow fast enough for you, and you want- 
 ed to read the tablet of one's heart. But be- 
 fore I go on, tell me what you mean by your 
 ' Well, sir V It is a small phrase very frequent 
 with you ; and which many a time has drawn 
 me on and on through interminable talk ; I 
 don't very well know why." 
 
 " I mean, what next *! How did you pro- 
 ceed 1 What came of such an event V" 
 
 " Precisely ; and what do you wish to know 
 now!" 
 
 " Whether you found any one you liked ; 
 whether you asked her to marry you ; and what 
 she said." 
 
 " I can tell you whether I found ^ny one I 
 liked, and whether I asked her to marry me ; 
 but what she said is yet to be recorded in the 
 book of Fate. For ten long years I roved 
 about, living first in one capital, then another ; 
 sometimes in St. Petersburg ; oftener in Paris ; 
 occasionally in Rome, Naples, and Florence. 
 Provided with plenty of money, and the pass- 
 port of an old name, I could choose my own 
 society ; no circles were closed against me. I 
 sought my ideal of a woman among English 
 ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras,. 
 and German Grafinnen. I could not find her. 
 Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I thought 1 
 caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a form, 
 which announced the realization of my dream ; 
 but I was presently undeceived. You are not 
 to suppose that I desired perfection, either of 
 mind or person. I longed only for what suited 
 me — for the antipodes of the Creole ; and I 
 longed vainly. Among them all I found not 
 one, whom, had I been ever so free, I — warned 
 as I was of the risks, the horrors, the lothings 
 of incongruous unions — would have asked to 
 marry me. Disappointment made me reck- 
 less. I tried dissipation — never debauchery ; 
 that I hated, and hate. That was my Indian 
 Messalina's attribute ; rooted disgust at it and 
 her restrained me much, even in pleasure. 
 Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to 
 approach me to her and her vices, and I es- 
 chewed it. 
 
 " Yet I could not live alone ; so I tried the 
 companionship of mistresses. The first I chose 
 was Celine Varens — another of those steps 
 which make a man spurn himself when he recalls 
 them. You already know what she was, and 
 how my liaison with her terminated. She had 
 two successors : an Italian, Giacinta, and a 
 German, Clara ; both considered singularly 
 handsome. What was their beauty to me in 
 a few weeks'! Giacinta was unprincipled and 
 violent ; I tired of her in three months. Clara 
 was honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, un- 
 impressible ; not one whit to my taste. I was 
 glad to give her a sufficient sum to set her up 
 in a good hue of business, and so get decently 
 rid of her. But, Jane, I see by yoirr face you 
 are not forming a very favorable opinion of me 
 just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose- 
 principled rake ; don't youT" 
 
 " 1 don't like you so well as I have done 
 sometimes, indeed, sir. Did it not seem to 
 you in the least wrong to live in that way ; 
 first with one mistress and then another? 
 You talk of it as a mere matter of course." 
 
 " It was with me ; and I did not like it. It 
 was a groveling fashion of existence ; I should 
 
120 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 never wish to return to it. Hiring a mistress 
 is the next worst thing to buying a slave ; both 
 are often by nature, and always by position, in- 
 ferior ; and to live familiarly with inferiors is 
 degrading. I now hate the recollection of the 
 time I passed with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara." 
 
 I felt the truth of these words ; and I drew 
 from them the certain inference, that if I were 
 so far to forget myself and all the teaching that 
 had ever been instilled into me, as — under any 
 pretext — with any justification — through any 
 temptation — to become the successor of these 
 poor girls, he would one day regard me with 
 the same feeling which now in his mind dese- 
 crated their memory. I did not give utterance 
 to this conviction ; it was enough to feel it. I 
 impressed it on my heart, that it might remain 
 there to serve me as aid in the time of trial. 
 
 " Now, Jane, why dont't you say ' Well, 
 sir V I have not done. You are looking grave. 
 You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me 
 come to the point. Last January, rid of all mis- 
 tresses^n a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the 
 result of a useless, roving, lonely life — cor- 
 roded with disappointment, sourly disposed 
 against all men, and especially against all 
 womankind (for I began to regard the notion of 
 an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere 
 dream), recalled by business, I came back to 
 England. 
 
 "On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in 
 sight of Thornfield Hall. Abhorred spot ! I ex- 
 pected no peace — no pleasure there. On a 
 stile in Hay-lane I saw a quiet little figure sit- 
 ting by Itself I passed it as negligently as I 
 did the pollard willow opposite to it ; I had no 
 presentiment of what it would be to me ; no 
 inward warning that the arbitress of my life — 
 my genius for good or evil — waited there in 
 humble guise. I did not know it, even when, 
 on the occasion of Mesrour's accident, it came 
 up and gravely offered me help. Childish and 
 slender creature ! It seemed as if a linnet had 
 hopped to my foot and proposed to bear me on 
 its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing 
 would not go ; it stood by me with strange per- 
 severance, and looked and spoke with assort of 
 authority. I must bo aided, and by that hand ; 
 and aided I was. 
 
 " When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, 
 something new — a fresh sap and sense— stole 
 into my frame. It was well I had learned that 
 this elf must return to me — that it. belonged to 
 my house down below — or I could not have 
 felt it pass away from under my hand, and 
 seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, without 
 singular regret. I heard you come home that 
 night, Jane ; though probably you were not 
 <»ware that I thought of you, or watched for 
 you. The next day I observed you — myself 
 unseen — for half an hour, while you played 
 with Adele in the gal|ery. It was a snowy 
 day, I recollect, and you could not go out of 
 doors. I was in my room ; the door was ajar ; 
 I could both listen and watch. Adele claimed 
 your outward attention for awhile ; yet I fan- 
 cied your thoughts were elsewhere ; but you 
 were very patient with her, my little Jane ; 
 you talked lo her and amused her a long time. 
 When at last she loft you, you lapsed at once 
 into deep revery , you betook yourself slowly 
 10 pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing 
 
 a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling 
 snow ; you listened to the sobbing wind, and 
 again you paced gently on, and dreamed. I 
 think those day-visions were not dark ; there 
 was a pleasurable illumination in your eye oc- 
 casionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, 
 which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac 
 brooding ; your look revealed rather the sweet 
 musings of youth, when its spirit follows on 
 willing wings the flight of Hope, up and on to 
 an ideal heaven. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, 
 speaking to a servant in the hall, wakened you ; 
 and how curiously you smiled to and at your- 
 self, Janet '. There was much sense in your 
 smile ; it was very shrewd, and seemed to 
 make light of your own abstraction. It seemed 
 to say — ' My fine visions are all very well, but 
 I must not forget they are absolutely unreal.. I 
 have a rosy sky, and a green flowery Eden iu 
 my brain ; but without, I am perfectly aware, 
 lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and 
 around me gather black tempests to encounter.' 
 You ran down stairs and demanded of Mrs. 
 Fairfax some occupation ; the weekly house- 
 accounts to make up, or something of that 
 sort, I think it was. I was vexed with you for 
 getting out of my sight. 
 
 •'Impatiently I waited for evening, when I 
 might summon you to my presence. An un- 
 usual — to me — a perfectly new character I 
 suspected was yours ; I desired to search it 
 deeper, and know it better. You entered the 
 room with a look and air at once shy and in- 
 dependent ; you were quaintly dressed — much 
 as you are now. I made you talk ; ere long I 
 found you full of strange contrasts. Your 
 garb and manner were restricted by rule ; 
 your air was often diffident, and altogether that 
 of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused 
 to society, and a good deal afraid of making 
 herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some 
 solecism or blunder ; yet, when addressed, you 
 lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to 
 your interlocutor's face ; there was pene- 
 tration and power in each glance you gave; 
 when plied by close questions, you found ready 
 and round answers. Very soon you seemed 
 to get use to me— I believe you felt the ex- 
 istence of sympathy between you and your 
 grim and cross master, Jane ; for it was as- 
 tonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant 
 ease tranquilized your manner ; snarl as I 
 would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoy- 
 ance, or displeasure at my moroseness ; you 
 watched me, and now and then smiled at me 
 with a simple yet sagacious grace I can not 
 describe. I was at once content and stimu- 
 lated with what I saw ; I liked what I had 
 seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long 
 time, I treated you distantly, and sought your 
 company rarely. I was an intellectual epicure, 
 and wished to prolong the gratification of 
 making this novel and piquant acquaintance ; 
 besides, I was for a while troubled with a 
 haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely 
 its bloom would fade — the sweet charm of 
 freshness would leave it. I did not then know 
 that it was no transitory blossom, but rather 
 the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an in- 
 destructible gem. Moreover, I wished to see 
 whether you would seek me if I shunned you — 
 but you did not ; you kept in the school-roon» 
 
3AT9E EYRE. 
 
 121 
 
 as still as your own desk and easel : if by 
 chance I met yon, you passed me as soon, and 
 with as little token of recognition as was con- 
 sistent with respect. Your habitual expres- 
 sion in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful 
 look ; not despondent, for you were not sickly ; 
 but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no 
 actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought 
 of me — or if you ever thought of me ; to find 
 ttiis out, I resumed my notice of you. There 
 was something glad in your glance, and genial 
 in your manner, when you conversed ; I saw 
 you had a social heart ; it was the silent 
 school-room — it was the tedium of your life 
 that made you mournful. I permitted myself 
 the delight of being kind to you ; kindness 
 stirred emotion soon ; your face became soft 
 in expression, your tones gentle : I liked my 
 name pronounced by your lips in a grateful, 
 happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meet- 
 ing with you, Jane, at this time ; there was a 
 curious hesitation in your manner ; you glanced 
 at me with a slight trouble — a hovei-ing doubt ; 
 you did not know what my caprice might be — 
 whether I was going to play the master, and be 
 stern — or the friend, and be benignant. I was 
 now too fond of you often to simulate tlie first 
 whim; and, when I stretched my hand out 
 cordially, such bloom, and light, and bliss rose 
 to your young, wistful features, I had much 
 ado often to avoid straining you then and there 
 to my heart." 
 
 " Don't talk any more of those days, sir," I 
 interrupted, furtively dashing away some tears 
 from my eyes : his language was torture to 
 me ; for I knew what I must do — and do soon 
 — and all these reminiscences, and these reve- 
 lations of his feelings, only made my work 
 more difBcult. 
 
 " No, Jane," he returned ; " what necessity 
 is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present 
 is so much surer — the Future so much 
 brighter V 
 
 I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion. 
 
 " You see now how the case stands — ^do you 
 noti" he continued. "After a youth and 
 manhood, passed half in unutterable misery 
 and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first 
 time found what I can truly love — I have found 
 you. You are my sympathy — my better self — 
 my good angel — I am bound to you with a 
 strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, 
 lovely ; a fervent, a solemn passion is con- 
 ceived in my heart ; it leans to you, draws 
 you to my center and spring of life, wraps my 
 existence about you — and, kindling in pure, 
 powerful flame, fuses you and me in one. 
 
 " It was because I felt and knew this, that I 
 resolved to marry you. To tell me that I had 
 already a wife is empty mockery ; you know 
 now that I had but a hideous demon. I was 
 wrong to attempt to deceive you ; but I feared 
 a stubbornness that exists in your character. 
 I feared early instilled prejudice ; I wanted to 
 have you safe before hazarding confidences. 
 This was cowardly ; I should have appealed to 
 your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I 
 do now — opened to you plainly my life of 
 agony — described to you my hunger and thirst 
 after a higher and worthier existence — shown 
 to you, not my resolution (that word is weak) 
 but my resistless hent to love faithfully and 
 
 well, where I am faithfully and well loved in 
 return. Then I should have asked you to 
 accept my pledge of fidelity, and to give me 
 yours ; Jane — give it me now." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Why are you silent, Jane V 
 
 I was experiencing an ordeal ; a hand of 
 fiery iron grasped my vitals. Terrible moment ; 
 full of struggle, blackness, burning ! Not a 
 human being that ever lived could wish to be 
 loved better than I was loved ; and him who 
 thus loved me I absolutely worshiped : and I 
 must renounce love and idol. One drear word 
 comprised my intolerable duty — " Depart !" 
 
 " Jane, you understand what I want of you 1 
 Just this promise — ' I will be yours, Mr. Roch- 
 ester.' " 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, I will not be yours." 
 
 Another long silence. 
 
 " Jane !" recommenced he, with a gentleness 
 that broke me down with grief, and turned me 
 stone-cold with ominous terror — for this still 
 voice was the pant of a lion rising — " Jane, do 
 you mean to go one way in the world, and to 
 let me go another 1" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " Jane (bending tovv'ard and embracing me), 
 do you mean it nowl" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " And now V" softly kissing my forehead and 
 cheek. ' 
 
 " I do — " extricating myself from restraint 
 rapidly and completely. 
 
 " Oh, Jane, this is bitter ! This — this is 
 wicked. It would not be wicked to love me." 
 
 " It would to obey you." 
 
 A wild look raised his brows — crossed his 
 features : he rose, but he forbore yet. I laid 
 my hand on the back of a chair for support ; I 
 shook, I feared — but I resolved. 
 
 " One instant, Jane. Give one glance to 
 my horrible life when you are gone. All 
 happiness will be torn away with you. What 
 then is left 1 For a wife I have but the 
 maniac up stairs ; as well might you refer me 
 to some corpse in yonder church-yard. What 
 shall I do, Jane 1 Where turn for a com- 
 panion, and for some hopel" 
 
 " Do as I do ; trust in God and yourself. 
 Believe in Heaven. Hope to meet again there." 
 
 " Then you will not yield 1" 
 
 " No." 
 
 '* Then you condemn me to live wretched, 
 and to die "accursed T' His voice rose. 
 
 " I advise you to live sinless ; and I wish 
 you to die tranquil." 
 
 " Then you snatch love and innocence from 
 me ? You fling me back on lust for a passion 
 — vice for an occupation V 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate 
 to you than I grasp at it for myself We were 
 born to strive and endure — ^you as well as I ; 
 do so. You will forget me before I forget 
 you." 
 
 " You make me a liar by such language ; 
 you sully my honor. I declared I could not 
 change ; you tell me to my face I shall change 
 soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, 
 what a perversity in your ideas, is proved by 
 your conduct ! Is it better to drive a fellow- 
 creature to despair than to transgress a mere 
 human law — no man being, injured by the 
 
122 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 breach? for you have neither relatives nor 
 acquaintances vi'hom you need fear to offend 
 by living with me." 
 
 This was true ; and while he spoke my very 
 conscience and reason turned traitors against 
 me, and charged me with crime in resisting 
 him. They spoke almost as loud as feeling, 
 and that clamored wildly. "Oh, comply !" it 
 said. " Think of his misery, think of his dan- 
 ger, look at his state when left alone ; remem- 
 ber his headlong nature, consider the reckless- 
 ness following on despair ; soothe him, save 
 him, love him : tell him you love him and will 
 be his. Who in the world cares for you ? or 
 who will be injured by what you do 1" 
 
 Still indomitable was the reply, " / care for 
 myself The more solitary, the more friend- 
 less, the more unsustained I am, the more I 
 will respect myself. I will keep the law given 
 by God, sanctioned by man. I will hold to the 
 principles received by me when I was sane, 
 and not mad — as I am now. Laws and princi- 
 ples are not for the times when there is no 
 temptation ; they are for such moments as 
 this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against 
 their rigor ; stringent are they ; inviolate they 
 shall be. If at my individual .convenience I 
 might break them, what would be their worth 1 
 They have a worth, so I have always believed ; 
 and if I can not believe it now, it is because I 
 am insane, quite insane, with my veins running 
 fire, and my heart beating faster than I can 
 count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, fore- 
 gone determinations, are all I have at this hour 
 to stand by; there 1 plant my foot." 
 
 I did. Mr. Rochester, reading my counte- 
 nance, saw I had done so. , His fury was 
 wrought to the highest ; he must yield to it for 
 a moment, whatever followed ; he crossed the 
 floor and seized my arta, and grasped my 
 waist. He seemed to devour me with his 
 flaming glance ; physically, I felt, at the mo- 
 ment, powerless as stubble exposed to the 
 draught and glow of a furnace ; mentally, I 
 still possessed my soul, and with it the certain- 
 ty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunate- 
 ly has an interpreter — often an unconscious, 
 but still a truthful, interpreter — in the eye. 
 My eye rose to his, and while I looked in his 
 fierce face, I gave an jnvoluntary sigh ; his 
 gripe was painful, and my overtasked strength 
 almost exhausted. 
 
 " Never," said he, as he ground his teeth, 
 " never was any thing at once so frail and so 
 indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my 
 hand ! (and he shook me with the force of hi^ 
 hold.) I could bend her with my finger and 
 thumb, and what good would it do if I bent, if 
 I uptore, if I crushed her 1 Consider that eye ; 
 consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking 
 out of it, defying me, with more than courage, 
 With a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its 
 cage, I can not get at it, the savage, beautiful 
 creature ! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, 
 my outrage will only let the captive loose. 
 Conqueror I might be of the house, but the in- 
 iBate would escape to heaven before I could 
 call myself possessor of its clay dwelling- 
 place. And it is you, spirit, with will and en- 
 ergy, and virtue and purity, that 1 want ; not 
 alone your brittle frame. Of yourself, you 
 could come, wjth soft flight, and nestle against 
 
 my heart, if you would ; seized against your 
 will, you will elude the grasp like an essence; 
 you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. 
 Oh ! come, Jane, come !" 
 
 As he said this, he released me from his 
 clutch, and only looked at me. The look was 
 far worse to resist than the frantic strain ; only 
 an idiot, however, would have succumbed now. 
 I had dared and baffled his fury, I must elude 
 his sorrow ; I retired to the door. 
 
 " You are going, Jane 1" 
 
 " I am going, sir." 
 
 " You are leaving me !" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You will not come 1 You will not be my 
 comforter, my rescuer 1 My deep love, my 
 wild woe, my frantic prayer, are air nothing to 
 you V 
 
 What unutterable pathos was in his voice I •' 
 How hard it was to reiterate firmly, " I am go- 
 ing." i 
 
 "Jane!" ^ 
 
 " Mr. Rochester." 
 
 " Withdraw, then, I consent ; but remember, 
 you leave me here in anguish. Go up to your 
 own room ; think over all I have said, and, 
 Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings ; think of 
 me." 
 
 He turned away, he threw himself on his 
 face on the sofa. " Oh, Jane*! my hope, my 
 love, my life !" broke in anguish from his lips. 
 Then camera deep, strong sob. 
 
 I had already gained the door, but, reader, I 
 walked back — walked back as determinedly as 
 I had retreated. I knelt down by him, I turned 
 his face from the cushion to me ; I kissed his 
 cheek, I smoothed his hair with my hand. 
 
 " God bless you, my dear master," I said. 
 " God keep you from harm and wrong, direct 
 you, solace you, reward you well for your past 
 kindness to me." , 
 
 " Little Jane's love would have been my 
 best reward," he answered ; " without it, ray 
 heart is broken. But Jane will give me her 
 love ; yes, nobly, generously." 
 
 Up the blood rushed to his face ; forth flashed 
 the fire from his eyes, erect he sprung, he held 
 his arms out, but I evaded the embrace, and at 
 once quitted the room. 
 
 "Farewell !" was the cry of my heart, as I 
 left him. Despair added, " Farewell, forever !" 
 ***** 
 
 Tha night I never thought to sleep, but a 
 slumber fell on me as soon as I lay down in 
 bed. I was transported in thought to the 
 scenes of childhood : I dreamed that I lay in 
 the red-room at Gateshead ; that the night was 
 dark, and my mind impressed with strange 
 fears. The light that long ago had struck me 
 into syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed 
 glidingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to 
 pause in the center of the obscured ceiling. I 
 lifted up my head to look : the roof resolved to 
 clouds, high and dim ; the gleam was such as 
 the moon imparts to vapors she is about to 
 sever. I watched her come, watched with the 
 strangest anticipation, as though some word of 
 doom were to be written on her disk. She 
 broke forth as never moon yet burst from cloud ; 
 a hand first penetrated the sable folds and 
 waved them away, then, not a moon, but a 
 white human form shone in the azure, in- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 123 
 
 dining a glorious brow earthward. It gazed 
 and gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit ; 
 immeasurably distant was the tone, yet so 
 near, it whispered in my heart, 
 "My daughter, flee temptation !" 
 "Mother, I will." 
 
 So I answered after I had waked from the 
 trance-like dream. It was yet night, but July 
 nights are short ; soon after midnight, dawn 
 comes. " It can not be too early to commence 
 the task I have to fulfill," thought I. I rose, I 
 was dressed, for I had taken off nothing but my 
 shoes. I knew where to find in my drawers 
 some linen, a locket, a ring. In seeking these 
 articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl 
 necklace Mr. Rochester had forced me to ac- 
 cept a few days ago. I left that, it was not 
 mine ; it was the visionary bride's who had 
 melted in air. The other articles I made up 
 in a parcel ; my purse, containing twenty shil- 
 lings (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 dar- 
 ling Adele !" I said, as I glanced toward the 
 nursery. No thought could be admitted of en- 
 tering to embrace her. I had to deceive a fine 
 ear ; for aught I knew, it might now be list- 
 ening. 
 
 I would have got past Mr. Rochester's cham- 
 ber without a pause ; but my heart moment- 
 arily stopping its beat at that threshold, my foot 
 was forced to stop also. No sleep was there ; 
 the inmate was walking restlessly from wall to 
 wall ; and again and again he sighed while I 
 listened. • There was a heaven — a temporary 
 heaven — in this room for me, if I chose ; I had 
 but to go in and to say, 
 
 " Mr. Rochester, I will love you and live with 
 you through life till death," and a fount of rap- 
 ture would spring to my lips. I thought of this. 
 
 That kind master, who could not sleep now, 
 was waiting with impatience for day. He 
 would send for me in the morning ; I should be 
 gone. He would have me sought for ; vainly. 
 He would feel himself forsaken, his love re- 
 jected ; he would suffer, perhaps grow desper- 
 ate. I thought of this, too. My hand moved 
 toward the lock, I caught it back and glided on. 
 
 Drearily I wound my way down stairs ; I 
 knevv what I had to do, and I did it mechani- 
 cally. I sought the key of the side-door in the 
 kitchen ; I sought, too, a phial of oil and a 
 feather, I oiled the key and the lock. I got 
 some water, I got some bread, for perhaps I 
 should have to walk far, and my strength, sore- 
 ly shaken of late, must not break down. All 
 this I did without one sound. I opened the 
 door, passed out, shut it softly. Dim dawn 
 glimmered in the yard. The great gates were 
 closed and locked, but a wicket in one of them 
 was only latched. Through that I departed ; 
 it, too, I shut, and now I was out of Thornfield. 
 
 A mile off, beyond the fields, lay a road which 
 stretched in the contrary direction to Millcote ; 
 a road which I had never traveled, but often 
 noticed, and wondered where it led ; thither I 
 bent my steps. No reflection was to be al- 
 lowed now, not one glance was to be cast back ; 
 not even one forward. Not one thought was 
 
 to be given either to the past or the future. 
 The first was a page so heavenly sweet, so 
 deadly sad, that to read one line of it would 
 dissolve my courage and break down my ener- 
 gy. The last was an awful blank, something 
 like the world when the deluge was gone by. 
 
 I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes, till 
 after sunrise. I believe it was a lovely sum- 
 mer morning ; I know my shoes, which I had 
 put on when I left the house, were soon wet 
 with dew. But I looked neither to rising sun, 
 nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. He 
 who is taken out to pass through a fair scene 
 to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that 
 smile on his road, but of the block and ax- 
 edge ; of the disseverment of bone and vein, 
 of the grave gaping at the end ; and I thought 
 of drear flight and homeless wandering— and, 
 oh ! with agony, I thought of what I left ! I 
 could not help it. I thougiit of him now, in his 
 room, watching the sunrise, hoping I should. 
 soon come to say I would stay with him, and 
 be his. I longed to be his, I panted to return ; 
 it was not too late ; I could yet spare him the 
 bitter pang of bereavement. As yet my flight, 
 I was sure, was undiscovered. I could go back 
 and be his comforter, his pride, his redeemer 
 from misery, perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear 
 of his self-abandonment — far worse than my 
 abandonment — how it goaded me ! It was a 
 barbed arrow-head in my breast ; it tore me 
 when I tried to extract it ; it sickened me 
 when remembrance thrust it farther in. Birds 
 began singing in bra1<;e and copse : birds were 
 faithful to their mates ; birds were emblems of 
 love. What was 1 1 In the midst of ray pain 
 of heart, and frantic effort of principle, I "ab- 
 horred myself I had no solace from self-ap- 
 probation, none even from self-respect. I had 
 injured, wounded, left my master. I was hate- 
 ful in my own eyes. Still I could not turn, nor 
 retrace one step. God must have led me on. 
 As to my own will or conscience, impassioned 
 grief had trampled one and stifled the other. I 
 was weeping wildly as I walked along my sol- 
 itary way : fast, fast I went like one delirious. 
 A weakness, beginning inwardly, extending to 
 the lirtibs, seized me, and I felt ; I lay on the 
 ground some minutes, pressing my face to the 
 wet turf. I had some fear, or hope, that here 
 I should die ; but I was soon up, crawling for- 
 vvards on my hands and knees, and then again 
 raised to my feet, as eager and as determined 
 as ever to reach the road. 
 
 When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest 
 me under the hedge ; and while I sat, I heard 
 wheels, and saw a coach come on. I stood up 
 and lifted my hand ; it stopped. I asked where 
 it was going, the driver named a place a long 
 way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester 
 had no connections. I asked for what sum he 
 would take me there ; he said thirty shillings ; 
 I answered I had but twenty : well, he would 
 try to make it do. He further gave me leave 
 to get into the inside, as the vehicle was empty : 
 I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way. 
 
 Gentle reader, may you never feel what I 
 then felt I May your eyes never shed such 
 stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured 
 from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven 
 in prayers so hopeless and so agonized as in 
 that hour left my lips : for never may you, like 
 
id4 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what 
 you wholly love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Two days are passed. It is a summer even- 
 ing ; the coachman has set me down at a place 
 called Whitcross, he could take me no farther 
 for the sum I had given, and I was not pos- 
 sessed of another shilling in the world. The 
 coach is a mile off by this time ; I am alone. 
 At this moment I discover that I forgot to take 
 my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where 
 I had placed it for safety ; there it remains, 
 there it must remain ; and now I am absolutely 
 destitute. 
 
 Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet ; it 
 is but a stone pillar set up where four roads 
 meet ; white-washed, I suppose, to be more 
 obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four 
 arms spring from its summit ; the nearest town 
 to which these point is, according to the in- 
 scription, distant ten miles ; the farthest, above 
 twenty. From the well-known names of these 
 towns I learn in what county I have lighted ; a 
 north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged 
 with mountain; this I. see. There are great 
 moors behind and on each hand of me ; there 
 are waves of mountains far beyond that deep 
 valley at my feet. The population here must 
 be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads ; 
 they stretch out east, west, north, and south — 
 white, broad, lonely ; they are all cut in the 
 moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to 
 their very verge. Yet a chance traveler might 
 pass by ; and I wish no eye to .see me now ; 
 strangers would wonder what I am doing, lin- 
 gering here at the sign-post, evidently object- 
 less and lost. I might be questioned ; I could 
 give no answer but what would sound incredible 
 and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to 
 human society at this moment — not a charm or 
 hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are — 
 none that saw me would have a kind thought 
 or a good wish for me. I have no relative but 
 the universal mother. Nature ; I will seek her 
 breast and ask repose. 
 
 I struck straight into the heath ; I held on to 
 a hollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown 
 moorside ; I, waded, knee-deep m its dark 
 growth ; I turned with its turnings, and finding 
 a moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden an- 
 gle, I sat down under it. High banks of moor 
 were about me ; the crag protected nty head : 
 the sky was over that. 
 
 Some time passed before I felt tranquil even 
 here ; I had a vague dread ihat wild cattle might 
 be near, or that some sportsman or poacher 
 might discover me. If a gust of wind swept 
 the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush 
 of a bull ; if a plover whistled, I imagined it a 
 man. Finding my apprehensions unfounded, 
 however, and calmed by the deep silence .that 
 reigned as evening declined to night-fall, I took 
 confidence. As yet I had not thought ; I had 
 only listened, watched, dreaded : now I re- 
 gained the faculty of reflection. 
 
 What was I to do 1 Where to go ? Oh, in- 
 tolerable questions, when I could do nothing 
 and go nowhere ! when a long way must yet 
 be measured by my weary, trembling limbe, 
 
 before I could reach human habitation — when 
 cold charity must be entreated before I could 
 get a lodging ; reluctant sympathy importuned ; 
 almost certain repulse incurred, before my tale 
 could be listened to, or one of my wants re- 
 lieved ! 
 
 I touched the heath ; it was dry, and yet 
 warm with the heat of the summer day. I 
 looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star 
 twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The 
 dew fell, but with propitious softness ; no breeze 
 whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and 
 good ; I thought she loved me, outcast as I 
 was ; and I, who from man could anticipate 
 only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her 
 with filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would 
 be her guest — as I was her child : my mother 
 would lodge me without money and without 
 price. I had one morsel of bread yet, the rem- 
 nant of a roll I had bought in a town we passed 
 through at noon with a stray penny — my last 
 coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming here and 
 there, like jet beads in the heath : I gathered a 
 handful and eat them with the bread. My hun- 
 ger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased 
 by this hermit's meal. I said my evening pray- 
 ers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch. 
 
 Beside the crag, the heath was very deep; 
 when I lay down my feet were buried in it ; 
 rising high on each side, it left only a narrow 
 space for the night-air to invade. I folded my 
 shawl double, and spread it over me for a cover- 
 let ; a low, mossy swell was my pillow. Thus 
 lodged, I was not, at least at the commence- 
 ment of the night, cold. 
 
 My rest might have been blissful enough, only 
 a sad heart broke it. It plained of its gaping 
 wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. 
 It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom : it 
 bemoaned him with bitter pity ; it demanded 
 him with ceaseless longing ; and, impotent as 
 a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered 
 its shattered pinions in vain attempts to seek 
 him. 
 
 Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose 
 to my knees. Night was come, and her planets 
 were risen ; a safe, still night ; too serene for 
 the companionship of fear. We know that God 
 is every where ; but certainly we feel His pres- 
 ence most when His works are on the grandest 
 scale spread before us ; and it is in the unclouded 
 night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent 
 course, that we read dearest His infinitude, 
 His omnipotence. His omnipresence. I had 
 risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. 
 Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the 
 mighty milky-way. Remembering what it was 
 — what countless systems there swept space 
 like a soft trace, of light— I felt the might and 
 strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency 
 to save what He had made ; convinced I grew 
 that neither earth should perish, nor one of the' 
 souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to 
 thanksgiving ; the Source of Life was also the 
 Savior of Spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe : he 
 was God's, and by God would he be guarded. 
 I again nestled to the breast of the hill ; and 
 ere long, in sleep, forgot sorrow. 
 
 But next day. Want came to me, pale and 
 bare. Long after the little birds had left their 
 nests ; long -after bees had come in the sweet 
 prime of day to gather the heath honey before 
 
 I 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 185 
 
 the dew was dried — when the long morning 
 shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth 
 and sky — I got up, and I looked round me. 
 
 What a still, hot, perfect day ! What a golden 
 desert this spreading moor I Every where sun- 
 shine. I wished 1 could live in it and on it. I 
 saw a lizard run over the crag ; I saw a hee 
 busy among the sweet bilberries. I would fain 
 at the moment have become bee or lizard, that 
 I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent 
 shelter here. But I was a human being, and 
 had a human being's wants ; I must not linger 
 where there was nothing to supply them. I 
 rose ; I looked back at the bed I had left. 
 Hopeless of the future, I wished but this — that 
 my Maker had that night thought good to re- 
 quire my soul of me while I slept ; and that this 
 weary frame, absolved by death from further 
 conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, 
 and mingle in peace with the soil of this wil- 
 derness. Life, however, was yet in ray pos- 
 sessidn, with all its requirements, and pains, 
 and responsibilities. The burden must be car- 
 ried ; the want provided for ; the suffering en- 
 dured ; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out. 
 
 Whitcross regained, I followed a road which 
 led from the sun, now fervent and high. By no 
 other circumstance had I will to decide my 
 choice. I walked a long time, and when I 
 thought I had nearly done enough, and might 
 conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almost 
 overpowered me — might relax this forced ac- 
 tion, and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, 
 submit resistlessly to the apathy that clogged 
 heart and limb — I heard a bell chime — a church 
 bell. 
 
 I turned in the direction of the sound, and 
 there, among the romantic hills, whose changes 
 and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I 
 saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my 
 right hand was full of pasture-fields, and corn- 
 fields, and wood ; and a glittering stream ran 
 zig-zag through the varied shades of green, the 
 mellowing grain, the somber wood-land, the 
 clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling 
 of wheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily- 
 laden wagon laboring up the hill ; and not far 
 beyond were two cows and their drover. Hu- 
 man life and human labor 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- vil- 
 lage. At the bottom of its one street, thei^ 
 was a little shop with some cakes of bread in 
 the window. I coveted a cake of bread. With 
 that refreshment I could perhaps regain a de- 
 gree of energy ; without it, it would be difficult 
 to proceed. The wish to have some strength 
 and some vigor returned to. me as soon as I 
 was among my fellow-beings. I felt it would 
 be' degrading to faint with hunger on the cause- 
 way of a hamlet. Had I noj-hing about me I 
 could offer in exchange for one oi^ these rolls 1 
 I considered. 1 had a small silk handkerchief 
 tied rounds my thro»t ; I had my gloves. I 
 could hardly tell how men and women in ex- 
 tremities of destitution proceeded. I did not 
 know whether either of these articles would be 
 accepted : probably they would not ; but I 
 must try. 
 
 I entered the shop': a woman was there. 
 Seeing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as 
 
 she supposed, she came forward with civility. 
 How could she serve me"! I was seized with 
 shame : my tongue would not utter the request 
 I had prepared. I dared not offer her the half- 
 worn gloves, the creased handkerchief: be- 
 sides, I felt it would be absurd. I only begged 
 permission to sit down a nujment, as I was 
 tired. Disappointed in the expectation of a 
 customer, she coolly acceded to my request. 
 She pointed to a seat ; I sunk into it. I felt 
 sorely urged to weep ; but conscious how un- 
 seasonable such a manifestation would be, I 
 restrained it. Soon I asked her " if there were 
 any dressmaker or plain-work woman in the 
 villager' 
 
 "Yes; two or three. Quite as many as 
 there was employment for." 
 
 I reflected. I was driven to the point now. 
 I was brought face to face with necessity. I 
 stood in the position of one without a resource ; 
 without a friend ; without a coin. I must do 
 something. What 1 I must apply somewhere. 
 Where ! 
 
 " Did she know of any place in the neighbor- 
 hood where a servant was wanted 1" 
 
 " Nay ; she couldn't say." 
 
 "What was the chief trade in this placet 
 What did most of the people dol" 
 
 " Some were farm laborers ; a good deal 
 worked at Mr. Ohver's needle factory, and at 
 the foundry.'" 
 
 " Did Mr. Oliver employ women 1" 
 
 " Nay ; it was men"s work." 
 
 " And what do the women do V 
 
 "I knaw n't," was the answer. "Some 
 does one thing, and some another. Poor folk 
 mun get on as they can.'" 
 
 She seemed to be tired of my questions ; 
 and, indeed, what claim bad I to importune 
 her 1 A neighbor or two came in ; my chair 
 was evidently wanted. I took leave. 
 
 I passed up the street, looking as I went at 
 all the houses to the right hand and to the 
 left ; but I could discover no pretext, nor see 
 an inducement to enter any. I rambled round 
 the hamlet, going sometimes to a little distance 
 and returning again, for an Iwur or more. 
 Much exhausted, and suffering greatly now for 
 want of food, I turned aside into a lane and sat 
 .down under' the hedge. Ere many minutes 
 had elapsed, 1 was again on my feet, however, 
 and again searching something — a resource, or 
 at least an informant. A pretty little house 
 stood at the top of the lane, with a garden be- 
 fore it, exquisitely neat, and brillianily bloom- 
 ing. I stopped at it. What business had I to 
 approach the white door, or touch the glittering 
 knocker 1 In what way could it possibly be the 
 interest of the inhabitants of that dwelling to 
 serve rnc '] Yet I drev,- near and knocked. A 
 mild-looking, cleanly-attired young woman 
 opened the door. In such a voice as might be 
 expected from a hopeless heart and fainting 
 frame — a voice 'wretchedly low and faltering — 
 I asked if a servant was wanted here 1 
 
 " No," said she ; " we do not keep a servant." 
 
 " Can you tell me where I could get employ- 
 ment of any kind," I continued. " I am a 
 stranger, without acquaintance, in this place. 
 I want some work ; no matter what." 
 
 But it was not her business to think for me, 
 or to seek a place for me : besides, in her eyes, 
 
126 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 how doubtful must have appeared my character, 
 position, tale. She shook her head, she " was 
 sorry she could give me no information," and 
 the white door closed, quite gently and civilly ; 
 but it shut me out. If she had held it open a 
 little longer, I believe I should have begged a 
 piece of bread ; for I was now brought low. 
 
 I could not bear to return to the sordid vil- 
 lage, where, besides, no prospect of aid was 
 visible. I should have longed rather to deviate 
 to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared, in 
 Its thick shade, to offer inviting shelter ; but I 
 was so sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature's 
 cravings, instinct kept me roami-ng round 
 abodes where there was a chance of food. 
 Solitude would be no solitude — rest no rest — 
 while the vulture hunger, thus sunk beak and 
 talons in my side. 
 
 I drew near houses ; I left them, and came 
 back again, and again I wandered away ; al- 
 ways repelled by the consciousness of having 
 no claim to ask — no right to expect interest in 
 my isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon ad- 
 vanced, while I thus wandered about like a 
 lost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I 
 saw the church-spire before me : 1 hastened 
 toward it. Near the church-yard, and in the 
 middle of a garden, stood a well-built though 
 small house, which I had no doubt was the 
 parsonage. I remembered that strangers who 
 arrive at a place where they have no friends, 
 and who want employment, sometimes apply 
 to the clergyman for introduction and aid. It 
 is the clergyman's function to help — at least 
 with advice — those who wish to help- them- 
 selves. I seemed to have something like a 
 right to seek counsel here. Renewing, then, 
 my courage, and gathering my feeble remains 
 of strength I pushed on. I reached the house, 
 and knocked at the kitchen-door. An old wom- 
 an opened ; I asked was this the parsonage 1 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Was the clergyman in V 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Would he be in soonl" 
 
 " No, he was gone from home." 
 
 "To a distance?" 
 
 "Not so far — happen three mile. He had 
 been called away by the sudden death of his 
 father ; he was at Marsh End now, and would 
 very likely stay there a fortnight longer." 
 
 " Was there any lady of the house 1" 
 
 " Nay, there was naught but her, and she 
 was housekeeper ;" and of her, reader, I could 
 not bear to ask the relief for want of which I 
 was sinking ; I could not yet beg ; and again I 
 crawled away. 
 
 Once more I took off my handkerchiefs 
 once more I thought of the cakes of bread in 
 the little shop. Oh, but for a crust ! for but 
 one mouthful to allay the pang of famine ! In- 
 stinctively I turned my face again to the vil- 
 lage ; I found the shop again, and I went in ; 
 and though others were there besides the 
 woman, I ventured the request, " Would she 
 give me a roll for this handkerchief!" 
 
 She looked at me with evident suspicion : 
 " Nay, she ndver sold stuff i' that way." 
 
 Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake ; 
 she again refused. " How could she tell where 
 I had got the handherchief," she said. 
 
 " Would she take my gloves V 
 
 " No ; what could she do with them V 
 
 Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these 
 details. Some say there is enjoyment in look- 
 ing back to painful experience past : but at this 
 day I can scarcely bear to review the times to 
 which I allude ; the moral degradation, blent with 
 the physical suffering, form too distressing a rec- 
 ollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed 
 none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was 
 what was to be expected, and what could not 
 be helped ; an ordinary beggar is frequently an 
 object of suspicion ; a well-dressed beggar in- 
 evitably so. To be sure, what I begged was 
 employment ; but whose business was it to pro- 
 vide me with employment! Not, certainly, that 
 of persons who saw me then for the first time, 
 and who knew nothing about my character. 
 And as to the woman who would not take my 
 handkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, 
 she was right ; if the offer appeared to her 
 sinister, or the exchange unprofitable. Let 
 me condense now. I am sick of the subject. 
 
 A little before dark I passed a farmhouse, at 
 the open door of which the farmer was sitting, 
 eating his supper of bread and cheese ; I 
 stopped and said : — 
 
 " Will you give me a piece of bread 1 for I 
 am very hungry." He cast on me a glance of 
 surprise ; but without answering, he cut a thick 
 slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imag- 
 ine he did not think I wis a beggar, but only 
 an eccentric sort of lady who had taken a fancy 
 to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of 
 sight of his house, I sat down and ate it. 
 
 I could not hope to get a lodging under a 
 roof, and sought it in the wood I have before 
 alluded to. 13ut ray night was wretched, my 
 rest broken ; the ground was damp, the air 
 cold ; besides, intruders passed near me more 
 than once, and I had again and again to change 
 my quarters ; no sense of safety or tranquillity 
 befriended me. Toward morning it rained ; 
 the whole of the following day was wet. Do 
 not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of 
 that day ; as before, I sought work ; as before, 
 I was repulsed ; as before, I starved ; but once 
 did food pass my lips. At the door of a cot- 
 tage I saw a little girl about to throw a mess 
 of cold porridge into a pig-trough. " Will you 
 give me thatT' I asked. 
 
 She stared at me. " Mother !" she exclaim 
 ed ; " there is a woman wants me to give her 
 these porridge." 
 
 " Well, lass," replied a voice within, " give 
 it her if she's a beggar. T' pig doesn't want it." 
 
 The girl emptied the stiffened mold into my 
 hand, and I devoured it ravenously. 
 
 As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a 
 solitary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing 
 an hour or more. 
 
 " My strength is quite failing me," I said, in 
 soliloquy. " I feel I can not go much farther. 
 Shall I be an outcast again this night 1 While 
 the rain descends so, must I lay my head on 
 the cold, drenched ground"! I fear I can not 
 do otherwise ; for who will receive me 1 But 
 it will be very dreadful ; with this feeling of 
 hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of deso- 
 lation — this total prostration of hope. In all 
 likelihood, though, I should die before morning. 
 And why can not I reconcile myself to the 
 prospect of death ? Why do I struggle to re- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 187 
 
 tain a valueless life "! Because I know, or be- 
 lieve, Mr. Rochester is still living ; and then, 
 to die of want and cold, is a fate to which na- 
 ture can not submit passively. Oh, Provi- 
 dence ! sustain me a little longer ! Aid — di- 
 rect me !" 
 
 My glazed eye wandered over the dim and 
 misty landscape. I saw I had strayed far from 
 the village ; it was quite out of sight. The 
 very cultivation surrounding it had disappear- 
 ed. I had, by cross-ways and by-paths, once 
 more drawn near the tract of moorland ; and 
 now, only a few fields, almost as wild and un- 
 productive as the heath from which they were 
 scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the 
 dusky hill. 
 
 " Well ; I would rather die yonder than in a 
 street or on a frequented road," I reflected. 
 " And far better that crows and ravens — if any 
 ravens there be in these regions — should pick 
 my flesh from my bones, than that they should 
 be imprisoned in a workhouse coffin, and mol- 
 der in a pauper's grave." 
 
 To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It 
 remained now only to find a hollow where I 
 could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not 
 secure ; but all the surface of the waste looked 
 level. It showed no variation but of tint ; 
 green, where rush and moss overgrew the 
 marshes ; black, where the dry soil bore only 
 heath. Dark as it was getting, I could still 
 see these changes, though but as mere alter- 
 nations of light and shade, for color had faded 
 with the daylight. 
 
 My eye still roved over the sullen swell, and 
 along the moor-edge, vanishing amid the wild- 
 est scenery, when, at one dim point, far in 
 among the marshes and the ridges, a light 
 sprung up. " That is an ignis-fatuus,'" was 
 my first thought ; and I expected it would soon 
 vanish. It burned on, however, quite steadily, 
 neither receding nor advancing. "Is it, then, a 
 bonfire just kindled V I questioned. I watched 
 to see whether it would spread; but no; as it did 
 not diminish, so it did not enlarge. " It may 
 be a candle in a house," I then conjectured ; 
 *' but if so, I can never reach it. It is much too 
 far away ; and were it within a yard of me, 
 what would it avail ! I should but knock at 
 the door to have it shut in my face." 
 
 And I sunk down where I stood, and hid my 
 face again.st the ground. I lay still awhile ; 
 the night-wind swept over the hill and over 
 me, and died moaning in the distance ; the 
 rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin. 
 Could I but have stiffened to the still frost — 
 the friendly numbness of death — it might have 
 pelted on ; I should not have felt it ; but my 
 yet living flesh shuddered to its chilling in- 
 fluence. I rose ere long. 
 
 The light was yet there, shining dim, but 
 constant, through the rain. I tried to walk 
 again ; 1 dragged my exhausted limbs slowly 
 toward it. It led me aslant over the hill, 
 through a wide bog, which would have been 
 impassable in winter, and was splashy and 
 shaking even now, in the height of summer. 
 Here I fell twice ; but as often I rose and ral- 
 lied my faculties. This light was my forlorn 
 hope ; I must gain it. 
 
 Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of 
 white over the moor. I approached it ; it was 
 
 a road or a track ; it led straight up to the 
 light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, 
 amid a clump of trees — firs, apparently, from 
 what I could distinguish of the character of 
 their forms and foliage through the gloom. My 
 star vanished as I drew near ; some obstacle 
 had intervened between me and it. I put out 
 my hand to feel the dark mass before me ; I dis- 
 criminated the rough stones of a low wall — 
 above it, something like palisades, and within, 
 a high and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again 
 a whitish object gleamed before me ; it was a 
 gate — a wicket ; it moved on its hinges as I 
 touched it. On each side ^ood a sable bush — 
 holly or yew. 
 
 Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the 
 silhouette of a house rose to view, black, low, 
 and rather long ; but the guiding light shone 
 nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the in- 
 mates retired to rest 1 I feared it must be so. 
 In seeking the door, I turned an angle ; there 
 shot out the friendly gleam again, from the 
 lozenged panes of a very small latticed window, 
 within afoot of the ground, made still smaller 
 by the growth of ivy or some other creeping 
 plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the 
 portion of the house wall in which it was set. 
 The aperture was so screened and narrow, that 
 curtain or shutter had been deemed unneces- 
 sary ; and when I stooped down and put aside 
 the spray of foliage shooting over it, I could 
 see all within. I could see clearly a room with 
 a sanded floor, clean scoured ; a dresser of 
 walnut, with pewter plates ranged in rows, re- 
 flecting the redness and radiance of a glowing 
 peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal 
 table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray 
 had been my beacon, burned on the table ; and 
 by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough- 
 looking, but scrupulously clean, like all about* 
 her, was knitting a stocking. 
 
 I noticed these objects cursorily only — in 
 them there was nothing extraordinary. A 
 group of more interest appeared near the 
 hearth, sitting still amid the rosy peacQ and 
 warmth suffusing it. Two young, graceful 
 women — ladies in every point — sat, one in a 
 low rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool ; 
 both wore deep mourning of crape and bom- 
 basin, which somber garb singularly set off 
 their very fair necks and faces ; a large old 
 pointer dog rested its massive head on the 
 knee of one girl — in the lap of the other was 
 cushioned a black cat. 
 
 A strange place was this humble kitchen for 
 such occupants " Who are they 1 They could 
 not be the daughters of the elderly person at the 
 table ; for she looked like a rustic, and they 
 were all delicacy and cultivation. I had no- 
 where seen such faces as theirs : and yet, as I 
 gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every 
 lineament. I can not call them handsome — 
 they were too pale and grave for the word : as 
 they each bent over a book, they looked thought- 
 ful almost to severity. A stand between them 
 supported a second candle and tv/o great vol- 
 umes, to which they frequently referred ; com- 
 paring them .seemingly with the smaller books 
 they held in their hands, like people consulting 
 a dictionary to aid them in the task of transla- 
 tion. This scene was as silent as if all the fig- 
 ures had been shadows, and the fire-lit apart- 
 
138 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ment a picture : so bushed was it, I could hear 
 the cinders fall from the grate, the clock tick 
 in its obscure corner ; and I even fancied I 
 could distinguish the click-click of the woman's 
 knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voice 
 broke the strange stillness at last, it was audible 
 enough to me. 
 
 "Listen, Diana," said one of the absorbed 
 students ; " Franz and old Daniel are together 
 in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dream 
 from which he has wakened in terror — listen !" 
 And in a low voice she read something, of 
 which not one word was intelligible to me ; for 
 it was in an unknown tongue — neither French 
 nor Latin. Whether it were Greek or German 
 I could not tell. 
 
 " That is strong," she said, when she had 
 finished ; "I relish it." The other girl, who had 
 lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, 
 while she gazed at the fire, a line which had 
 been read. At a later day, I knew the lan- 
 guage and the book; therefore, I will here 
 quote the line ; though, when I first heard it, it 
 was only like a stroke on sounding brass to me 
 — conveying no meaning : 
 
 " ' Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die 
 Sternen Nacht.' Good! good!" she exclaim- 
 ed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. 
 »' There yOu have a dim and mighty archangel 
 fitly set before you ! The line is worth a hun- 
 dred pages of fustain. ' Ich wage die Gedan- 
 ken in der , Schale meines Zornes und die 
 Werke mit dera Gewichte meines Grimms.' I 
 like it !" 
 
 Both were again silent. 
 
 " Is there ony country were they talk i' that 
 wayl" asked the old woman, looking up from 
 her knitting. 
 
 "Yes, Hannah — a far larger country than 
 •England, where they talk in no other way." 
 
 " Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they 
 can understand t' one I' other ; and if either 
 o'ye went there, ye could tell what they said, I 
 guess V 
 
 " We could probably tell something of what 
 they sai9, but not all — for we are not as clever 
 as you think us, Hannah. We don't speak 
 German, and we can not read it without a dic- 
 tionary to help us." 
 
 "And what good docs it do you V 
 
 "We mean to teach it some time — or at 
 least the elements, as they say ; and then we 
 shall get more money than we .do now." 
 
 " Varry like : but give ower studying; yc've 
 done enough for to-night." 
 
 " I think we have ; at least, I'm tired. Ma- 
 ry, are youl" 
 
 " Mortally : after all, it's tough work fagging 
 away at a language with no master but a lexi- 
 con." 
 
 "It is: especially such a language as this 
 crabbed but glorious Deutsch. I wonder when 
 St. John will come home." 
 
 " Surely he will not be long now ; it is just 
 ten (looking at a little gold watch she drew 
 from her girdle). It rains fast. Hannah, will 
 you liave the goodness to look at the fire in the 
 parlor 1" 
 
 The woman rose ; she opened a door, through 
 which I dimly saw a passage ; soon 1 heard her 
 stir a fire in an inner room ; she presently came 
 back. 
 
 " Ah, childer !" said she, " it fair troubles me 
 to go into yond' room now ; it looks bo lone- 
 some 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 plane," continued 
 Hannah ; "we shouldn't wish him here again. 
 And then nobody need to have a quieter death 
 nor he had." 
 
 "You say he never.mentioned usi" inquired 
 one of the ladies. 
 
 " He hadn't time, bairn ; he was gone in a 
 minute — was your father. He had been a bit 
 ailing like the day before, but naught to signi- 
 fy ; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would 
 like either o' ye to be sent for, he fair laughed 
 at him. He began again with a bit of heavi- 
 ness in his head the next day — that is, a fort- 
 night sin' — and he went to sleep and niver 
 wakened ; he wor a'most stark when your 
 brother went into t' chamber and fand him. 
 Ah, childer ! that's t' last o' t' old stock — for 
 ye and Mr. St. John is like of a different soart 
 to them 'at's gone ; for all your mother wor 
 mich i' your way, and a'most as book-learned. 
 She wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary ; Diana is more 
 like your father." 
 
 I thought them so similar I could not tell 
 where the old servant (for such I now conclud- 
 ed her to be) saw the difference. Both were 
 fair complexioned and slenderly made ; both 
 possessed faces full of distinction and intelli- 
 gence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade 
 darker than the other, and there was a differ- 
 ence in their style of wearing it ; Mary's pale 
 brown locks were parted and braided smooth ; 
 Dianas duskier tresses covered her neck with 
 their curls. The clock struck ten. 
 
 " Yc'll want your supper, I'm sure," observed 
 Hannah ; " and so will Mr. St. John when he 
 comes in." 
 
 And she proceeded to prepare the meal. 
 The ladies rose ; they seemed about to with- 
 draw to the parlor. Till this moment, I had 
 been so intent on watching them — their ap- 
 pearance and conversation had excited in me 
 so keen an interest — I had half forgotten my 
 own wretched position ; now it recurred to 
 me. More desolate, more desperate than ever, 
 it seemed from contrast. And how impossible 
 did it appear to touch the inmates of this 
 house with concern on my behalf — to make 
 them believe in the truth of my wants and 
 woes— to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for 
 my w'anderings ! As I groped out the door, 
 and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last 
 idea to be indeed a mere chimera. Hannah 
 opened. 
 
 "What do you want!" she inquired, in a 
 voice of surprise, as she surveyed me by the 
 light of the candle she held. 
 
 " May I speak to your mistresses 1" I said. 
 
 " You had better tell me what you have to 
 say to them. AVhere do you come from V 
 
 " I am a stranger." 
 
 " What is your business here at this hourl" 
 
 " I want a night's shelter in an outhouse, or 
 any where, and a morsel of bread to eat." 
 
 Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, ap- 
 peared in Ilannalfs face. "I'll give you a 
 piece of bread,' she said, after a pause ; "but 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 129 
 
 ■we can't take in a vagrant to lodge ; it isn't 
 likely." 
 
 " Do let me speak to your mistresses ]" 
 
 "No; not I. What can they do for yoal 
 You should not be roving about now ; it looks 
 very ill." 
 
 " But where shall I go, if you drive me 
 away] What shall I dor' 
 
 " Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go, anti 
 ■what to do. Mind you don't do wrong, thafs 
 all. Here is a penny ; now go." 
 
 " A penny can not feed me, and I have no 
 strength to go farther. Don't shut the door — 
 oh, don't, for God's sake !" 
 
 " I must — the rain is driving in." 
 
 "Tell the young ladies — let me see theml" 
 
 " Indeed I will not. You are not what you 
 ought to be, or you wouldn't make such a noise. 
 Move off!" 
 
 " But I must die if I am turned away." 
 
 " Not you. I'm feard you have some ill 
 plans agate, that bring you about folk's houses 
 at this time o' night. If you've any followers 
 — housebreakers, or such like — any where 
 near, you may tell them we are not by our- 
 selves in the house. We have a gentleman, 
 and dogs, and guns." Here the honest, but 
 inflexible servant, clapped the door to, and 
 bolted it within. 
 
 This was the climax. A pang of exquisite 
 suffering — a throe of true despair — rent and 
 'ieaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was ; 
 ijot another step could I stir. I sunk on the 
 ^et door-step; I groaned — I wrung my hands 
 — I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this specter of 
 death ! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such 
 horror ! Alas ! this isolation — this banishment 
 from my kind ! Not only the anchor of hope, 
 but the footing of fortitude, was gone — at least, 
 for a moment ; but the last I soon endeavored 
 to regain. 
 
 "I can but die," I said, "and I believe in 
 God. Let me try to wait His will in silence." 
 
 These words I not only thought, but uttered ; 
 and, thrusting back all my misery into my 
 heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain 
 there, dumb and still. 
 
 "All men must die," said a voice, quite 
 close at hand ; " but all are not condemned 
 to meet a lingering and premature doom, such 
 as yours would be if you perished here of 
 want." 
 
 "Who or what speaks 1" I asked, terrified at 
 the unexpected sound, and incapable now of 
 deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. 
 A form was near — what form, the pitch-dark 
 night and my enfeebled vision prevented me 
 from distinguishing. With a loud, long knock, 
 the new-comer appealed to the door. 
 
 " Is it you, Mr. St. Johni" cried Hannah. 
 
 "Yes — yes; open quickly." 
 ■ " Well, how wet and cold you must be, such 
 a wild night as it is ! Come in — your sisters 
 are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there 
 are bad folks about. There has been a beggar- 
 woman. I declare she is not gone yet — laid 
 down there ! Get up — for shame ! Move off, 
 I say!" 
 
 " Hush, Hannah ! I have a word to say 
 to the woman. You have d6ne your duty 
 in excluding, now let me do mine in admit- 
 ting her. I was near, and listened to both 
 I 
 
 you and her. I think this is a' peculiar case. 
 I must, at least, examine into it. Young wom- 
 an, rise, and pass before me into the house." 
 
 With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I 
 stood within that clean, bright kitchen — on the 
 very hearth — trembling, sickening ; conscious 
 of an aspect, in the last degree ghastly, wild, 
 and weather-beaten. The two ladies, their 
 brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were all 
 gazing at me. 
 
 " St. John, who is itl" P heard one ask. 
 
 " I can not tell ; I found her at the door," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " She does look white," said Hannah. 
 
 "As white as clay or death," was respond- 
 ed. " She will fall— let her sit." 
 
 And, indeed, my head swam. I dropped; 
 but a chair received me. I still possessed my 
 senses, though just now I could not speak. 
 
 Perhaps a little water would restore her. 
 Hannah, fetch some. But she is worn to 
 nothing. How very thin, and how very blood- 
 less!" 
 
 "A mere specter !" 
 
 "Is she ill, or only famished 1" 
 
 " Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milkl 
 Give it me, and a piece of bread." 
 
 Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I 
 saw drooping between me and the fire as she 
 bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in 
 milk, and put it to ray lips. Her face was near 
 mine ; I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sym- 
 pathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple 
 words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke : 
 " Try to eat." 
 
 " Yes — try," repeated Mary, gently ; and 
 Mary's hand removed my sodden bonnet and 
 lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me ; 
 feebly, at first — eagerly, soon. 
 
 " Not too much, at first ; restrain her," said 
 the brother; "she has had enough." And 
 he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of 
 bread. 
 
 " A little more, St. John ; look at the avidity 
 in her eyes." 
 
 " No more at present, sister. Try if she can 
 speak now — ask her her name." 
 
 I felt I could speak, and I answered : " My 
 name is Jane Elliott." Anxious as ever to 
 avoid discovery, I had before resolved to as- 
 sume an alias. 
 
 " And where do you live 1 Where are your 
 friends 1" 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 " Can we send for any one you knowl" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "What account can you give of yourself 1" ' 
 
 Somehow, now that I had once crossed the 
 threshold of this house, and once was brought 
 face to face with its owners, I felt no longer 
 outcast, vagrant, and disowned By the wide 
 world. I dared to put off the mendicant — to 
 resume my natural manner and character. I 
 began once more to know myself; and when 
 Mr. St.' John demanded an account — which, at 
 present, I was far too weak to render — I said^ 
 after a brief pause : ^ 
 
 " Sir, I can give you no details to-night." 
 
 "But what, then," said he, "do you expect 
 me to do for yaaV 
 
 " Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed 
 for but short answers. Diana took the word ; , 
 
130 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Do you mean," she asked, " that we have 
 now given you what aid you require ; and thai 
 we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy 
 night 1" 
 
 J looked at her. She had, I thought, a re- 
 markable countenance, instinct both with power 
 and goodness. I took sudden courage. An- 
 swering her compassionate gaze with a smile, 
 I said : " I will trust you. If I were a master- 
 less and stray dog, I know that you would not 
 turn me from your hearth to-night ; as it is, I 
 really have no fear. Do with me and for me as 
 you like, but excuse me from much discourse ; 
 my breath is short — I feel a spasm when I 
 speak." All three surveyed me, and all three 
 were silent. 
 
 " Hannah," said Mr. St. John, at last, "let 
 her sit there at present, and ask her no ques- 
 tions ; in ten minutes more, give her the re- 
 mainder of that milk and bread. Mary and 
 Diana, let us go into the parlor and talk the 
 matter over." 
 
 ■ They withdrew. Very soon one of the la- 
 dies returned — I could not tell which. A kind 
 of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I 
 sat by the genial fire. In an under tone, she 
 gave some directions to Hannah. Ere long, 
 with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount a 
 stair-case — my dripping clothes were removed ; 
 soon a warm, dry bed, received me. I thanked 
 God ; experienced amid unutterai)le exhaustion 
 a glow of grateful joy — and slept. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The recolleation of about three days and 
 nights succeeding this, is very dim in my mind. 
 I can recall some sensations felt in that interval ; 
 but few thoughts framed, and no actions per- 
 formed. I knew I was in a small room, and in 
 a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have 
 grown : I lay on it motionless as a stone ; and 
 to have torn me from it would have been al- 
 most to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of 
 time — of the change from morning to noon, 
 from noon to evening. I observed when any 
 one entered or left the apartment ; I could even 
 tell who they were; I could understand what 
 was said when the speaker stood near me ; but 
 I could not answer : to open ray lips or move 
 my limbs was equally impossible. Hannah, the 
 servant, was my most frequent visitor. Her 
 coming disturbed me. I had a feeling that she 
 wished me away ; that she did not understand 
 me or my circumstances ; that she was preju- 
 diced against me. Diana and Mary appeared 
 in the chamber once or twice a-day. They 
 would whisper sentences of this sort at my bed- 
 side — 4, 
 
 *' It is very well we took her in." 
 
 " Yes ; she would certainly have been found 
 dead at the door in the morning, had she been 
 left out all night. I wonder what shQ has gone 
 through ■?" 
 
 " Strange hardships, I imagine, poor, ema- 
 ciated, pallid wanderer !" 
 
 "She is not an uneducated person, I should 
 
 think, by her manner of speaking; her" accent 
 
 A was quite pure ; and the cloliies she took ofl', 
 
 thougti splashed and wet, were little worn and 
 
 fine." 
 
 " She has a peculiar face ; fleshless and hag- 
 gard as it is, I rather like it ; and when ia 
 good health and animated, I can fancy her phys- 
 iognomy would be agreeable." 
 
 Never once in their dialogues did I hear a 
 syllable of regret at the hospitality they had ex- 
 tended to me ; or of suspicion of, or aversion 
 to, myself. I was comforted. 
 
 Mr. St. John came but once : he looked at 
 me, and said my state of lethargy was the re- 
 sult of reaction from excessive and protracted 
 fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for 
 a doctor : nature, he was sure, would manage 
 best, left to herself. He said every nerve had 
 been overstrained in some way, and the whole 
 system must sleep torpid awhile. There was 
 no disease. He imagined my recovery would 
 be rapid enough when once commenced. These 
 opinions he delivered in few words, in a quiet, 
 low voice ; and added, after a pause, in the tone 
 of a man little accustomed to expansive com- 
 ment, "rather an unusual physiognomy: cer- 
 tainly, not indicative of vulgarity or degrada- 
 tion." 
 
 " Far otherwise," responded Diana. " To 
 speak truth, St. John, my heart rather warms 
 to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able 
 to benefit her permanently." 
 
 " That is hardly likely," was the reply. " You 
 will find she is some young lady who has had a 
 misunderstanding with her friends, and has 
 probably injudiciously left them. We may, 
 perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them, if 
 she is not obstinate ; but I trace lines of force 
 in her face which make me skeptical of her 
 tractability." He stood considering me some 
 minutes ; then added, " She looks sensible, but 
 not at ail handsome." 
 
 "She is so ill, St. John." 
 
 " 111 or well, she would always be plain. The 
 grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting 
 in those features." 
 
 On the third day, I was better ; on the fourth, 
 I could speak, move, rise in bed, and turn. Han- 
 nah had brought me some gruel and dry toast, 
 about, as I supposed, the dinner hour. I had 
 eaten with relish : the food was good — void of 
 the feverish flavor which had hitherto poisoned 
 what I had swallowed. When she left me, I 
 felt comparatively strong and revived ; ere long 
 satiety of repose, and desire for action stirred 
 me. I wished to rise ; but what could I put on 1 
 Only my damp and bemired apparel ; in which 
 I had slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. 
 I felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors 
 30 clad. I was spared the humiliation. 
 
 On a chair by the bedside were all my own 
 things, clean and dry. My black silk frock hung 
 against the wall. The traces of the bog were 
 removed from it ; the creases left by the wet, 
 smoothed out ; it was quite decent. My very 
 shoes and stockings were purified and rendered 
 presentable. There were the means of wash- 
 ing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth 
 my hair. After a weary process, and resting 
 every five mmutes, I succeeded in dressing my- 
 self My clothes hung loose on me^ for 1 was 
 much wasted ; hut I covered deficiencies with 
 a shawl, an*!, once more clean and respectable- 
 looking— no speck of the dirt, no trace yf the 
 disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to 
 degrade me, left — I crept down u stone stair- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 181 
 
 ease, with the aid of the banisters, to a narrow, 
 low passage, and found my way presently to 
 the kitchen. 
 
 It was full of the fragrance of new bread, and 
 the warmth of a generous fire. Hannali was 
 baking. Prejudices, it is well. known, are most 
 difficult to eradicate from tiie heart whose soil 
 has never been iDOsened or fertilized by educa- 
 tion ; they grow there, firm as weeds among 
 stones. Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, 
 at the first : latterly, she had begun to relent a 
 little ; and when she saw me come in tidy and 
 ■well-dressed, she even smiled. 
 
 "What, you have got up?" she said. "You 
 are better, then. You may sit down in my 
 chair on the hearthstone, if you will." 
 
 She pointed to the rocking-chair; I took it. 
 She bustled about, examining me every now 
 and then with the corner of her eye. Turning 
 to me, as she took sonic loaves from the oven, 
 she asked, bluntly, 
 
 " Did you ever go a-begging afore you came 
 here?" 
 
 I was indignant for a moment ; but remember- 
 ing that anger was out of the question, and that 
 I had indeed appeared as a beggar lo her, I an- 
 swered quietly, but still not without a certain 
 marked firmness, 
 
 "You are mistaken, in supposing me a beg- 
 gar. I am no beggar, any more than yourself 
 or your young ladies." 
 
 After a pause, she said, " I dunnut under- 
 stand that : you've like no house, nor no brass, 
 I guess?" 
 
 " The want of house or brass (by which I 
 suppose you mean money) does not make a beg- 
 gar in your sense of the word." 
 
 " Are you book-learned ?" she inquired, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "Yes, very." 
 
 " But you've never been to boarding-school ?" 
 
 "I was at a boarding-school eight years." 
 
 She opened her eyes wide. " Whatever can 
 not ye keep yourseln for, then 1" 
 
 " I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep 
 myself again. What are you going to do with 
 these gooseberries ?" I inquired, as she brought 
 out a basket of the fruit. 
 
 " Mak' em into pies." 
 
 " Give them to me and I'll pick them," 
 
 " Nay ; I dunnut want ye to do naught." 
 
 " But I must do something. Let me have 
 them." 
 
 She consented ; and she even brought me a 
 clean towel to spread over my dress, "lest," as 
 she said, "I should mucky it." 
 
 " Ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, I 
 see by your hands," she remarked. "Happen 
 ye've been a dressmaker?" 
 
 " No, you are wrong. And now, never mind 
 what I have been ; don't trouble your head fur- 
 ther 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 stay- 
 ing awhile. When he is at home, he is in his 
 own parish at Morton." 
 
 " That village a fewr miles off t" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 "And what is hel" 
 " He is a parson." 
 
 I remembered the answer of the old house- 
 keeper at the parsonage, when 1 had asked to 
 see the clergyman. "This, then, was his fa- 
 ther's residence?" 
 
 "Ay; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his fa- 
 ther, and grandfather, and gurt (great) grand- 
 father afore him." 
 
 " The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. 
 St. John Rivers?" 
 
 "Ay ; 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 v/ith the family long?" 
 " I've lived here thirty year. I nursed them 
 all three." 
 
 "That proves you must have been an honest 
 and faithful servant. I will say so much for 
 you, though you have had the incivility to call 
 me a beggar." 
 
 She again regarded me with a surprised stare. 
 " I believe," she said, " 1 was quite mista'en in 
 my thoughts of you ; but there is so mony cheats 
 goes about, you mun forgie me." 
 
 "And though," I continued, rather severely, 
 "you wished to turn me from the door, on a 
 night when you should not have shut out a 
 dog." 
 
 " Well, it was hard : but what can a body do ! 
 I thought more o' lli' childer nor of mysel ; poor 
 things ! They've like nobody to tak' care on 
 em but me I'm like to look sharpish." 
 
 I maintained a grave silence for some min- 
 utes. 
 
 " You munnut think too hardly of me," she 
 again remarked. 
 
 " But I do think hardly of you," I said ; " and 
 I'll tell you why — not so much because you re- 
 fused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an 
 impostor, as because you just now made it a 
 species of reproach that I had no " brass" and 
 no house. Some of the best people that ever 
 lived have been as destitute as I am; and if you 
 are a Christian, you ought not to consider pov- 
 erty a crime." 
 
 " No more I ought ;" said she ; " Mr. St. John 
 tells me so too ; and I see 1 wor wrang — but 
 I've clear a difTerent notion on you now to what 
 I had. You look a raight down dacent little 
 crater." 
 
 " That will do — I forgive you now. Shake 
 hands." 
 
 She put her floury and horny hand into mine ; 
 another and heartier smile illumined her rough 
 face, and from that moment we were friends. 
 
 Hannah was evidently lond of talking. While 
 I picked the fruit, and she made the paste for 
 the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry de- 
 tails about her deceased master and mistress, 
 and "the childer," as she callecf the youog 
 people. 
 
 Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain ttian 
 enough ; but a gentleman, and of as ancient a 
 family as could be found. Marsh-End had be- 
 longed to the Rivers' ever since it was a house t 
 
132 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 and it was, she affirmed, " aboon two hundred 
 year old — for all it looked but a small, humble 
 place, naught to compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand 
 hall down i' Morton Vale. But she could re- 
 member Bill Oliver's father, a journeyman 
 needle-maker ; apd th' Rivers' wor gentry i' th' 
 owd days o' th' Henrys, as ony body might see 
 by looking into th' registers i' Morton Church 
 vestry." Still, she allowed, " the owd maister 
 was like other folk — naught mich out o' t' com- 
 mon way : stSrk mad o' shooting, and farming, 
 arid sich like." The mistress was different. 
 She was a great reader, and studied a deal ; 
 and the " bairns" had taken after her. There 
 was nothing like them in these parts, nor ever 
 had been : they had liked learning, all three, 
 almost from the time they could speak ; and 
 they had always been " of a mak' of their own." 
 Mr. St. John, when he grew up, would go to 
 college and be a parson ; and the girls, as soon 
 as they left school, would seek places as gov- 
 ernesses : for they had told her their father had 
 some years ago lost a great deal of money, by a 
 man he had trusted turning bankrupt ; and as 
 he was now not rich enough to give them for- 
 tunes, they must provide for themselves. They 
 had lived very little at home for a long while, 
 and were only come now to stay a few weeks 
 on account of their father's death : but they did 
 so like Marsh-End and Morton, and all these 
 moors and hills about. They had been in Lon- 
 don, and many other grand towns : but they 
 always said there was no place like home : and 
 then they\vere so agreeable with each other — 
 never fell out nor " threaped." She did not 
 know where there was such a fainily for being 
 united. 
 
 Having finished my task of gooseberry pick- 
 ing, I asked where the two ladies and their 
 brother were now. 
 
 " Gone over to Morton for a walk ; but they 
 would be back in half an hour to tea." 
 
 They returned within the time Hannah had 
 allotted them ; they entered by the kitchen 
 door. Mr. St. John, when he saw me, merely 
 bowed and passed through ; the two ladies 
 stopped : Mary, in a few words, kindly and 
 calmly expressed the pleasure she felt in seeing 
 mo well enough to be able to come down ; Diana 
 took my hand : she shook her head at me. 
 
 "You should have waited for ray leave to 
 descend," she said. " You still look very pale 
 — and so thin ! Poor child ! poor girl !" 
 
 Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the 
 cooing of a dove. She possessed eyes whose 
 gaze 1 delighted to encounter. Her whole face 
 seemed to me full of charm. Mary's counte- 
 nance was equally intelligent — her features 
 equally pretty : but her expression was more 
 reserved ; and her manners, though gentle, 
 more distant. Diana looked and spoke with a 
 certain authority : she had a will evidently. It 
 was my nature to feel pleasure in yielding to 
 an authority supported like hers ; and to bend, 
 where my conscience and self-respect permitted, 
 to an active will. 
 
 "Anit^vhat business have you here?" she 
 continued. " It is not your place. Mary and I 
 sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home 
 ■we like to be free, even to license — but you are 
 a visitor, and must go into the parlor." 
 " I um very well here." 
 
 " Not at all — with Hannah bustling about and 
 covering you with flour." 
 
 " Besides, the fire is too hot for you," inter- 
 posed Mary. 
 
 ," To be sure," added her sister. " Come, 
 you must be obedient." And still holding my 
 hand, she made me rise, and led me into the 
 inner room. 
 
 " Sit there," she said, placing me on the sofa, 
 " while we take our things off and get the tea 
 ready : it is another privilege we exercise ia 
 our little moorland home — to prepare our owa 
 meals when we are so inclined ; or when Han- 
 nah is baking, brewing, washing, or ironing." 
 
 She closed the door, leaving me solus with: 
 Mr. St. John, who sat opposite ; a book or 
 newspaper in his hand. I examined, first, the 
 parlor, and then its occupant. 
 
 The parlor was rather a small room, very 
 plainly furnished, yet comfortable, because 
 clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were 
 very bright, and the walnut-wood table was like 
 a looking-glass. A few strange, antique por- 
 traits of the men and women of other days 
 decorated the stained walls ; a cupboard with, 
 glass doors contained some books and an an- 
 cient set of china. There was no superfluous 
 ornament in the room — not one modern piece 
 of furniture, save a brace of work-boxes and 3 
 lady's desk in rosewood, which stood on a side- 
 table : every thing — including the carpet and 
 curtains — looked at once well worn and well 
 saved. 
 
 Mr. St. John — sitting as still as one of the 
 dusky pictures on the walls, keeping his eyes 
 fixed on the page he perused, and his lips mutely 
 sealed — was easy enough to examine. Had he 
 been a statue instead of a man, he couVi not 
 have been easier. He was young — perhaps 
 from twenty-eight to thirty — tall, slender ; his 
 face riveted the eye : it was like a Greek face, 
 very pure in outline ; quite a straight, classic 
 nose ; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It 
 is seldom, indeed, an English face comes so 
 near the antique models as did his. He might 
 well be a little shocked at the irregularity of my 
 lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His 
 eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes ; 
 his high forehead, colorless as ivory, was par- 
 tially streaked over by careless locks of fair 
 hair. 
 
 This is a gentle delineation, is it noi, reader? 
 Yet he whom it describes scarcely impressed 
 one with the idea of a gentle, a yielding, aa 
 impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quies- 
 cent as he now sat, there was something about 
 his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to my 
 perceptions, indicated elements within either 
 restless, or hard, or eager. He did not speak 
 to me one word, nor even direct to me one 
 glance, till his sisters returned. Diana, as she 
 passed in and out, in the course of preparing 
 tea, brought me a little cake, baked on the top 
 of the oven. 
 
 "Eat that now," she said; "you must be 
 hungry. Hannah says you have had nothing 
 but some gruel since breakfast." 
 
 I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awa- 
 kened and keen. Mr. Rivers now closed his 
 book, approached the table, and, as he took a 
 seat, fixed his blue, pictorial-looking eyes full 
 upon me. There was aa unceremonious di- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 133 
 
 Tectness, a searching, decided steadfastness in 
 his gaze now, whicli told that intention, and 
 not diffidence, hadhitlierto kept it averted from 
 the stranger. 
 
 "You are very hungry," he said. 
 
 " I am, sir." It is my way — it always vyas 
 my way by instinct — ever to meet the brief 
 with brevity, the direct with plainness. 
 
 " It is well for you that a low fever has forced 
 you to abstain for the lasf three days ; there 
 would have been danger in yielding to the crav- 
 ings of your appetite at first. Novir you may 
 eat ; though still not immoderately." 
 
 " I trust that I shall not eat long at your ex- 
 pense, sir," was my very clumsily-contrived, 
 unpolished answer. 
 
 " No," he said, coolly ; " when you have in- 
 dicated to us the residence of your friends, we 
 can write to them, and you may be restored to 
 home." 
 
 " That, I must plainly tell you, it is out of 
 my potver to do ; being absolutely without 
 home and friends." 
 
 The three looked at me ; but not distrustful- 
 ly. I felt there was no suspicion in their glan- 
 ces : there was more of curiosity. I speak 
 particularly of the young ladies. St. John's 
 eyes, though clear enough in a literal sense, 
 in a figurative one were difficult to fathom. He 
 seemed to use them rather as instruments to» 
 search other people's thoughts, than as agents 
 to reveal his own ; the which combination of 
 ieenness and reserve was considerably more 
 calculated to embarrass than to encourage. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," he asked, " that you 
 are completely isolated from every connection?*" 
 
 " I do. Not a tie links me to any living 
 thing, not a claim do I possess to admittance 
 under any roof in England." 
 , " A most singular position at your age !" 
 
 Here I saw his glance directed to my hands, 
 which were folded on the table before. I won- 
 dered what he sought there ; his words soon 
 explained the quest. 
 
 " You have never been married ] You are 
 a spinster 1" 
 
 Diana laughed. " Why, she can't be above 
 seventeen or eighteen years old, St. John," 
 said she. 
 
 " I am near nineteen, but I am not married. 
 No." 
 
 I felt a burning glow mount to my face, for 
 bitter and agitating recollections were awaken- 
 ed by the allusion to marriage. They all saw 
 the embarrassment and the emotion. Diana 
 and Mary relieved me by turning their eyes 
 elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage ; but 
 the colder and sterner brother continued to 
 gaze, till the trouble he had excited forced out 
 tears as well as color. 
 
 *' Where did you last reside 1" he now asked. 
 
 " You are "too inquisitive, St. John," mur- 
 mured Mary, in a low voice ; but he leaned over 
 the table and required an answer, by a second 
 firm and piercing look. 
 
 " The name of the place where, and of the 
 person with whom I lived, is my secret," I re- 
 plied, 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 can not help you," he said. "And 
 you need help, do you not 1" i 
 
 " I need it, and I seek it ; so far, sir, that 
 some true philanthropist will put me in the 
 way of getting work which I can do, and the 
 remuneration for which will keep me, if but 
 in the barest necessaries of life." 
 
 " I know not whether I am a true philanthro- 
 pist, yet I am willing to aid you to the utmost 
 of my power in a purpose so honest. First, 
 then, tell me what you have been accustomed 
 to do, and what you can do." 
 
 I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily 
 refreshed by the beverage, as much so as a giant 
 with wine ; it gave new tone to my unstrung 
 nerves, and enabled me to address this pene- 
 trating young judge steadily. 
 
 "Mr. Rivers," I said, turning to him, and 
 looking at him as he looked at me, openly and 
 without diffidence, " you and your sisters have 
 done me a great service, the greatest man can 
 do his fellow-being : you liaye rescued me, by 
 your noble hospitality, from death. This bene- 
 fit conferred gives you an unlimited claim on 
 my gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent, 
 on my confidence. I will tell you as much of 
 the history of the wanderer you have harbored 
 as I can tell without compromising my own 
 peace of mind — my own security, moral and 
 physical, and that of others. 
 
 " I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergy- 
 man. My parents died before I could know 
 them. I was brought up a dependent ; educa- 
 ted at a charitable institution. I will even tell 
 you the name of the establishment, where I 
 passed six years as a pupil, and two as a teach- 
 er, Lowood Orphan Asylum, shire : you 
 
 will have heard of it, Mr. Rivers 1 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 be- 
 come a private governess. I obtamed a good 
 situation, and was happy. This place I was 
 obliged to leave four days before I came here. 
 The reason of my departure I can not and ought 
 not to explain ; it would be useless, dangerous, 
 and would sound incredible. No blame at- 
 tached to me ; I am as free from culpability as 
 any one of- you three. Miserable I am and 
 must be for a time, for the catastrophe which 
 drove me from a house I had found a paradise 
 was of a strange and direful nature. I observed 
 but twopoints in planning my departure — speed, 
 secrecy ; to secure these, I had to leave be- 
 hind me every thing I possessed, except a small 
 parcel, which, in my hurry and trouble of mind, ■ 
 I forgot to take out of the coach that brought 
 me to Whitcross. To this neighborhood, then, 
 I came, quite destitute. I slept two nights ia 
 the open air, and wandered about two days 
 without crossing a threshold ; but twice in that 
 space of time did I taste food, and it was when 
 brought by hunger, exhaustion, and despair, 
 almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, 
 forbade me to perish with want at your door, 
 and took me under the shelter of your roof. I 
 know all your sisters have done for me since, 
 for I have not been insensible during my seem- 
 ing torpor, and I owe to their spontaneous, 
 genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as 
 to your evangelical charity." 
 
134 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Don't make her talk any more now, St. 
 John," said Diana, as 1 paused; "she is evi- 
 dently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the 
 sofa, and sit down now, Miss Elliott." 
 
 I gave an involuntary half-start at hearing 
 the alias; I had forgotten my new name. Mr. 
 Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, no- 
 ticed it at once. 
 
 " You said your name was Jane Elliott V' he 
 observed. 
 
 " I did say so, and it is the name by which I 
 think it expedient to be called at present ; but it 
 is not my real name, and when 1 hear it it 
 sounds strange to me." 
 
 " Your real name you will aot give 1" 
 
 "No ; I fear discovery above all things, and 
 whatever disclosure would lead to it I avoid." 
 
 " You are quite right, I am sure," said Diana. 
 " Now, do, brother, let her be at peace a while." 
 
 But when St. John had mused a few mo- 
 ments, he recommenced, as imperturbably, and 
 ■with as much acumen as ever. 
 
 " You would not like to be long dependent on 
 our hospitality — you would wish, I see, to dis- 
 pense as soon as may be with my sisters' com- 
 passion ; and, above all, with my charity (I am 
 quite sensible of the distinction drawn, nor do 
 I resent it — it is just) : you desire to be inde- 
 pendent of usi" 
 
 " I do ; I have already said so. Show me 
 how to work, or how to, seek work ; that is all 
 I now ask ; then let me go, if it be but to the 
 meanest cottage — but till the?}, allow me to stay 
 here ; I dread another essay of the horrors of 
 homeless destitution." 
 
 "Indeed, you shall stay here," said Diana, 
 putting her white hand on my head. " You 
 shall," repeated Mary, in the tone of undemon- 
 strative sincerity, which seemed natural to her. 
 1 " My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in 
 keeping you," said Mr. St. John, "as they would 
 have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a 
 half-frozen bird, some wintry wind might have 
 driven through their casement. / feel more in- 
 clination to put you in the way of keeping your- 
 self, and shall endeavor to do so ; but observe, 
 my sphere is narrow. I am hut the incumbent 
 of a poor country parish ; my aid rnust be of 
 the humblest sort. And if you are inclined to 
 despise the day of small things, seek some more 
 etiicient succor than such as I can offer." 
 
 " She has already said that she is willing to 
 do any thing honest she can do," answered Di- 
 ana, for me ; " and you know, St. John,, she has 
 DO choice of helpers ; she is forced to put up 
 with such crusty people as you." 
 
 "I will be a dressmaker; I will be a plain- 
 work-woman ; I will be a servant, a nurse-girl, 
 if I can be no better," I answered. 
 
 " Right," said Mr. St. John, quite coolly. " If 
 such is your spirit, 1 promise to aid you — in my 
 own time and way." 
 
 He now resumed the book with which he 
 had been occupied before tea. I soon with- 
 drew ; for I had talked as much, and sat up as 
 long, as my present strength would permit. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 The more I knew of the inmates of Moor 
 House, the better I liked them. In a few days 
 
 I had 30 far recoTered my health that I could 
 sit up all day, and walk out sometimes. I could 
 join with Diana and Mary in all their occupa- 
 tions ; converse with them as much as they 
 wished, and aid them when and where they 
 would allow me. There was a reviving pleas- 
 ure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by 
 me for the first time — the pleasure arising from 
 perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and 
 principles. 
 
 I liked to read what they liked to read ; what 
 they enjoyed, delighted me ; what they ap- 
 proved, I reverenced. They loved their se- 
 questered home. I, too, in the gray, small, 
 antique structure, with its low roof, its latticed 
 casements, its moldering walls, its avenue of 
 aged firs — all grown aslant imder the stress of 
 mountain winds ; its garden, dark with yew 
 and holy — and where no flowers but of the hard- 
 iest species would bloom — found a charm, both, 
 potent and permanent. They clung to the 
 purple moors behind and around their dwelling 
 — to the hollow vale into which the pebbly bri- 
 dle-path leading from their gate descended ; 
 and which wound between fern-banks first, and- 
 then among a few of the wildest little pasture- 
 fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, 
 or gave sustenance to a flock of gray moorland 
 sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs ; 
 they clung to this scene, I say, with a perfect 
 enthusiasm of attachment. I could compre- 
 hend the feeling, and share both its strength 
 and truth. I saw the fascination of the local- 
 ity. I felt the consecration of its loneliness ; 
 my eye feasted on the outline of swell and 
 sweep — on the wild coloring communicated to 
 ridge and dell, by moss, by heath-bell, by flower- 
 sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and mellow 
 granite crag. These details were just to me 
 what they were to them — so many pure and 
 sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast 
 and the soft breeze ; the rough and the halcyon 
 day ; the hours of suijrise and sunset ; the 
 moonlight and the clouded night, developed for 
 me, in these regions, the same attraction as for 
 them — wound round my faculties the same 
 spell that entranced theirs. 
 
 In-doors we agreed equally well. They were 
 both more accomplished and better read than 
 I was ; but with eagerness I followed in the 
 path of knowledge they had trodden before me. 
 I devoured the books they lent me ; then it was 
 full satisfaction to discuss with them in the 
 evening what I had perused during the day. 
 Thought fitted thought , opinion met opinion ; 
 we coincided, in short, perfectly. 
 
 " If in our trio there was a superior and a 
 leader, it was Diana. Physically, she far ex- 
 celled me ; she was handsome ; she was vigor- 
 ous. In her animal t-piriis there was an af- 
 fluence of life and certainty of flow, such as 
 excited my wonder, while it baffled my com- 
 prehension. I could talk a while when the even- 
 ing commenced; but the first gush of vivacity 
 and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at 
 Diana's feet, to rest my head on her knee, and 
 listen alternately to her and Mary; while they 
 sounded thoroughly the topic on which I had 
 but touched. Diana offered to teach nic Ger- 
 man. I liked to learn of her; I saw the part 
 of instructress pleased and suited her ; that of 
 scholar pleased and suited me no less. Our 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 135 
 
 natures dovetailed, mutual affection of the 
 Btrongest kind was the result. They discover- 
 ed I could draw; their pencils and color-hoxes 
 were immediately at my service. My skill, 
 greater in this one point than theirs, surprised 
 and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch 
 we by the hour together ; then she would take 
 lessons ; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous 
 pupil she made. Thus occupied, and mutually 
 entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks 
 like days. 
 
 . As to Mr. St. John, the intimacy which had 
 arisen so naturally and rapidly between me 
 and his sisters did not extend to him. One 
 reason of the distance yet observed between us 
 was, that he was comparatively seldom at 
 home ; a large proportion of his time appeared 
 devoted to visiting the sick and poor among 
 the scattered population of his parish. 
 I-- No weather seemed to hinder him in these pas- 
 toral excursions ; rain or fair, he would, when 
 his hours of morning study were over, take his 
 hat, and, followed by his father's old pointer. 
 Carlo, go out on his mission of love or duty — 
 I scarcely know in which light he regarded it 
 Sometimes, when the day was very unfavora- 
 ble, his sisters would expostulate. He would 
 then say, with a peculiar smile, more solemn 
 than cheerful — 
 
 "And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling 
 of rain turn me aside from these easy tasks, 
 ■what preparation vi'ould such sloth be for the 
 future I propose to myself 1" 
 
 Diana and Mary's general answer to this 
 question was a sigh, and some minutes of ap- 
 parently mournful meditation. 
 
 But besides his frequent absences, there was 
 another barrier to friendship with him ; he 
 seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, and even 
 a brooding nature. Zealous in his ministerial 
 labors, blameless in his life and habits, he yet 
 did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity, 
 that inward content, which should be the re- 
 ward of every sincere Christian and practical 
 philanthropist. Often, of an evening, when he 
 sat at the window, his desk and papers before 
 him, he would cease reading or writing, rest 
 his chin on his hand, and deliver himself up to 
 I know not what course of thought ; but that it 
 ■was perturbed and exciting might be seen in 
 the frequent flash and changeful dilation of his 
 eye. 
 
 I think, moreover, that Nature was not to 
 him that treasury of delight it was to his sis- 
 ters. He expressed once, and but once in my 
 hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of 
 the hills, and an inborn aftection for the dark 
 roof and hoary walls he called his home ; but 
 there was more of gloom than pleasure in the 
 tone and words in which the sentiment was 
 nianifesied ; and never did he seem to roam 
 the moors for the sake of their soothing silence 
 — never seek out or dwell upon the thousand 
 peacefui delighis they could yield. 
 
 Incommunicative as he was, some time 
 elapsed before I had an opportunity of guaging 
 his mind. I first got an idea of its caliber 
 ■when I heard him preach in his own church at 
 Morton. I wish I could describe that sermon ; 
 but it is past my power. I can not even ren- 
 der faithfully the effect it produced on me. 
 It began calm — and indeed, as far as delivery 
 
 and pitch oi voice went, it was calm to the 
 end ; an earnestly felt, yet strictly restrained 
 zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, and 
 prompted the nervous language. This grew 
 to force — compressed, condensed, controlled. 
 The heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by 
 the power of the preacher; neither were soft- 
 ened. Throughout there was a strange bitter- 
 ness ; an absence of consolatory gentleness ; 
 stern allusions to Calvinistic doctrines — elec- 
 tion, predestination, reprobation — were fre- 
 quent ; and each reference to these points 
 sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. 
 When he had done, instead of feeling better, 
 calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, I 
 experienced an inexpressible sadness ; for it 
 seemed to me — I know not whether equally so 
 to others — that the eloquence to which I had 
 been listening had sprung from a depth where 
 lay turbid dregs of disappointment — where 
 moved troubling impulses of insatiate yearnings 
 and disquieting aspirations.- I was sure St. 
 John Rivers — pure-lived, conscientious, zeal- 
 ous as he was — had not yet found that peace 
 of God which passeth all understanding ; he 
 had no more found it, I thought, than had I ; 
 with my concealed and racking regrets for my 
 broken idol and lost elysium — regrets to which 
 I have latterly avoided referring ; but which 
 possessed me and tyrannized over me ruth- 
 lessly. 
 
 Meantime, a month was gone. Diana and 
 Mary were soon to leave Moor House, and re- 
 turn to the far different life and scene which 
 awaited them, as governesses in a large, fash- 
 ionable, south-of-England city ; where each 
 held a situation in families, by whose wealthy 
 and haughty members they were regarded only 
 as humble dependents, and who neither knew 
 nor sought one of their innate excellences, and 
 appreciated only their acquired accomplish- 
 ments as they appreciated the skill of their 
 cook, or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr. 
 St. John had said nothing to me yet about the 
 employment he had promised to obtain for me ; 
 yet it became urgent that I should have a vo- 
 cation of some kmd. One morning, being left 
 alone with him a few minutes in the parlor, I 
 ventured to approach the window-recess — 
 which his table, chair, and desk consecrated as 
 a kind of study — and I was going to speak ; 
 though not very well knawing in what words 
 to frame my inquiry — for it is at all times diffi- 
 cult to break the ice of reserve glassing over 
 such natures as his — when he saved me the 
 trouble, by being the first to commence a dia- 
 logue. 
 
 Looking up as I drew near — "You have a 
 question to ask of me V' he said. 
 
 " Yes ; I wish to know whether you have 
 heard of any service I can offer myself to un- 
 dertake." 
 
 " I found or devised something for you three 
 weeks ago ; but as you seemed both useful and 
 happy here — as my sisters had evidently be- 
 come attached to you, and your society gave 
 them unusual pleasure — I deemed it inexpe- 
 dient to break in on your mutual comfort till 
 their approaching departure from Marsh-End 
 should render yours necessary." 
 
 "And they will go in three days now?" I 
 said. 
 
136 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " Yes ; and when they go, I shall return to 
 the parsonage at Morton ; Hannah will accom- 
 pany me ; and this old house will be shut up." 
 
 I waited.a few moments expecting he would 
 go on with the subject first broached ; but he 
 seemed to have entered another train of reflec- 
 tion ; his look denoted abstraction from me and 
 my business. I was obliged to recall him to a 
 theme which was of necessity one of close and 
 anxious interest to me. 
 
 " What is the employment you had in view, 
 Mr. Rivers 1 I hope this delay will not have 
 increased the difficulty of securing it." 
 
 " Oh, no ; since it is an employment which 
 depends only on me to give, and you to accept." 
 
 He again paused, there seemed a reluctance 
 to continue. I grew impatient ; a restless 
 movement or two, and an eager and exacting 
 glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feel- 
 ing to him as effectually as words could have 
 done, and with less trouble. 
 
 " You need be in no hurry to hear," he said; 
 " let me frankly tell you, I have nothing eligi- 
 ble or profitable to suggest. Before I explain, 
 recall, if you please, my notice, clearly given, 
 that if I helped you, it must be as the blind 
 man would help the lame. I am poor ; for I 
 find that, when I have paid my father's debts, 
 all the patrimony remaining to me will be this 
 crumbling grange, the row of scathed firs be- 
 hind, and the patch of moorish soil, with the 
 yew-trees and holly-bushes in front. I am ob- 
 scure ; Rivers is an old name ; but of the three 
 sole descendants of the race, two earn the de- 
 pendent's crust among strangers, and the third 
 considers himself an alien from his native coun- 
 try — not only for life, but in death. ' Yes, and 
 deems, and is bound to deem himself honored 
 by the lot ; and aspires but after the day when 
 the cross of separation from fleshly ties shall 
 be laid on his shoulders, and when the Head of 
 that church-militant of whose humblest mem- 
 bers he is one, shall give the word, ' Rise, fol- 
 low me !' " 
 
 St. John said these words as he pronounced 
 his sermons, with a quiet, deep voice ; with an 
 unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance 
 of glance. He resumed — 
 
 " And since I am myself pooT' and obscure, I 
 can offer you but a service of poverty and 
 obscurity. You m.ay even think it degrading — 
 for I see now your habits have been what the 
 world calls refined ; your tastes lean to the 
 ideal ; and your society has at least been 
 among the educated — but I consider that no 
 service degrades which can better our race. I 
 hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the 
 soil where the Christian laborer's task of 
 tillage is appointed him— the scantier the meed 
 his toil brings — the higher the honor. His, 
 under such circumstances, is the destiny of the 
 pioneer ; and the first pioneer of the Gospel 
 were the Apostles — their captain was Jesus, 
 the Redeemer himself" 
 
 ".Welir' I said, as he again paused — "pro- 
 ceed." 
 
 He looked at me before he proceeded ; in- 
 deed, he seemed leisurely to read my face, as 
 if its features and lines were characters on a 
 page. The conclusions drawn from this 
 scrutiny lie partially expressed in his succeed- 
 ing observations. 
 
 " I believe you will accept the post I offer 
 you," said he, "and hold it for a while; not 
 permanently though, any more than I could 
 permanently keep the narrow and narrowing — 
 the tranquil, hidden oflBce of English country 
 incumbent : for in your nature is an alloy as 
 detrimental to repose as that in mine ; though 
 of a different kind." 
 
 " Do explain V I urged, when he halted 
 once. more. 
 
 " I will ; and you shall hear how poor the 
 proposal is — how trivial — how cramping. 1 
 shall not stay long at Morton, now that my 
 father is dead, and that I am my own master. 
 I shall leave the place probably in the course 
 of a twelvemonth ; but while I do stay, I will 
 exert myself to the utmost for its improve- 
 ment. Morton, when I came to it two years 
 ago, had no school ; the children of the poor 
 were excluded from every hope of progress. 
 I established one for boys ; I mean now to open 
 a second school for girls. I have hired a 
 building for the purpose, with a cottage of two 
 rooms attached to it for the mistress's house. 
 Her salary would be thirty pounds a year ; her 
 house is already furnished, very simply, but 
 sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady. Miss 
 Oliver, the only daughter of the sole rich man 
 in my parish — Mr. Oliver, the proprietor of a 
 needle-factory and iron-foundry in the valley. 
 The same lady pays for the education and 
 clothing of an orphan from the workhouse, oa 
 condition that she shall aid the mistress in such, 
 menial offices connected with her own house 
 and the school, as her occupation of teaching 
 will prevent her having time to discharge ia 
 person. Will you be this mistress 1" 
 
 He put the question rather hurriedly; he 
 seemed half to expect an indignant, or at least 
 a disdainful rejection of the offer ; not knowing 
 all my thoughts and feelings, though guessing 
 some, he could not tell in what light the lot 
 would appear to me. In truth it was humble 
 — but then it was sheltered, and I wanted a 
 safe asylum ; it was plodding — but then, com- 
 pared with that of a governess in a rich house, 
 it was independent ; and the fear of servitude 
 with strangers entered my soul like iron ; it 
 was not ignoble — not unworthy — not mentally 
 degrading. I made my decision. 
 
 "I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Rivers; 
 and I accept it with all my heart." 
 
 "But you comprehend mel" he said. "It 
 is a village school ; your scholars will be only 
 poor girls — cottagers' children — at the best, 
 farmers' daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, 
 writing, ciphering, will be all you will have to 
 teach. What will you do with your accom- 
 plishments? What with the largest portion of 
 your mind — sentiments — tastes !" 
 
 " Save them till they are wanted. They will 
 keep." 
 
 " You know what you undertake, then V 
 
 "I do." 
 
 He now smiled ; and not a bitter or a sad 
 smile ; but one well pleased and deeply 
 gratified. 
 
 " And when will you commence the exercise 
 of your function V 
 
 " I will go to my house to-morrow ; and 
 open the school, if you like, next week." 
 
 " Very well ; so be it." 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 137 
 
 He rose and walked through the room. 
 Standing still, he again looked at me. He 
 shook his head. 
 
 " What do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers?" 
 I asked. 
 
 " You will not stay at Morton long ; no, no 1" 
 
 " AVhy V What is your reason for saying 
 sol" 
 
 " I read it in your eye ; it is not of that 
 description which promises the maintenance of 
 an §ven tenor in life." 
 
 " I am not ambitious." 
 
 He started at the word " ambitious." He 
 repeated, "JN'o. What made you think of am- 
 bition ! Who is ambitious 1 I know I am ; 
 but how did you find it out 1" 
 
 " I was speaking of myself " 
 
 " Well, if you are not ambitious, you are — " 
 He paused. 
 
 " What 1" 
 
 " I was going to say, impassioned ; but per- 
 haps you would have misunderstood the word, 
 and been displeased. I mean, that human 
 affections and sympathies have a most power- 
 ful hold on you. I am sure you can not long be 
 content to pass your leisure in solitude; and 
 to devote your working hours to a monoto- 
 nous labor wholly void of stimulus, any more 
 than I can be content," he added, with em- 
 phasis, " to live here buried in morass, pent in 
 ■with mountain — my nature, that God gave me, 
 contravened ; my faculties. Heaven-bestowed, 
 paralyzed — made useless. You hear now how 
 I contradict myself I, who preached content- 
 ment with a humble lot, and justified the voca- 
 tion even of hewers of wood, and drawers of 
 water, in God's service — I, his ordained minis- 
 ter, almost rave in my restlessness. Well, 
 propensities and principles must be reconciled 
 by some means." 
 
 He left the room. In this brief hour I had 
 learned more of him tlvan in the whole previous 
 month ; yet still he puzzled me. 
 
 Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad 
 and silent as the day approached for leaving 
 their brother and their home. They both tried 
 to appear as usual ; but the sorrow they had 
 to struggle against was one that could not be 
 entirely conquered or concealed. Diana in- 
 timated that this would be a different parting 
 from any they had ever yet known. It would 
 probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be 
 a parting for years — it might be a parting for 
 life. 
 
 " He will sacrifice all to his long-framed re- 
 solves," she said ; " natural affection and feel- 
 ings more patent still. St. John looks quiet, 
 Jane, but he liides a fever in his vitals. You 
 ■would think him gentle, yet in some things he 
 is inexorable as death ; and the worst of it is, 
 my conscience will hardly permit movto dis- 
 suade him from his severe decision ; certainly, 
 I can not for a moment blame him for it. It is 
 light, noble. Christian ; yet it breaks my heart." 
 ^ And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary 
 bent her head low over her work. 
 
 " We are now without father ; we shall 
 seen be without home and brother," she 
 murmured. > 
 
 At that moment a little accident supervened, 
 ■which seemed decreed by fate, purposely to 
 prove the truth of the adage, that "misfortunes 
 
 never come singly ;" and to add to their dis- 
 tresses the vexing one of the slip between the 
 cup and the lip. • St. Joim passed the window 
 reading a letter. He entered. ^ 
 
 " Our uncle John is dead," said he. 
 
 Both the sisters seemed struck : not shocked 
 or appalled : the tidings appeared in their eyes 
 rather momentous than afflicting. 
 
 " Dead V repeated Diana. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Sheriveted a searching gaze on her brother's 
 face. " And what then"!" she demanded, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "What then, Di!" he replied, maintaining 
 a marble immobility of feature. "What, then 1 
 Why — nothing. Read." 
 
 He threw a letter into her lap. She glanced 
 over it, and handed it to Mary. Mary perused 
 it in silence, and returned it to her brother. 
 All three looked at each other, and all three 
 smiled — a dreary, pensive smile enough. 
 
 " Amen ! We can yet live," said Diana, at 
 last. 
 
 " At any rate, it makes us no worse off than 
 we were before," remarked Mary. 
 
 " Only it forces rather strongly on the mind 
 the picture of what might have been," said Mr. 
 Rivers ; " and contrasts it somewhat too vivid- 
 ly with what is." 
 
 He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, 
 and then went out. 
 
 For some minutes no one spoke. Diana 
 then turned to me. 
 
 " Jane, you will wonder at us and our mys- 
 teries," she said ; " and think us hard-hearted 
 beings not to be more moved at the death of so 
 near a relation as an uncle ; but we have nev- 
 er seen him or known him. He was my moth- 
 er's brother. My father and he quarreled 
 long ago. It was by his advice that my father 
 risked most of his property in the speculation 
 that ruined him. Mutual recriminations passed 
 between them : they parted in anger, and were 
 never reconciled. My uncle engaged after- 
 ward in more prosperous undertakings : it ap- 
 pears he realized a fortune of twenty thousand 
 pounds. He was never married, and had no 
 near kindred but ourselves, and one other per- 
 son, not more closely related than we. My 
 father always cherished the idea that he would 
 atone for his error by leaving his possessions 
 to us ; that letter informs us that he has be- 
 queathed every penny to the other relation, 
 with the exception of thirty guineas, to be di- 
 vided between St. John, Diana, and Mary Riv- 
 ers, for the purchase of three mourning rings. 
 He had a right, of course, to do as he pleased ; 
 and yet a momentary damp is cast on the spir- 
 its by the receipt of such news.' Mar^ and I 
 would have esteemed ourselves rich with a 
 thousand pounds each ; and to St. John such a 
 sum would have been valuable, for the good it 
 would have enabled him to do." 
 
 This explanation given, the subject was drop- 
 ped, and no further reference made to it, by 
 either Mr. Rivers or his sistefs. The next day, 
 I left Marsh-End for Morton. The day after, 
 Diana and Mary quitted it for distant B — . In 
 a week, Mr. Rivers and Hannah repaired to 
 the parsonage ; and so the old grange was 
 abandoned. 
 
138 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Mv home, then — when I at last find a home 
 
 . is a cottage ; a little room with white-washed 
 
 •walls and a sanded floor, containing four 
 painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, 
 with two or three plates and dishes, and a set 
 of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber of the 
 same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal 
 bedstead and chest of drawers ; small, yet too 
 large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe ; 
 though the kindness of my gentle and generous 
 friends has increased that, by a modest stock 
 of such things as are necessary. 
 
 It is evening. I have dismissed, with the 
 fee of an orange, the little orphan who serves 
 me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the 
 hearth. This morning the village school 
 opened. I had twenty scholars. But three of 
 the number can read ; none write or cipher. 
 Several knit, and a few sew a little. They 
 speak with the broadest accent of the district. 
 At present, they and I have a difficulty in un- 
 derstanding each other's language. Some of 
 them are unmannered, rough, intractable, as 
 well as ignorant ; but others are docile, have a 
 ■wish to learn, and evince a disposition that 
 pleases me. I must not forget that these 
 coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and 
 blood as good as the scions of gen^tlest genealo- 
 gy, and that the germs of native excellence, re- 
 finement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as like- 
 ly to exist in their hearts as in those of the 
 best-born. My duly will be to develop these 
 germs ; surely I shall find some happiness 
 in discharging that office. Much enjoyment I 
 do not expect in the life opening before me ; 
 yet it will, doubtless, if I regulate my mind, 
 and exert my powers as I ought, yield me 
 enough to live on from day to day. 
 
 Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the 
 hours I passed in yonder bare, humble school- 
 room this morning and afternoon 1 Not to de- 
 ceive myself, I must reply — No ; I felt desolate 
 to a degree. I felt — yes, idiot that I am — I felt 
 degraded. I doubted I had taken a step which 
 sunk instead of raising me in the scale of social 
 existence. I was weakly dismayed at the ig- 
 norance, the poverty, the coarseness of all I 
 heard and saw round me. But let me not hate 
 and despise myself too much for these feelings; 
 I know them to be wrong — that is a great step 
 gained ; I shall strive to overcome them. To- 
 morrow, I trust, I shall get the better of them 
 partially ; and in a few weeks, perhaps, they 
 will be quite subdued. In a few months, it is 
 possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and 
 a change for the better in my scholars, may 
 substitute gratification for disgust. 
 
 Meantime, let me ask rnysclf one question — 
 "Which is better^ To have surrendered to 
 temptation ; listened to passion ; made no 
 painful effort — no struggle : but to have sunk 
 down in the silken snare ; fallen on the flow- 
 ers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, 
 among the luxuries of a pleasure-villa ; to have 
 been now living in France, Mr. Rochester's 
 mistress; delirious with his love half my time 
 — for he would— oh, yes, he would have loved 
 me well for a while. He did love me — no one 
 will ever love me so again. I shall never 
 more know the sweet homage given to beauty, 
 
 youth, and graee — for never to any else shall I 
 seem to possess these charms. He was fond 
 and proud of me — it is what no man besides 
 wdl ever be. But where am I wandering, and 
 what am I saying, and, above all, feeling 1 
 Whether it is better, I ask, to be a slave in a 
 fool's paradise at Marseilles — fevered with de- 
 lusive bliss one hour — suflTocating v,'ilh the bit- 
 terest tears of remorse and shame the next — 
 or to be a village schoolmistress, free and hon- , 
 est, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy 
 heart of England? 
 
 Yes : I feel now that 1 was right when I ad- 
 hered to principle and law, and scotned and 
 crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied 
 moment. God directed me to a correct choice : 
 I thank His providence for the guidance ! 
 
 Having brought my eventide musings to this 
 point, I rose, went to my door, and looked at 
 the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet 
 fields before my cottage ; which, with the school, 
 was distant half -a mile from the village. The 
 birds were singing their last strains — 
 
 " The air was mild ; the dew was balm." 
 
 While I looked, I thought myself happy, and 
 was surprised to find myself ere long weeping 
 — and why"! For the doom which had reft me 
 from adhesion to my master : for him I was 
 no more to see ; for the desperate grief and 
 fatal fury — consequences of my departupe — 
 which might now, perhaps, be dragging hini 
 from the path of right, too far to leave hope of 
 ultimate restoration thither. At this thought, I 
 turned my face aside from the lovely sky of eve 
 and lonely vale of Morton — I say lonily, for in 
 that bend of it visible to me, there was no build- 
 ing apparent save the church and the parsonage, 
 half-hid in trees ; and, quite at the extremity, 
 the roof of Vale Hall, where the rich Mr. Oliver 
 and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and 
 leaned my tiead against the stone frame of my 
 door, but soon a slight noise near the wicket 
 which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow 
 beyond it, made me look up. A dog — old Carlo, 
 Mr. Rivers's pointer, as I saw in a moment — 
 was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. 
 John himself leaned upon it with folded arms ; 
 his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost lo dis- 
 pleasure, fixed on me. I asked him to come in. 
 
 " No, I can not stay ; I have only brought 
 you a little parcel my sisters left for you. I 
 think it contains a color-box, pencils, and pa- 
 per." 
 
 I approached to take it ; a welcome gift it 
 was. He examined my face, I thought, with 
 austerity, as I came near : the traces of tears 
 were doubtless very visible upon it. 
 
 " Have you found your first day's work harder 
 than you expected?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, no ! f)n the contrary, I think in time 
 I sliall get on with my scholars very well." 
 
 " But perhaps your accommodations — your 
 cottage — your furniture — have disappointed 
 your expectations 1 They are, in truth, scanty 
 enough ; but" — I interrupted : 
 
 " My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my 
 furniture sufficient and commodious. All I see 
 has made me thankful, not despondent. I am 
 not absolutely such a fool and sensualist as to 
 regret the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and silver 
 plate : besides, five weeks ago I had nothing — 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 139 
 
 I was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant ; now I 
 have acquaintance, a home, a business. I won- 
 der 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 rather dark and 
 empty?" 
 
 " I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense 
 of tranquillity, much less to grow impatient 
 under one of loneliness." 
 
 " Very well ; I hope you feel the content you 
 express ; at any rate, your good sense will tell 
 you that it is too soon yet to yield to the vacil- 
 lating fears of Lot's wife. What you had left 
 before I saw you, of course I do not know ; but 
 I counsel you to resist, firmly, every temptation 
 which would incline you to look back ; pursue 
 your present career steadily, for some months 
 at least." 
 
 " It is what I mean to do," I answered. St. 
 John continued — 
 
 " It is hard work to control the workings of 
 inclination, and turn the bent of nature ; but 
 that it may be done, I know from experience. 
 God has given us, in a measure, the power to 
 make our own fate ; and when our energies 
 seem to demand a sustenance they can not get 
 — when our will strains after a path we may 
 not follow — we need neither starve from inani- 
 tion, nor stand still in despair : we have but to 
 seek another nourishment for the mind, as 
 strong as the forbidden food it longed to taste 
 — and perhaps purer ; and to hew out for the 
 adventurous foot a road as direct and. broad as 
 the one Fortune has blocked up against us, if 
 rougher than it. 
 
 " A year ago, I was myself intensely misera- 
 ble, because I thought I had made a nriistake 
 in entering the ministry ; its uniform duties 
 wearied me to death. I burned for the more 
 active life of the world — for the more exciting 
 toils of a literary career — for the destiny of an 
 artist, author, orator ; any thing rather than 
 that of a priest ; yes, the heart of a politician, 
 of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of re- 
 nown, a luster after power, beat under my 
 curate's surplice. I considered my life was so 
 wretched, it must be changed or I must die. 
 After a season of darkness and struggling, light 
 broke and relief fell : my cramped existence all 
 at once spread out to a plain without bounds — 
 my powers heard a call from Heaven to rise, 
 gather their full strength, spread their wings 
 and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for 
 me ; to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill 
 and strength, courage and eloquence, the best 
 qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, 
 were all needed ; for these all center in the 
 good missionary. 
 
 "A missionary I resolved to be. From that 
 moment my state of mind changed : the fetters 
 dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leav- 
 ing nothing of bondage but its galling soreness 
 — which time only can heal. My father, in- 
 deed, opposed the determination ; but' since his 
 death, I have not a legitimate obstacle to con- 
 tend with ; some afTairs settled, a successor for 
 Morton provided, an entanglement or two of 
 the feelings broken through or cut asunder — a 
 last conflict with human weakness, in which I 
 know I shall overcome, because I have vowed 
 
 that I will overcome — and I leave Europe for 
 the East." 
 
 He said this in hispeculiar, subdued yet em- 
 phatic voice ; looking, when he had ceased 
 speaking, not at me, but at the setting sun, at 
 which I looked too. Both he and I had our 
 backs toward the path leading up the field to 
 the wicket. We had heard no step on that 
 grass-grown track ; the water running in the 
 vale was the one lulling sound of the hour and 
 scene ; we might well then start, when a gay 
 voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed — 
 
 " Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evea- 
 ing, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to recog- 
 nize his friends than you are, sir ; he pricked 
 his ears and wagged his tail when I was at the 
 bottom of the field, and you have your back 
 toward me now." 
 
 It was true. Though Mr. Rivers had started 
 at the first of those musical accents, as if a 
 thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head, he 
 stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the 
 same attitude in which the speaker had sur- 
 prised him: his arm resting on the gate, hist 
 face directed toward the west. He turned at'f 
 last, with measured deliberation. A vision, as 
 it seemed to me, had risen at its side. There 
 appeaired, within three feet of him, a form clad 
 in pure white — a youthful, graceful form : full, 
 yet fine in contour ; and when, after bending to 
 caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw 
 back a long veil, there bloomed under his glance 
 a face of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a 
 strong expression ; but I do not retrace or 
 qualify it ; as sweet features as ever the tem- 
 perate clime of Albion molded ; as pure hues 
 of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and 
 vapory skies generated and screened, justified, 
 in this instance, the term. No charm was 
 wanting, no defect was perceptible ; the young 
 girl had regular and delicate lineaments ; eyes 
 shaped and colored as we see them in lovely 
 pictures, large, and dark, and full ; the long and 
 shadowy eyelash which encircles a fine eye 
 with so soft a fascination ; the penciled brow 
 which gives such clearness ; the white, smooth 
 forehead, which adds such repose to the livelier; 
 beauties of tint and ray ; the cheek, oval, fresh, 
 and smooth ; the lips fresh too, ruddy, healthy, 
 sweetly formed ; the even and gleaming teeth 
 without flaw ; the small, dimpled chin ; the 
 ornament of rich, plenteous tresses — ail advan- 
 tages, in short, which, combined, realize the 
 ideal of beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, 
 as I looked at this fair creature : I admired her 
 with my whole heart. Nature had surely formed 
 her in a partial mood ; and forgetting her usual 
 stinted step-mother dole of gifts, had endowed 
 tliis, her darling, with a granddame's bounty. 
 
 '^What did St. John Rivers think of this 
 earthly angel 1 I naturally asked myself that 
 question as I saw him turn to her and look at 
 her; and, as naturally, I sought the answer to 
 the inquiry in his countenance. He had already 
 withdrawn hiG eye from the Peri, and was look- 
 ing at a humble tuft of daisies which grew by 
 the wicket. 
 
 "A lovely evening; but late for you to ba 
 out alone," he said, as he crushed the snowy 
 heads of the closed flowers with his foot. 
 
 " Ob, I only came home from S (she 
 
 mentioned the name of a large town some tvven ; 
 
140 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ty miles distant) this afternoon. Papa told me 
 you had opened your school, and that the new 
 mistress was corne ; and so I put on ray bonnet 
 after tea, and ran up the valley to see her ; this 
 is she V pointing to me. 
 
 " It is," said St. John. 
 
 "Do yon think you shall like Morton'?" she 
 asked of me, with a direct and naive simplici- 
 ty of tone and manner, pleasing, if childlike. 
 
 " 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 AVoodl" 
 ; "You have, indeed. She is teachable and 
 handy." (This, then, I thought, is Miss Oliver, 
 the heiress, favored, it seems, in the gifts of 
 fortune, as well as in those of nature ! What 
 happy combination of the planets presided over 
 her birth, I wonder 1) 
 
 " I shall come up and help you to teach 
 sometimes," she added. " It will be a change 
 for me to visit you now and then ; and I like a 
 change. Mr. Rivers, I have been so gay during 
 
 my stay at S . Last night, or rather this 
 
 morning, I was dancing till tu'o o'clock. The 
 — th regiment are stationed there, since the 
 riots ; and the officers are the most agreeable 
 men in the world : they put all our young knife- 
 grinders and scissor-merchants to shame." 
 
 It seemed to me that Mr. St. John's under 
 lip protruded, and his upper lip curled a mo- 
 ment. His mouth certainly looked a good 
 deal compressed, and the lower part of his face 
 •unusually stern and square, as the laughing 
 girl gave him this information. He lifted his 
 gaze, too, from the daisies, and turned it on 
 her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning 
 gaze it was. She answered it with a second 
 laugh ; and laughter well became her youth, 
 her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes. 
 
 As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to 
 caressing Carlo. " Poor Carlo loves me," said 
 she " He is not stern and distant to his friends ; 
 and if he could speak, he would not be silent." 
 
 As she patted the dog's head, bending with 
 native grace before his young and austere 
 master, I saw a glow rise to that master's 
 face. I saw his solemn eye melt with suclden 
 fire, and flicker with resistless motion. Flush- 
 ed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beau- 
 tiful for a man as she for a woman. His 
 chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary 
 of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite 
 the Will, and made a vigorous bound for the at- 
 tainment of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, 
 as a resolute rider would a curb a rearing steed. 
 He responded neither by word nor movement to 
 the gentle advances made him. 
 
 "Papa says you never come to see us now," 
 continued Miss Oliver, looking up. "You are 
 quite a stranger at Vale Hall. He is alone this 
 evening, and not very well ; will you return 
 •with mo and visit him?" 
 
 "Ir IS not a seasonable hour to intrude on 
 Mr. Oliver," answered St. John. 
 
 " Not a seasonable hour ! But I declare it 
 is. It is just the hour when papa most wants 
 company ; when the works are closed, and he 
 has no business to occupy him. Now, Mr. 
 Rivers, do come. Why are you so very shy, 
 and so very somber ■?" She filled up the hiatus 
 his silence left by a reply of her own. 
 
 " I forgot,",she exclaimed, shaking her beau- 
 tiful curled head, as if shocked at herself " I 
 am so giddy and thoughtless ! Do excuse me. 
 It had slipped my memory that you have good 
 reasons to be indisposed for joining in my chat- 
 ter. 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." 
 
 " Nat to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night." 
 
 Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton ; 
 himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to 
 refuse. 
 
 " Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave 
 you ; for I dare not stay any longer ; the dew 
 begins to fall. Good-evening !" 
 
 She held out her hand. He just touched it. 
 " Good-evening I" he repeated, in a voice lo"w 
 and hollow as an echo. She turned ; but in a 
 moment returned. 
 
 " Are you well 1" she asked. Well might she 
 put the question : his face was blanched as her 
 gown. 
 
 " Quite well," he enunciated ; and, with a 
 bow, he left the gate. She went one way ; he 
 another. She turned twice to gaze after him, 
 as she tripped fairylike down the field : he, as 
 he strode firmly across, never turned at all. 
 
 This spectacle of another's suflfering and 
 sacrifices wrapped my thoughts from exclusive 
 meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had 
 designated her brother " inexorable as death." 
 She had not exaggerated. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 I CONTINUED the labors of the village school 
 as actively and faithfully as I could. It was 
 truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed, 
 before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend 
 my scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, 
 with faculties quite torpid, they seemed to me 
 hopelessly dull ; and, at first sight, all dull alike ; 
 out I soon found I was mistaken. There was 
 a difference among them as among the educa- 
 ted ; and when I got to know them, and they 
 me, this difference rapidly developed itself. 
 Their amazement at me, my language, my rules 
 and ways, once subsided, I found some of these 
 heavy-looking, gaping rustics, wake up into 
 sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed 
 themselves obliging, and amiable, too ; and I 
 discovered among them not a few examples of 
 natural politeness and innate self-respect, as 
 well as of excellent capacity, that won both 
 my good will and my admiration. These soon 
 took a pleasure in doing their work well— ia 
 keeping their persons neat — in learning their 
 tasks regularly — in acquiring quiet and orderly 
 manners. The rapidity of their progress, ia 
 some instances, was even surprising ; and an 
 honest and happy pride I took in it ; besides, I 
 began personally to like some of the best girls, 
 and they liked me. I bad among my scholars 
 several farmers' daughters— young women 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 141 
 
 grown, almost. These could already read, 
 ■write, and sew ; and to them I taught the ele- 
 ments of grammar, geography, history, and the 
 finer kinds of needlework. I found estimable 
 characters among them — characters jlesirous 
 of information, and disposed for improvement — 
 with whom I passed many a pleasant evening 
 hour in their own homes. Their parents then 
 (the farmer and his wife) loaded mc with atten- 
 tions. There was an enjoyment in accepting 
 their simple kindness, and iu repaying it by a 
 consideration — a scrupulous regard to their 
 feelings — to which they were not, perhaps, at 
 all times accustomed, and which both charmed 
 and benefited them ; because, while it elevated 
 them in their own eyes, it made them emulous 
 to merit the deferential treatment they re- 
 ceived. 
 
 I felt I became a favorite in the neighbor- 
 hood. Whenever I went out, I heard on all 
 sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed 
 with friendly smiles. To live amid general re- 
 gard, though it be but the regard of working- 
 people, is like " sittiqg in sunshine, calm and 
 sweet ;" serene inward feelings bud and bloom 
 under the ray. At this period of rny life, my 
 heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than 
 sunk with dejection ; and yet, reader, to tell 
 you all, in the midst of this calm, this useful 
 existence — after a day passed in honorable ex- 
 ertion among my scholars, an evening spent 
 in drawing or reading contentedly alone — I 
 used to rush into strange dreams at night — 
 dreams many-colored, agitated, ful of the 
 ideal, the stirring, the stormy — dreams where, 
 amid unusual scenes, charged with adventure, 
 with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still 
 again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at 
 some exciting crisis ; and then the sense of 
 being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting 
 his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving 
 him, being loved by him — the hope of passing 
 a hfetime at his side, would be renowned, with 
 all its first force and fire. Then I awoke ; 
 then I recalled where I was, and how situated ; 
 then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trem- 
 bling and quivering ; and then the still, dark 
 night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and 
 heard the burst of passion. By nine o'clock 
 the next morning, I was punctually opening the 
 school — tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady 
 duties of the day. 
 
 Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to 
 visit me. Her call at the school was generally 
 made in the course of her morning ride. She 
 would canter up to the door on her pony, fol- 
 lowed by a mounted livery servant. Any thing 
 more exquisite than her appearance, in her pur- 
 ple habit, with her Amazon's cap of black velvet 
 placed gracefhlly above the long curls that kissed 
 her cheek and floated to her shoulders, can 
 scarcely be imagined ; and it was thus she 
 would enter the rustic building, and glide 
 through the dazzled ranks of the village chd- 
 dren. She generally came at the hour when 
 Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his daily 
 catechising lesson. Keenly, I fear, did the eye 
 of the visitress piierce the young pastor's heart. 
 A sort of instinct seemed to wain 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-speming features, though they re- 
 fused to relax, changed indescribably ; and in 
 their very quiescence became expressive of a 
 repressed fervor, stronger than working muscle 
 or darting glance could indicate. 
 
 Of course, she knew her power ; indeed, he 
 did not, because he could not, conceal it from 
 her. In spite of his Christian stoicism, when 
 she went up and addressed him, and smiled 
 gayly, encouragingly, even fondly in his. face, 
 his hand would tremble, and his eye burn. He 
 seemed to say, with his sad and resolute look, 
 if he did not say it with his lips, " I love you, 
 and T know you prefer me. It is not despair of 
 success that keeps me dumb ; if I offered my 
 heart, I believe you would accept it. But that 
 heart is already laid on a sacred altar — the fire 
 is arranged round it ; it will soon be no more 
 than a sacrifice consumed." 
 
 And then she would pout like a disappointed 
 child ; a pensive cloud would soften her ra- 
 diant vivacity ; she would withdraw her hand 
 hastily from his, and turn in transient petulance 
 from his aspect, at once so heroic and so 
 martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would have 
 given the world to follow, recall, retain her, 
 when she thus left him ; but he would not give 
 one chance of heaven, nor relinquish, for the 
 elysium of her love, one hope of the true, eter- 
 nal paradise. Besides, he could not bound all 
 that he had in his nature — the rover, the aspi- 
 rant, the poet, the priest — in the limits of a sin- 
 gle passion. He could not — he would not — re- 
 nounce his wild field of mission warfare for the 
 parlors and the peace of Vale Hall. I learned 
 so much from himself, in an inroad I once, de- 
 spite his reserve, had the daring to make on his 
 confidence. 
 
 Miss Oliver already honored me with fre- 
 quent visits to my cottage. I had learned her 
 whole character, which was without mystery 
 or disguise ; she was coquetish, but not heart- 
 less — exacting, but not worthlessly selfish. 
 She had been indulged from her birth, but was 
 not absolutely spoiled. She was hasty, but 
 good-humored ; vain (she could not help it, 
 when every glance in the glass showed her 
 such a flush of loveliness), but not affected ; 
 liberal-handed ; innocent of the pride of wealth ; 
 ingenuous ; sufficiently intelligent ; gay, lively, 
 and unthinking ; she was very charming, in 
 short, even to a cool observer of her own sex 
 like me ; but she was not profoundly interest- 
 ing or thoroughly impressive. A very differ- 
 ent sort of mind was hers from that, for in- 
 stance, of the sisters of St. John. Still, I 
 liked her almost as I liked my pupil Adele ; ex- 
 cept that, for a child whom we have watched 
 over and taught, a closer affection is engender- 
 ed than we can give an equally attractive adult 
 acquaintance. 
 
 She had taken an amiable caprice to me. 
 She said I was like Mr. Rivers (only, certainly, 
 she allowed, " not one tenth so handsome ; 
 though I was a nice, neat little soul enough ; ? 
 but he was an angel"). I was, however, good, l5 
 clever, composed, and firm, like him. I was a 
 lusiis natures, she affirmed, as a village school- 
 mistress ; she was sure my previous history, if ], 
 known, would make a delightful romance. 
 
 One evening, whUe with her usual childlike 
 activity, and thoughtless yet not offensive in- 
 
143 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 quisitiveness, she was rummaging the cupboard 
 and the table-drawer of my little kitchen, she 
 discovered first two French books, a volume of 
 Schiller, a German grammar and dictionary ; 
 and then my drawing-materials and some 
 sketches, including a pencil-head of a pretty lit- 
 tle cherub-like girl, one of my scholars, and 
 sundry views from nature, takeru'in the Vale of 
 Morton and on the surrounding moors. She 
 waa first transfixed with surprise, and then 
 electrified with delight. 
 
 "Had I done these pictures! Did I know 
 French and German 1 What a love — what a 
 miracle I was ! I drew better than her iiiastcr 
 
 in the first school in S . Would I sketch a 
 
 portrait of her to show to papal" 
 
 '* With pleasure," I replied ; and I felt a thrill 
 of artist-delight at the idea of copying from so 
 perfect and radiant a model. She had then on 
 a dark-blue silk dress ; her arms and her neck 
 were bare ; her only ornament was her chest- 
 nut tresses, which waved over her shoulders 
 with all the wild grace of natural curls. I took 
 a sheet of fine card-board, and drew a careful 
 outline. I promised myself the pleasure of col- 
 oring it ; and, as it was getting late then, I told 
 her she must come and sit another day. 
 
 She made such a report of me to her father, 
 that Mr. Oliver himself accompanied her next 
 evening — a tali, massive-featured, middle-aged, 
 and gray-headed man, at whose side his lovely 
 daughter looked like a bright flower near a 
 hoary turret. He appeared a taciturn, and per- 
 haps a proud personage ; but he was very kind 
 ' to me. The sketch of Rosamond's portrait 
 pleased him highly ; he said I must make a 
 finished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my 
 coming the next day to spend the evening at 
 Vale Hall. 
 
 I went. I found it a large, handsome resi- 
 dence, showing abundant evidences of wealth 
 in the proprietor. Rosamond was- full of glee 
 and pleasure all the time I stayed. Her father 
 was affable ; and when he entered into conver- 
 sation with me after tea, he expressed in strong 
 terms his approbation of what I had done in Mor- 
 ton school ; and said he only feared, from what 
 he saw and heard, I was too good for the place, 
 and would soon quit it for one more suitable. 
 
 "Indeed!" cried Rosamond, "she is clever 
 enough to be a governess in a high family, papa !" 
 
 I thought — I would far rather be where I am 
 than in any high family iu the land. Mr. Oli- 
 ver spoke of Mr. Rivers— of the Rivers family 
 — with great respect. He said it was a very 
 old name in that neighborhood ; that the an- 
 cestors of the house were wealthy ; that all 
 Morton had once belonged to them ; that even 
 now he considered the representative of that 
 house might, if he liked, make an alliance with 
 the best. He accounted it a pity that so nne 
 and talented a young man should have formed 
 the design of going out as a missionary ; it was 
 quite throwing a valuable life away. It appear- 
 ed, then, that her father would throw no obsta- 
 cle in the way of Rosamond's union with St. 
 John. Mr. Oliver evidently regarded the young 
 clergyman's good birth, old name, and sacred 
 profession, as suflicient compensation for the 
 want of fortune. 
 
 It was ilio fifth of November, and a holyday. 
 My little servant, after helping me to clean my 
 
 house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of 
 a penny for her aid. All about me was spotless 
 and bright — scoured floor, polished grate, and 
 well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself 
 neat, jnd had now the afternoon before me to 
 spend as I would. 
 
 The translation of a few pages of German 
 occupied an hour; then I got my pallet and 
 pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because 
 easier occupation, of completing Rosamond Oli- 
 ver's miniature. The head was finished al- 
 ready ; there was but the background to tint, 
 and the drapery to shade off; a touch of car- 
 mine, too, to add to the ripe lips — a soft curl 
 here and there to the tresses — a deeper tinge 
 to the shadoAv of the lash under the azured eye- 
 lid. I was absorbed in the execution of these 
 nice details, when, after one rapid tap, my door 
 unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers. 
 
 " I am come to see how you are spending 
 your holyday," he said. " Not, I hope, in 
 thought 1 No, that is well ; while you draw 
 you will not feel lonely. . You see, 1 mistrust 
 you still ; though you ^lave borne up wonder- 
 fully so far. I have brought you a book for 
 evening solace," and he laid on the table a new 
 publication — a poem ; one of those genuine 
 productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate 
 public of those days — the golden age of modern 
 literature. Alas ! the readers of our era are 
 less favored. But, courage ! I will not pause 
 either to accuse or repine. I know poetry is 
 not dead, nor genius lost ; nor has Mammon 
 gained power over either, to bind or slay ; they 
 will both assert their existence, their presence, 
 their liberty, and strength again one daj-. Pow- 
 erful angels, safe in heaven ! they smile when 
 sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones weep 
 over their destruction. Poetry destroyed ! Ge- 
 nius banished 1 No ! Mediocrity, no : do not 
 let envy prompt you to the thought. No ; they 
 not only live, but reign, and redeem ; and with- 
 out their divine influence spread every where, 
 you would be in hell — the hell of your own 
 meanness. 
 
 While I was eagerly glancing at the bright 
 pages of Marmion (for Marmion it was), St. 
 John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall 
 figure sprang erect again with a start ; he said 
 nothing. 1 looked up at him ; he shunned my 
 eye. I knew his thoughts well, and could read 
 his heart plainly ; at the moment I felt calmer 
 and cooler than he ; I had then temporarily the 
 advantage of him ; and I conceived an incUna- 
 tion to do him some good, if I could. 
 
 "With all his firmness and self control," 
 thought I, " he tasks himself too far ; locks ev- 
 ery feelmg and pang within — expresses, con- 
 fesses, imparts nothing. I an> sure it would 
 benefit him to talk a little about this sweet Rosa- 
 mond, whom he thinks he ought not to marry ; 
 I will make him talk." 
 
 I said first, " Take a chair, Mr. Rivers." But 
 ho 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, 1 am determined ; solitude is at least as 
 bad for you as it is for me. I'll try if I can not 
 discover the secret spring of your confidence, 
 and find an aperture in that marble breast 
 through which I can shed one drop of the balm 
 of sympathy." 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 14» 
 
 " la this portrait like 1" I asked, bluntly. 
 " Like i Like whom 1 I did not observe it 
 closely." 
 
 "You did, Mr. Rivers." 
 He almost started at niy sudden and strange 
 abruptness; he looked at me astonished. "Oh, 
 that is nothing yet," I muttered within. " I don't 
 mean to be baffled by a little stiffness on your 
 part ; I'm prepared to go to considerable 
 lengliis." I continued, " You observed it close- 
 ly and distinctly ; but I have no objection to 
 your looking at it again," and I rose and placed 
 it in his hand. 
 
 "A well-executed picture," he said; "very 
 soft, clear coloring ; very graceful and correct 
 drawing." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I know all that. But what of 
 the resemblance 1 Who is it like 1" 
 
 Mastering some hesitation, he answered, 
 "Miss Oliver, I presume." 
 
 " Of course. And now, sir, to reward you 
 for the accurate guess, I will promise to paint 
 you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very 
 picture, provided you admit that the gift would 
 be acceptable to you. I don't wish to throw 
 away my time and trouble on an offering yuu 
 would deem worthless." 
 
 He continued to gaze at the picture ; the 
 longer he looked the firmer he held it, the 
 more he seemed to covet it. "It is like !" he 
 murmured ; " the eye is well managed ; the 
 color, light, expression, are perfect. It smiles !" 
 
 "Would it comfort, or would it wound you 
 to have a similar painting? Tell me that. 
 When you are at Madagascar, or at the Cape, 
 or in India^ would it be a consolation to have 
 that memento in your possession ; or would 
 the sight of it bring recollections calculated to 
 enervate and distress 1" 
 
 He now furtively raised his eyes ; he glanced 
 at me irresolute, disturbed ; he again surveyed 
 the picture. 
 
 " That I should like to have it is certain ; 
 whether it would be judicious or wise is an- 
 other question." 
 
 Since I had ascertained that Rosamond 
 really preferred him, and that her father was 
 not likely to oppose the match, I — less exalted 
 in my views than St. John — had been strongly 
 disposed in my own heart to advocate their 
 union. It seemed to me that, should he be- 
 come the possessor of Mr. Oliver's large for- 
 tune, he might do as much good with it as if 
 he went and laid his genius out to wither, and 
 his strength to waste, under a tropical sun. 
 With this persuasion, I now answered : 
 
 " As far as I can see, it would be wiser and 
 more judicious if you were to take to yourself 
 the original at once." 
 
 By this time he had sat down ; he had laid 
 the picture on the table before him, and, with 
 his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly 
 over it. I discerned he was now neither angry 
 nor shocked at my audacity. I saw even that 
 to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he 
 had deemed unapproachable, to hear it thus 
 freely handled, was beginning to be felt by him 
 as a new pleasure, an unliopcd-for relief Re- 
 served people often really need the frank dis- 
 cussion of their sentiments and griefs mere 
 than the expansive. The sternest-seeming 
 stoic is human after all; and to "burst" wiili 
 
 boldness and good will into "the silent sea" of 
 their souls, is often to confer on them the first 
 of obligations. 
 
 " She likes you, I am sure," said I, as I stood 
 behind his chair, "and her father respects you. 
 Moreover, she is a sweet girl — rather thought- 
 less ; but you would have sufficient thought for 
 both yourself and her. You ought to marry 
 her." 
 
 "Docs she like meV he asked. 
 "Certainly; belter than she likes any one 
 else. She talks of you continually; there i3 
 no subject she enjoys so much, or touches upoa 
 so often." 
 
 "It is very pleasant to hear this," he said, 
 " very ; go on for another quarter of an hour." 
 And he actually took out his watch and laid it 
 upon the table to measure the time. 
 
 " But where is the use of going on," I asked, 
 " when you are probably preparing some iron 
 blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chaia 
 to fetter your heart 1" 
 
 "Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy 
 me yielding and melting, as I am doing ; humaa 
 love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my 
 mind, and overflowing with sweet inundatioa 
 all the field I have so carefully, and with such 
 labor, prepared ; so assiduously sown with the 
 seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. 
 And nov/ it is deluged with a nectarious flood ; 
 the young germs swamped, delicious poison 
 cankering them ; now' I see myself stretched 
 on an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale 
 Hall, at my bride Rosamond Oliver's feet ; she 
 is talking to me with her sweet voice, gazing 
 down on me with those eyes your skillful hand 
 has copied so well, smiling at me with these 
 coral lips. She is mine; I am hers ; this pres- 
 ent life and passing world suffice tome. Hush! 
 say nothing, my heart is full of delight, my 
 senses are entranced ; let the time I marked 
 pass in peace." 
 
 I humored him ; the watch ticked on, he 
 breathed fast and low, I stood silent. Amid 
 this hush the quarter sped ; he replacsd the 
 watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood 
 on the hearth. 
 
 " Now," said he, " that little space was given 
 to delirium and delusion. I rested my temples 
 on the breast of temptation, and' put my neck 
 voluntarily under her yoke of flowers ; I tasted 
 her cup. The pillow is burning, there is aa 
 asp in the garland ; the wine has a bitter taste, 
 her promises are hollow, her offers false ; I 86« 
 and know all this." 
 
 I gazed at him in wonder. 
 " It is strange," pursued he, " that while £ 
 love Rosamond OUver so wildly, with all the 
 intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the object 
 of which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful, and 
 fascinating, I experience at the same time a 
 calm, unvvarped consciousness, that she would 
 not make me a good wife ; that she is not the 
 partner suited to me ; that I should discover 
 this within a year after marriage; and that to 
 twelve month's rapture would succeed a life- 
 time of regret. This I know." 
 
 •' Strange, indeed !" I could not help ejacula 
 ting. 
 
 " While something in me," he went on, "is 
 acutely sensible to her charms, something else 
 is as deeply impressed with her defects ; they 
 
144 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 are such that she could sympathize in nothing 
 I aspired to ; co-operate in nothing I under- 
 took. Rosamond a sufferer, a laborer, a fe- 
 male apostle 1 Rosamond a missionary's wife 1 
 No !" 
 
 " But you need not be a missionary. You 
 might relinquish that scheme.'' 
 
 " Relinquish ! What — my vocation 1 My 
 great work 1 My foundation laid on earth for 
 a mansion in heaven 1 My hopes of being 
 numbered in the band who have merged all 
 ambitions in the glorious one of bettering their 
 race ; of carrying knowledge into the realms of 
 ignorance, of substituting peace for war, free- 
 dom for bondage, religion for superstition, the 
 hope of heaven for the fear of hell 1 Must I 
 relinquish that 1 It is dearer than the blood in 
 my veins. It is what I have to look forward to, 
 and to live for." 
 
 After a considerable pause, I said, "And 
 MissJ Oliver 1 Are her disappointment and 
 sorrow of no interest to you 1" 
 
 " Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors 
 and flatterers ; in less than a month, my image 
 will be effaced from her heart. She will for- 
 get me, and will marry, probably, some one 
 who will make her far happier than I should do." 
 
 " You speak coolly enough, but you suffer in 
 the conflict. You are wasting away." 
 
 " No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxie- 
 ty about my prospects, yet unsettled ; my de- 
 parture, continually procrastinated. Only this 
 morning I received intelligence that the suc- 
 cessor, whose arrival I have been so long ex- 
 pecting, can not be ready to replace me for 
 three months to come yet, and perhaps the 
 three months may extend to six." 
 
 " You tremble and become flushed whenever 
 Miss OUver enters the school-room." 
 
 Again the surprised expression crossed his 
 face. He had not imagined that a woman 
 would dare to speak so to a man. For me, I 
 felt at home in this sort of discourse. I could 
 never rest in communication with strong, dis- 
 creet, and refined minds, whether male or fe- 
 -male, till I had passed the outworks of con- 
 ventional reserve, and crossed the threshold of 
 confidence, and won a place by their heart's 
 very hearth-stone. 
 
 " You are original," said he, " and not timid. 
 There is something brave in your spirit, as well 
 as penetrating in your eye ; but allow me to 
 assure you that you partially misinterpret my 
 emotions. You think them more profound and 
 potent than they are. You give me a larger 
 allowance of sympathy than I have a just 
 <^laim to. When I color, and when I shake be- 
 iore Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself. I scorn 
 the weakness. I know it is ignoble — a mere 
 fever of the flesh : not, I declare, a convulsion 
 of the soul. That is just as fixed as a rock, 
 firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know 
 rnc to be what I am — a cold, hard man."- 
 
 I smiled incredulously. 
 
 " You have taken my confidence by storm," 
 he continued, " and now it is much at your ser- 
 vice. I am simply, in my original state — strip- 
 ped of that blood-bleached robe with which 
 Christianity covers human deformity — a cold, 
 hard, ambitious man. Natural affection only, 
 of all the sentiments, has permanent power over 
 me. Reason, and not Feeling, is my guide : 
 
 my ambition is unhmited — my desire to rise 
 higher, to do more than others, insatiable. I 
 honor endurance, perseverance, industry, talent, 
 because these are the means by which mea 
 achieve great ends, and mount to lofty emi- 
 nence. I watch your career with interest, be- 
 cause I consider you a specimen of a diligent, 
 orderly, energetic woman : not because I deep- 
 ly compassionate what you have gone through, 
 or what you still suffer." 
 
 " You would describe vourself as a mere 
 pagan philosopher," I said. 
 
 "No. There is this difference between me 
 and deistic philosophers : I believe ; and I be- 
 lieve the Gospel. You missed your epithet. I 
 am not a pagan, but a Christian philosopher — a 
 follower of the sect of Jesus. As his disciple, 
 I adopt his pure, his merciful, his benignant 
 doctrines. I advocate them — I am sworn to 
 spread them. Won in youth to religion, she has 
 cultivated my original qualities thus : From the 
 minute germ, natural affection, she has devel- 
 oped the overshadowing tree, philanthropy. 
 From the wild, stringy root of human upright- 
 ness she has reared a due sense of the Divine 
 justice. Of the ambition to win power and 
 renown for my wretched self, she has formed 
 the ambition to spread my Master's kingdom — 
 to achieve victories for the standard of the 
 cross. So much has religion done for me • 
 turning the original materials to the best ac- 
 count — pruning and training nature. But shsf 
 could not eradicate nature ; nor will it be erai.-: 
 icated ' till this mortal shall put on immor^' 
 tahty.' " 
 
 Having said this, he took his hat, which lay 
 on the table beside my pallet. 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 1" 
 
 " Cui bono ? No." 
 
 He drew over the picture the sheet of thin 
 paper on which I was accustomed to rest my 
 hand in painting to prevent the card-board from 
 being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this 
 blank paper it was impossible for me to tell ; 
 but something had caught his eye. He took it 
 up with a snatch ; he looked at the edge, then 
 shot a glance at me, inexpressibly peculiar, and 
 quite incomprehensible — a glance that seemed 
 to take and make note of every point in my 
 shape, face, and dress, for it traversed all, 
 quick, keen as lightning. His lips parted; as if 
 to speak, but he checked the coming sentence, 
 whatever it was. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" I asked, 
 
 " Nothing in the world," was the reply ; and, 
 replacing the paper, I saw him dexterously tear 
 a narrow slip from the margin. It disappear- 
 ed 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, how- 
 ever !" i: 
 
 I, in my turn, scrutinized the paper; but saw 
 nothing on it, save a few dingy stains of paint, 
 where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I 
 pondered the mystery a minute or two ; but, 
 finding it insolvable, and being certam it could 
 not be of much moment, I dismissed and sooa 
 forgot it. 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 145 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Whbn Mr. St. John went, it was beginning 
 
 to snow : the whirling storm continued all 
 
 night. The next day a keen wind brought 
 
 fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley 
 
 was drifted up and almost impassable. I had 
 
 closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to 
 
 prevent the snow from blowing in under it, 
 
 trimmed my fire, and, after sitting nearly an 
 
 hour on the hearth, listening to the muffled fury 
 
 of the tempest, I lighted a candle, took down 
 
 Marmion, and beginning — 
 
 " Day set on Norham's castled steep, 
 And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, 
 
 And Cheviot mountains lone ; 
 The massive towers, the donjon keep, 
 The flanking walls that round them sweep. 
 
 In yellow luster shone." 
 
 I soon forgot storm in music. 
 
 I heard a noise : the wind, I thought, shook 
 the door. No ; it was St. John Rivers, who, 
 lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hur- 
 ricane, the howling darkness, and stood before 
 me, the cloak that covered his tall figure all 
 white as a glacier. I was almost in consterna- 
 tion, so little had I expected any guest from the 
 blocked-up vale that night. 
 
 " Any ill news V 1 demanded. " Has any 
 thing happened V 
 
 "No. How very easily alarmed you are !" 
 he answered, removing hi^ cloak and hanging 
 it up against the door, toward which he again 
 coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had 
 deranged. He stamped the snow from his 
 boots. 
 
 " I shall sully the purity of your floor," said 
 he, " but you must excNise me for once." Then 
 he approached the fire. " I have had hard work 
 to get here, I assure you," he observed, as he 
 warmed his hands over the flame. "One drift 
 took me up to the waist ; happily the snow is 
 quite soft yet." 
 
 " But why are you come V I could not for- 
 bear saying. 
 
 " Raiher an inhospitable question to put to a 
 visitor ; but, since you ask it, t answer, simply, 
 to have a little talk with you ; I got tired of 
 my mute honks and empty rooms. Besides, 
 since yesterday, I have experienced the excite- 
 ment of a person to whom a tale has been 
 half told, and who is impatient to hear the se- 
 quel." 
 
 He sat down. I recalled his singular con- 
 duct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his 
 wits were touched. If he were insane, how- 
 ever, his was a very cool and collected insan- 
 ity ; I had never seen that handsome-featured 
 face of his look more like chiseled marble than 
 it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet 
 hair from his forehead and let the fire-light 
 shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale ; 
 where it grieved me to discover the hollow 
 trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. 
 I wailed, expecting he would say something I 
 could at least comprehend ; but his hand was 
 now at his chin, his finger on his lip; he was 
 thinking. It struck me that his hand looked 
 wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for 
 gush of pity came over my heart ; I was moved 
 to say — 
 
 " I wish Diana or Mary would come and live 
 with you ; it is too bad that you should be quite 
 K 
 
 alone ; and your are recklessly rash about your 
 own health." 
 
 " Not at all," said he ; " I care for myself 
 when necessary ; I am well now. What do 
 you see amiss in mel" 
 
 This was said with a careless, abstracted in- 
 difference, which showed that my solicitude was, 
 at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. I 
 was silenced. 
 
 He still slowly moved his finger over his 
 upper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on 
 the glowing grate ; thinking it urgent to say 
 something, I asked him presently if he felt any 
 cold draught from the door, which was behind 
 him. 
 
 " No, no," he responded, shortly and some- 
 what testily. 
 
 "Well," I reflected ; "if you won't talk, you 
 may be still ; I'll let you alone now and return 
 to my book." 
 
 So I snufllsd the candle, and resumed the 
 perusal of Marmion. He .soon stirred ; my eye 
 was instantly drawn to his movements ; he 
 only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence 
 produced a letter which he read in silence, fold- 
 ed it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It 
 was vain to try to read with such an inscruta- 
 ble fixture befere me ; nor could I, in my im- 
 patience, consent to be dumb ; he might rebuff 
 me if he liked, but talk I would. 
 
 " Have you heard from Diana and Mary 
 lately V 
 
 '• Not since the letter I showed you a week 
 ago." 
 
 " There has not been any change made 
 about your own arrangements 1 You will not 
 be summoned to leave England sooner than 
 you expected V 
 
 " I fear not, indeed ; such chance is too good 
 to befall me." Baffled so far, I changed my 
 ground — I bethought myself to talk about the 
 school and my scholars. 
 
 " Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary 
 came back to the school this morning, and I 
 shall have four new girls next week fiom the 
 Foundry Close — they would have come to-day 
 but for the snow." 
 
 " Indeed 1" 
 
 "Mr. Oliver pays for two." 
 
 "Does hel" 
 
 " He means to give the whole school a treat 
 at Christmas." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " Was it your suggestion !'* 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Whose, thcnl" 
 
 " His daughter's, I think " 
 
 " It is like her ; she is so good-natured." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Again came the blank of a pause ; the clock 
 struck eight strokes. It aroused him ; he un- 
 crossed 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 IhS sequel of a tale ; on 
 reflection, I find the matter will be better man- 
 aged by my assuming the narrator's part, and 
 converting yi)U into a listener. Before com- 
 mencing, it ia but fair to warn you that the 
 
146 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your 
 ears ; hut stale details often regain a degree of 
 freshness when they pass through new lips. 
 For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short. 
 
 " Twenty years ago, a poor curate — never 
 mind his name at this moment — fell in love 
 *Uh a rich man's daughter ; she fell in love 
 with him, and married him, against the advice 
 of all her friends, who consequently disowned 
 her immediately after the wedding. Before 
 two years passed, the rash pair were hoth dead, 
 and laid quietly side by side under one slah. (I 
 have seen their grave ; it formed part of the 
 pavement of a huge church-yard surrounding 
 ^he grim, soot-black, old cathedral of an over- 
 grown manufacturing town in shire.) They 
 
 left a daughter, which, at its very birth, 
 Charity received in her lap — cold as that of the 
 snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Char- 
 ity carried the friendless thing to the house of 
 its rich, maternal relations ; it was reared by 
 an aunt-in-law, called (I come to names now) 
 Mrs. Keed of Gateshead — you start — did you 
 hear a noise'! I dare say it is only a rat 
 scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining 
 schoolroom : it was a barn before I had it re- 
 paired and altered, and barns are generally 
 haunted by rats. To proceed. Mrs. Reed 
 kept the orphan ten years ; whether it was 
 happy or not with her, I can not say, never 
 having been told; but at the end of that time 
 she transferred it to a place you know — being 
 no other than Lowood sciiool, where you so 
 'ong resided yourself. It seems her career 
 there was very honorable; from a pupil, she 
 became a teacher, like yourself — really it strikes 
 m-e there are parallel points in her history and 
 yours — she left . it to be a governess ; there, 
 again, your fates were analogous; she under- 
 took the education of the ward of a certain Mr. 
 Rochester." 
 
 " Mr. Rivers !" I interrupted. 
 
 "I can guess your feelings," he said, "but 
 restrain them for a while; I have nearly fin- 
 ished ; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Roches- 
 ter's character I know nothing, but the one fact 
 that he professed to offer honorable marriage 
 to this young girl, and that at the very altar 
 she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though 
 a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and 
 proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture ; 
 but when an event transpired which rendered 
 inquiry after the governess necessary, it was 
 discovered she was gone — no one could tell 
 when, where, or how. She had left Thorn- 
 field Hall in the night ; every research after her 
 course had been vain : the country had been 
 scoured far and wide; no vestige of informa- 
 tion could be gathered respecting her. Yet 
 that she should be found is become a matter of 
 serious urgency ; advertisements have been 
 put in all the papers ; I myself have received a 
 letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, commu- 
 nicating the details I have just imparted. Is it 
 not an odd tale 1" 
 
 "Just tell me this," said I, "and since you 
 know so much, you sur4;ly can tell it lue — what 
 of Mr. llociicster? How and where is he! 
 Whru IS he domg I Is he well V 
 
 "lam ignorant of all concerning Mr. Roches- 
 ter ; tlie h'.itpv never mentions him but to nar- 
 rate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have 
 
 adverted to. You should rather ask the nam 
 of the governess — the nature of the eveij' 
 which requires her appearance." 
 
 "Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, Ihea 
 Did no one see Mr. Rochester." 
 
 "I suppose not." 
 
 " But they wrote to himi" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " And what did he say.l Who has his let- 
 ters?" 
 
 " Mr. Brigas 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 feare, 
 then, were probably true : he had in all proba- 
 bility left England and rushed in reckless des- 
 peration to some former haunt on the continent. 
 And what opiate for his severe sufferings — 
 what object for his strong passions — had he 
 sought there 1 I dared not answer the ques- 
 tion. Oh, my poor master — once almost my 
 husband — whom I had often called " my dear 
 Edward !" 
 
 " He must have been a bad man," observed 
 Mr. Rivers. 
 
 "You don'J; know him — don't pronounce an 
 opinion upon him," I said with warmth. 
 
 " Very well," he answered quietly ; " and 
 indeed rny head is otherwise occupied than 
 with him : I have my talo to finish. Since you 
 won't ask the governess's name, I must tell it 
 of my own accord — stay — I have it here — it is 
 always more satisfactory to see important 
 points written down fairly committed to black 
 and white." 
 
 And the pocket-book was again deliberately 
 produced, opened, sought through ; from ono 
 of its compartments was extracted a shabby 
 slip of paper, hastily torn off; I recognized in 
 its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and 
 lake, and vermillion. the ravished margin of 
 the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to 
 my eyes ; and I read, traced in Indian ink, in 
 my own liandwriting, the words " J.\ne Eyre" 
 — the work doubtless of some irioment of ab- 
 straction. 
 
 " Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre," he 
 said ; " the advertisements demanded a Jane 
 Eyre ; I knew a Jane Elliot. I confess I had 
 my suspicions; but it was only yesterday after- 
 noon they were at once resolved into certainty. 
 You own the name and renounce the alias 1" 
 
 " Yes — yes — but where is Mr. Briggs ! Hft, 
 perhaps, knows more of Mr. Rochester than 
 you do." 
 
 " Briggs is in London ; I should doubt his 
 knowing any thing at all about Mr. Rochester; 
 it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. 
 Meantime you forget essential points in pursu- 
 ing trifles ; you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs 
 sought after you — what he wanted with you." 
 
 "Well, what did ha want !" 
 
 " Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. 
 Eyre of Madeira, is dead ; that he has left you 
 all his property, and that you are now rich — 
 merely that — nothing more." 
 
 "1 ! rich?" 
 
 " Yes, you, rich — quite an heiress." 
 
 Silence succeeded. 
 
 " You must prove your identity, of roursei" 
 resumed St. John presently; "a step which 
 will offer no difficulties ; you can then enter oa 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 147 
 
 immediate possession. Your fortune is vested 
 in the English funds ; Briggs has the will and 
 the necessary documents." 
 
 Here was a new card turned up ! It is a fine 
 thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from in- 
 digence to wealth — a very fine thing ; but not 
 a matter one can comprehend, or consequently 
 enjoy, all at once. And then there are other 
 chances in life far more thrilling and rapture- 
 giving ; this is solid, an afiair of the actual 
 world, nothing ideal about it ; all its associa- 
 tions are solid and sober, and its manifestations 
 are the same. One does not jump, and spring, 
 and shout hurrah ! at hearing one has got a 
 fortune ; one begins to consider responsibilities, 
 and to ponder business ; on a base of steady 
 satisfaction rise certain grave cares — and we 
 contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss 
 with a solemn brow. 
 
 Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side 
 by side svith the words Death, Funeral. My 
 uncle, I had heard, was dead — my only relative ; 
 ever since being made aware of his existence, 
 I had cherished the hope of one day seeing 
 him ; now, I never should. And then this 
 money came only to me ; not to me and a re- 
 joicing family, but to my isolated svlf. It was 
 a grand boon, doubtless; and independence 
 would be glorious — yes, I felt that— that thought 
 swelled my heart." 
 
 " You unbend your forehead at last," said 
 Mr. Rivers ; " I thought Medusa had looked at 
 you, and tliat you were turning to stone — 
 perhaps now you will ask how much you are 
 Worth?" 
 
 " How much am I worth?" 
 
 "Oh, a trifle ! Nothing of course to speak 
 of — twenty thousand pounds, I think they say 
 —but what is that?" 
 
 " Twenty thousand pounds !'' 
 
 Here was a new stunner — I had been cal- 
 oulating on four or five thousand. This news 
 actually took my breath for a moment ; Mr. 
 St. John, whom I had never heard laugh be- 
 fore, laughed now. 
 
 "Well," said he, if you had committed a 
 murder, and I had told you your crime was 
 discovered, you could scarcely look more 
 aghast." 
 
 " It is a large sum — don't you think there is 
 a mistake?" 
 . " No mistake at all." 
 
 " Perhaps you have read the figures wrong 
 —it maybe 2000?" 
 
 " It is written in letters, not figures — twenty 
 thousand." 
 
 I again felt rather like an individual of but 
 average gastronomical powers silting down to 
 feast alone at a table spread with provisions for 
 a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his 
 cloak on. 
 
 _" If it were not such a very wild night," he 
 said, " I would send Hannah down to keep you 
 company ; you look too desperately miserable 
 to be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman ! 
 could not stride the drifts so well as I ; her 
 legs are not quite .so long ; so I must e'en 
 leave you to your sorrows. Good-nigbt." 
 
 He was lifting the latch ; a sudden thought 
 occurred to me. 
 
 " Stop one minute !" I cried. 
 
 " It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs 
 wrote to you about me ; or how he knew you, 
 or could fancy that you, living in such an out- 
 of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my 
 discovery." 
 
 " Oh ! I am a clergyman," he said ; " and the 
 clergy are often appealed to about odd matters." 
 Again the latch rattled. 
 
 " No ; that does not satisfy me !" I exclaim- 
 ed ; and, indeed, there was something in the 
 hasty and unexplanatory reply, which, instead 
 of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever. 
 " It is a very strange piece of business," I 
 added ; " I must know more about it." 
 "Another time." 
 
 " No ; to-night ! to-night !" and as he turned 
 from the door, I placed myself between it and 
 him. He looked rather embarrassed. 
 
 " You certainly shall not go till you have 
 told me all!" I said. 
 
 " I would rather not, just now." 
 " You shall ! you must !" 
 " I would rather Diana or Mary informed 
 you." 
 
 Of course these objections wrought my 
 eagerness to a climax ; gratified it must be, 
 and that without delay ; and I told him so. 
 
 " But I appri.sed you that I was a hardman,'' 
 said he, " difficult to persuade." 
 
 " And I am a hard woman — impossible to put 
 off." 
 
 "And then," he pursued, "I am cold; no 
 fervor infects me." 
 
 "Wiiereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. 
 The blaze there has thawed all the snow from 
 your cloak ; by the same token, it has streamed 
 on to my floor, and made it like a trampled 
 street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. 
 Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanor of 
 spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish 
 to know." 
 
 " Well, then," he said, " I yield— if not to 
 your earnestness, to your perseverance — as 
 stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, 
 you must know some day — as well now as 
 later. Your name is Jane Eyre ?" 
 
 " Of course ; that was all settled before." 
 "You are not, perhaps, aware that I am 
 your namesake? — that I was christened St. 
 John Eyre Rivers?" 
 
 "No, indeed I I remember now seeing Iha 
 letter E comprised in your initials written in 
 books you have at different limes lent me ; but 
 I never asked for what name it stood. But 
 what then ? Surely—" 
 
 I stopped ; I could not trust myself to enter- 
 tain, much less to express, the thought that 
 rushed upon me — that einbodied itself— that, 
 in a second, stood out a strong, solid probabil- 
 ity. Circumstances knit themselves, fitted 
 themselves, shot into order; the chain that had 
 been lying hitherto a formless lump of links, 
 was drawn out straight — every ring was per- 
 fect, the connection complete. I knew, by in. 
 stinct, how the r.iatter stood, before St. John 
 had said another word ; but I can not expect 
 the reader to have the same intuitive percep- 
 tion, so I must repeat his explanation. 
 
 "^My mother's name was Eyre; she had two 
 brothers; one a clergyman, who married Miss 
 Jane Reed, of Gateshead ; ihe other, John 
 Eyre, esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. 
 
148 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre's solicitor, wrote to 
 us last" August to inform us of our uncle's 
 death ; and to say that he had left his property 
 to his brother the clergyman's orphan daughter ; 
 overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, 
 never forgiven, between him and my father. 
 He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate 
 that the heiress was lost ; and asking if we 
 knew any thing of her. A name casually writ- 
 ten on a slip of paper has enabled me to find 
 her out. You know the rest." Again he was 
 goinjr, but 1 set my back against the door. 
 
 " Do let mc speak," I said ; " let me have 
 one moment to draw breath and reflect." I 
 paused — he stood before me, hat in hand, look- 
 ing composed enough. I resumed — 
 
 "Your mother was my father's sister." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My aunt, consequently 1" 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 "My uncle John was your uncle John1 
 You, Diana, and Mary, are his sister's chil- 
 dren, as I am his brother's child 1' 
 
 "Undeniably." 
 
 " You three, then, are my cousins ; half our 
 blood on each side flows from the same 
 Bource?" 
 
 " We are cousins ; yes." 
 
 I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a 
 brother ; one I could be proud of — one I could 
 love ; a.nd two sisters, whose qualities were 
 8uch, that when I knew them but as mere 
 strangers, they had inspired mc with genuine 
 afl"ection and admiration. The two girls, on 
 whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and 
 looking through the low, latticed window of 
 Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter 
 a mi.\ture of interest and despair, were my 
 near kinswomen ; and the young and stately 
 gentleman who had found me almost dying at 
 his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious 
 discovery to a lonely wretch ! This was wealth 
 indeed ! — wealth to the heart ! — a mine of pure, 
 genial aflections. This was a blessing, bright, 
 vivid, and exhilarating I — not like the ponder-, 
 ous gift of gold — rich and welcome enough in 
 its way, but sobering from its weight. 'I now 
 clapped my hands in sudden joy — my pulse 
 bounded, my veins thrilled. 
 
 " Oil, I am glad ! — I am glad !" I exclaimed. 
 
 St. John smiled. " Did 1 not say you neg- 
 lected essential points to pursue trifles?" he 
 asked. " You were serious when I told you 
 you had got a fortune ; and now, for a matter 
 of no moment, you are excited." 
 
 "What can you mean? It may be of no 
 moment to you ; you have sisters, and don't 
 care for a cousin ; but I had nobody ; and now 
 three relations — or two, if you don't choose to 
 be counted — are born into my worl(}, full grown. 
 I say again, I am glad !" 
 
 I walked fast througli the room ; I stopped, 
 half suffocated with the thoughts that rose 
 faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle 
 thorn ; thoughts of what might, could, would, 
 and should be, and that ere long. I looked at 
 the blank wall ; it seemed a sky, thick with 
 ascending stars — every one lighted me to a 
 purpose or dHight. Those who had saved my 
 life, whom, till this hour, 1 had loved barrenly, 
 I could now benefit. They were under a yoke ; 
 I could free ihem ; ihey were scattered— 1 
 
 could reunite them — the independence, the 
 affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. 
 Were we not four? Twenty thousand pountla 
 shared equally, would be five thousand each — 
 enough and to spare ; justice would be done — 
 mutual happiness secured. Now the wealtk 
 did not weigh on me ; now it was not a mere 
 bequest of coin — it was a legacy of life, hope, 
 enjoyment. 
 
 How I looked while these ideas were taking 
 my spirit by storm, I can not tell ; but I per- 
 ceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chair 
 behind me, and was gently attempting to make 
 me sit down on it. He also advised me to be 
 composed. I scorned the insinuation of help- 
 lessness and distraction, shook off his hand, 
 and began to walk about again. 
 
 "Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow," I 
 said, "and tell them to come home directly; 
 Diana said they would both consider them- 
 selves rich with a thousand pounds, so with 
 five thousand, they will do very well." 
 
 " Tell me where I can get you a glass of 
 water," said St. John ; " you must really make 
 an effort to tranquilize your feelings." 
 
 " Nonsense ! and what sort of an effect will 
 the bequest have on you 1 Will it keep you ia 
 England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, ~-«?i 
 settle down like an ordinary morlall" 
 
 " You wander ; your head becomes confused. 
 I have been too abrupt in communicating 
 the news ; it has excited you beyond your 
 strength." 
 
 "Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of pa- 
 tience ; I am rational enough ; it is you who 
 misunderstand ; or, rather, who afllsct to mis- 
 understand." 
 
 " Perhaps if you explained yourself a little 
 more fully, I should comprehend better." 
 
 " Explain ! AVhat is there to explain T Yon 
 can not fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, 
 the sum in question, divided equally between 
 the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will 
 give five thousand to each 1 What I want 
 is, that you should write to your sisters and 
 tell them of the fortune that has accrued to 
 them." 
 
 " To you, you mean." 
 
 " I have intimated my view of the case ; I 
 am incapable of taking any other. I am not 
 brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly un- 
 grateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a 
 home and connections. I like Moor House, 
 and I will live at Moor House ; I like Diana 
 and Mary, and I will attach myself for life to 
 Diana and Mary. It would please and benefit 
 me to have five thousand pounds ; it would 
 torment and oppress me to have twenty thou- 
 sand; which, moreover, could never be mine 
 in justice, though it might in law. I abandon 
 to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to 
 me. Let there be no opposition, and no dis- 
 cussion about it ; let us agree among each 
 ol'lier, and decide the point at once." 
 
 " This is acting on first impulses ; you mtist 
 lake days to consider such a matter, ere your 
 word can be regarded as valid." 
 
 '• Oh I if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am 
 easy ; yoi^see the justice of the case !" 
 
 " I do see a certain justice ; but it is con- 
 trary to all custom. Besides, the entire fortune 
 is your right ; my uncle gained it by his own 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 149 
 
 efforts ; he was free to leave it to whom he 
 wouW : he left it to you. After all, justice 
 permits you to keep it ; you may, with a clear 
 conscience, consider it absolutely your own." 
 
 " With me," said I, " it is fully as much a 
 matter of feeling as of conscience : I must in- 
 dulge my feelings, I so seldom have had an 
 opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, 
 object, and annoy me for a year, I could not 
 forego the delicious pleasure of which I have 
 caught a glimpse — that of repaying, in part, a 
 mighty obligation, and winning to myself life- 
 long friends." 
 
 " You think so now," rejoined St. John, " be- 
 cause you do not know what it is to possess, 
 nor consequently to enjoy wealth ; you can not 
 form a notion of the importance twenty thou- 
 sand pounds would give you ; of the place it 
 would enable you to take in society ; of the 
 prospects it would open to you ; you can not — " 
 
 "And you," I interrupted, "can not at all 
 imagine the craving I have for fraternal and 
 sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had 
 brothers or sisters ; I must and will have them 
 now : you are not reluctant to admit me and 
 own me, are you V 
 
 " Jane, I will be your brother — my sisters 
 will be your sisters — without stipulating for 
 this sacrifice of your just rights." 
 
 " Brother 1 Yes, at the distance of a thou- 
 sand leagues ! Sisters ! Yes, slaving among 
 strangers ! I, wealthy — gorged with gold I 
 never earned and do not merit ! You, penni- 
 less ! Famous equality and fraternization ! 
 Close union ! Intimate attachment !" 
 
 " But, Jane, your aspirations after family 
 ties and domestic happiness may be realized 
 otherwise than by the means you contemplate ; 
 you may marry." 
 
 " Nonsense again ! Marry ! I don't want 
 to marry, and never shall marry." 
 
 " That is saying too much ; such hazardous 
 affirmations are a proof of the excitement un- 
 der which you labor." 
 
 " It is not saying too much ; I know what I 
 feel, and how averse are my inclinations to the 
 bare thought of marriage. No one would take 
 me for love ; and I will not be regarded in the 
 light of a mere money-speculation. And I do 
 not w-ot a stranger — unsympathizing, alien, 
 different from me ; I want my kindred — those 
 with whom I have full fellow-feeling. Say 
 again you will be my brother; when you ut- 
 tered ilie words I was satisfied, happy ; repeat 
 them, if you can, repeat them sincerely." 
 
 " 1 think I can. I know I have always loved 
 my own sisters, and I know on what my 
 aflecliiin for them is grounded — respect for 
 their worth and admiration of their talents. 
 You, too, have principle and mind : your tastes 
 and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's ; your 
 presence is always agreeable to me ; in your 
 conversation I have already for some time 
 found a salutary solace. I feel I can easily 
 and naturally make room in my heart for you 
 as my third and youngest sister." 
 
 " Thank you ; that contents me for to-night. 
 Now you had better go ; for if you stay longer, 
 you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some 
 mistrustful scruple." 
 
 "And the school. Miss Eyre? It must now 
 be shut up, I suppose V 
 
 " No. I will retain my post of mistress till 
 you get a substitute." 
 
 He smiled approbation ; we shook hands;, 
 and he took leave. 
 
 I need not narrate in detail the further 
 struggles I had, and arguments I used, to get 
 matters regarding the legacy settled as I 
 wished. My task was a very hard one ; but, 
 as I was absolutely resolved — as my cousins 
 saw at length that my mind was really and 
 immutably fixed on making a just division of 
 the property — as they must in their owa 
 hearts have felt the equity of the intention ; 
 and must, besides, have been innately con- 
 scious that in my place they would have dona 
 precisely what I wished to do — they yielded at 
 length so far as to consent to put the affair to 
 arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. 
 Oliver and an able lawyer ; both coincided 
 in my opinion ; I carried my point. The in- 
 struments of transfer were drawn out ; St. 
 John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became pos- 
 sessed of a competency. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 It was near Christmas by the time all was 
 settled ; the season of general holyday ap- 
 proached. I now closed Morton school, taking 
 care that the parting should not be barren on 
 my side. Good fortune opens the hand as well 
 as the heart wonderfully ; and to give some- 
 what when we have largely received, is but to 
 afford a vent to the unusual ebullition of the 
 sensations. I had long felt with pleasure that 
 many of my rustic scholars liked me, and 
 when we parted, that consciousness was con- 
 firmed ; they manifested their affection plainly 
 and strongly. Deep was my gratification to 
 find I had really a place in their unsophisticated 
 hearts ; I promised them that never a week 
 should pass in future that I did not visit them, 
 and give them an hour's teaching in their 
 school. 
 
 Mr. Rivers came up, as — having seen the 
 classes, now numbering sixty girls, file out be- 
 fore me, and locked the door — I stood with the 
 key in my hand, exchanging a few words of 
 special farewell with some half dozen of my 
 best scholars, as decent, respectable, modest, 
 and well-informed young women as could be 
 found in the ranks of the British peasantry. 
 And that is saying a great deal ; for, after all, 
 the British peasantry are the best taught, best 
 mannered, most self- respecting of any in Eu- 
 rope ; since those days I have seen paysahnes 
 and Bduerinnen, and the best of them seemed 
 to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted, com- 
 pared with my Morton girls. 
 
 " Do you consider you have got your reward 
 for a season of e.vertion 1" asked Mr. Rivers 
 when they were gone. "Does not the con- 
 sciousness of having done some real good in 
 your day and generation give pleasure!" . ,^ 
 
 " Doubtless." "^"'^ 
 
 "And you have only toiled a few months! 
 Would not a life devoted to the task of regen- 
 erating your race be well spent V 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " but I could not go on for- 
 ever so ; I want to enjoy my own faculties as 
 well as to cultivate those of other people. I 
 
150 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 must enjoy them now : don't n^call either my 
 mind or body to the school. I a..n out of it and 
 disposed for full holyday." 
 
 He looked grave. " What nowt ^What sud- 
 den eagerness is this you evince 1 What are 
 you going to do 1" 
 
 " To be active — as active as I can. And first 
 1 must beg you to set Hannah at liberty, and get 
 somebody else to wait on you." 
 
 " Do you want her ?" 
 
 " Yes, to go with me to Moor House. Diana 
 and Mary will be at home in a week, and I want 
 to have every thing in order against their ar- 
 rival." 
 
 " I understand : I thought you were for flying 
 off on some e.vcursion. It is better so ; Hannah 
 shall go with you." 
 
 " Tell her to be ready by to-morrow, then ; and 
 here is the school-room key ; I will give you 
 the key of my collage'in the morning." 
 
 He took it. " You give it up very gleefully," 
 said he ; "I don't quite understand your light- 
 heartedness, because I can not tell' what em- 
 ployment you propose to yourself as a substitute 
 for the one you are relinquishing. What aim, 
 what purpose, what ambition in life have you 
 now?" 
 
 " My first aim will be to clean down (do you 
 comprehend the full force of the expression?) 
 to clean down Moor House from chamber to cel- 
 lar ; my next to rub it up 'with bees- wax, oil, 
 and an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters 
 again ; my third, to arrange every chair, table, 
 bed, carpet, with mathematical precision ; after- 
 ward I shall go near to ruin you in coals and 
 peat to keep up good fires in every room ; and, 
 lastlyj the two days preceding that on which 
 your sisters are expected will be devoted by 
 Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sort- 
 ing of currants, grating of spices, compounding 
 of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials 
 for mince-pies, and solemnizing of other culi- 
 nary rites, as w-ords can convey but an inade- 
 quate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My 
 purpose, in short, is to have all things in an ab- 
 solutely 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 dis- 
 satisfied. ■ - 
 
 " It is all very well for the present," said 
 he ; " but, seriously, I trust that when the first 
 flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little 
 higher than domestic endearments and house- 
 hold joys." 
 
 " The best things the world has !" I inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 " No, Jane, no ; this world is not the scene 
 of fruition — do not attempt to make it so ; nor 
 of rest — do not turn slothful." 
 
 " I mean, on the contrary, to be busy." 
 
 "Jane, I excuse you for the present; two 
 months' grace I allow you for the full enjoy- 
 ment of your new position, and for pleasing 
 yourself with this late-found charm of relation- 
 ship ; but then I hope you will begin to look 
 beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly 
 society, and the selfish calm and sensual com- 
 fort ol civilized affluence. I hope your ener- 
 gies will then once more trouble you with their 
 strength." 
 
 I looked at him with surprise. " St. John." 
 I said, " I think you are almost wicked to talk 
 so. I am disposed to be as content as a queei^ 
 and you try to stir me up to restlessness ! To 
 what end?" 
 
 "To the end of turning to profit the talents 
 which God has committed to your keeping, and 
 of which he will surely one day demand a strict 
 account. Jane, I shall watch you closely and 
 anxiously — I warn you of that. And try to 
 restrain the disproportionate fervor with which 
 you throw yourself into commonplace home 
 pleasures. Don't cling so tenaciously to ties 
 of the flesh ; save your constancy and ardor 
 for an adequate cause ; forbear to waste them 
 on trite, transient objects. Do you hear, 
 Janel" 
 
 "Yes ; just as if you were speaking Greek. 
 I feel I have adequate cause to be happy, and I 
 will be happy. Good-bye !" 
 
 Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I 
 worked, and so did Hannah ; she was charmed 
 to see how jovial I could be amid the bustle of 
 a house turned topsy-turvy — how I could brush, 
 and dust, and clean, and cook. And really, af- 
 ter a day or two of confusion worse confounded, 
 it was delightful, by degrees, to invoke order 
 from the chaos ourselves had made. I had 
 previously taken a journey to S , to pur- 
 chase some new furniture ; my cousins having 
 given me carte-blanche to effect what alterations 
 I pleased, and a sum having been set aside for 
 that purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and 
 bed-rooms I left much as they were, for I knew 
 Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure 
 from seeing again the old homely tables, and 
 chairs, and beds, than from the spectacle of the 
 .smartest innovations. Still some novelty waa 
 necessary, to give to their return the piquancy 
 with which I wished it to be invested. Dark, 
 handsome, new carpets and curtains, an ar- 
 rangement of some carefully-selected antique 
 ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new cover- 
 ings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases for (he 
 toilet-tables, answered the end — they looked 
 fresh without being glaring. A spare parlor 
 and bed-room I refurnished entirely, with old 
 mahogany and crimson upholstery ; I laid can- 
 vas on the passage and carpets on the stairs. 
 When all was finished, I thought Moor House 
 as complete a model of bright, modest snug- 
 ness within, as it was, at this season, a speci- 
 men of wintry waste and desert dreariness 
 without. 
 
 The eventful Thursday at length came. They 
 were expected about dark, and, ere dusk, fires 
 were lighted up stairs and below ; the kitchen 
 was in perfect trim ; Hannah and I were dress- 
 ed, and all was in readiness. 
 
 St. John arrived first. I had entreated him 
 to keep quite clear of the house till every thing 
 was arranged ; and, indeed, the bare idea of the 
 commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on 
 within its walls sufiiced to scare him to es- 
 trangement. Ho found me in the kitchen, 
 watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, 
 tlien baking. Approaching the hearth, he asked 
 " If I was at last satisfied with housemaid's 
 work V I answered by inviting him to accom- 
 pany me on a general inspection of the result 
 of my labors. With some difficulty I got him 
 to make the tour of the bouse. He just looked 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 151 
 
 in at the doors I opened ; and when he had 
 wandered up stairs and down stairs, he said I 
 inust have gone through a great deal of fatigue 
 and trouble to have effected such considerable 
 changes in so short a time ; but not a syllable 
 did he utter indicating pleasure in the improved 
 aspect of his abode. 
 
 This silence damped me. I thought perhaps 
 the alterations had disturbed some old associa- 
 tions he valued. I inquired whether this was 
 the case : no doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen 
 tone. 
 
 " Not at all ; he had, on the contrary, re- 
 marked that I had scrupulously respected every 
 association : he feared, indeed, I must have be- 
 stowed more thought on the matterthan it was 
 worth. How many minutes, for instance, had 
 I devoted to studying the arrangement of this 
 very roomi By the by, could I tell him where 
 such a book wasl" 
 
 I showed him the volume on the shelf: he 
 took it down ; and, withdrawing to his accus- 
 tomed window recess, he began to read it. 
 
 Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John 
 was a good man ; but I began to feel he had 
 spoken truth of himself when he said he was 
 hard and cold. The humanities and amenities 
 of life had no attraction for him — its peaceful 
 enjoyments no ciiarm. Literally, he lived only 
 to aspire — after what was good and great, cer- 
 tainly : but still he would never rest, nor ap- 
 prove of others resting round him. As I looked 
 at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a white 
 stone — at his fine lineaments fixed in study — I 
 "^ comprehended, all at once, that he would hard- 
 ly make a good husband ; that it would be a 
 trying thing to be his wife. I understood, as 
 by inspiration, the nature of his love for Miss 
 Oliver : I agreed with him that it wa« but a love 
 of the senses. I comprehended how he should 
 despise himself for the feverish influence it ex- 
 ercised over him ; how he should wish to stifle 
 and destroy it ; how he should mistrust its ever 
 conducing permanently to hisTiappiness or hers. 
 I saw he was of the material from which Na- 
 ture hews her heroes— Christian and Pagan 
 — her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquer- 
 ors : a steadfast bulwark for great interests to 
 rest upon ; but, at the fireside, too often a cold, 
 cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place. 
 
 ♦' This parlor is not his sphere," I reflected : 
 "the Himalayan ridge, or Caffre bush— even 
 the plague-cursed Guinea coast swamp — would 
 suit him better. Well may he eschew the calm 
 of domestic life ; it is not his element : there 
 his faculties stagnate-^they can not develop or 
 appear to advantage. It is in scenes oi strife 
 and danger — where courage is proved, and en- 
 ergy exercised, and fortitude taxed — that he 
 will speak and move, the leader and superior. 
 A merry child would have the advantage of him 
 on this hearth. He is right to choose a mis- 
 sionary's career — I see it now." 
 
 " They are coming ! they are (ioming !" cried 
 Hannah, throwing open the parlor door. At 
 the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. 
 Out I ran. It was now dark ; bat a rumbling 
 of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had & 
 lantern lighted. The vehicle had stopped at 
 the wicket ; the driver opened the door : first 
 one well-known form, then another, stepped 
 out. In a minute I had jny face uoder their 
 
 bonnets, in contact first with Mary's cheek, 
 then with Diana's flowing curls. They laughed, 
 kissed me — then Hannah ; patted Carlo, who 
 was half wild with delight ; asked eagerly if ail 
 was well ; and, being assured in the affirmative, 
 hastened into the house. 
 
 They were stiff with their long and jolting 
 drive from Whitcross, and chilled with the 
 frosty night air ; but their pleasant counte- 
 nances expanded to the cheering fire light. 
 While the driver and Hannah brought in the 
 boxes, they demanded St. John. At this mo- 
 ment he advanced from the parlor. They both 
 threw their arms round his neck at once. He 
 gave eaoh one quiet kiss ; said, in a low tone, 
 a few words of welcome; stood awhile to be 
 talked to ; and then, intimating that he supposed 
 they would soon rejoin him in the parlor, with- 
 drew there as to a place of refuge. 
 
 I had lighted their candles to go up stairs, 
 but Diana had first to give hospitable orders re- 
 specting the driver; this done, both followed 
 me. They were delighted with the renovation 
 and decoration of their rooms ; with the new 
 drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich-tinted china 
 vases : they expressed their gratification un- 
 grudgingly. I had the pleasure of feeling that 
 my arrangements met their wishes exactly, 
 and that what I had done added a vivid charm 
 to their joyous return home. 
 
 Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full 
 of exhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative 
 and comment, that their fluency covered St. 
 John's taciturnity : he was sincerely glad to see 
 his sisters ; but in their glow of fervor and flow 
 of joy he could not sympathize. The event of 
 the day — that is, the return of Diana and Mary 
 — pleased him ; but the accompaniments of that 
 event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee of 
 reception, irked him : l' saw he wished the 
 calmer morrow was come. In the very merid- 
 ian of the night's enjoyment, about an hour 
 after tea, a rap was heard at the door. Hannah 
 entered, with the intimation that " a poor lad 
 was come, at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. 
 Rivers to see his mother, who was drawing 
 away." 
 
 " Where does she live, Hannah V 
 
 " Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four 
 miles off; and moor and moss all the way." 
 
 "Tell him I will go." 
 
 " I'm sure, sir, you had better not. It's the 
 worst road to travel after dark that can be : 
 there's .no track at all over the bog. And then 
 it is such a bitter night — the keenest wind you 
 ever felt. You had better send word, sir, that 
 
 you 
 
 will be there in the morning." 
 
 But he was already in the passage, putting 
 on his cloak ; and without one objection, one 
 mnrmur, he departed. It was then nine o'clock ; 
 he did not return till midnight. Starved and 
 tired enough he was, but he looked happier than 
 when he set out. He had performed an act of 
 duty ; made an exertion ; felt his own strength 
 to do and deny, and was on better terms with 
 himself 
 
 I am a'fraid the whole of the ensuing week 
 tried his patience. It was Christmas week; 
 we took to no settled employment, but spent it 
 in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. The 
 air of the moors, the freedom of home, the 
 dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana's and Mary's 
 
1&2 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 spirits like soms life-giving olixir ; they were 
 gay from morning till noon, and from noon till 
 night. They could always talk ; and their dis- 
 course, witty, pithy, original, had such charms 
 for me, that I preferred listening to, and sharing 
 in it, to doing any thing else. St. John did not 
 rebuke our vivacity, but he escaped from it ; 
 he was seldom in the house ; his parish was 
 large, the population scattered, and he found 
 (iaily business in visiting the sick and poor in its 
 different districts. 
 
 One morning, at breakfast, Diana, after look- 
 ing a little pensive for some minutes, asked 
 him " If his plans were yet unchanged 1" 
 
 "Unchanged and unchangeable," was the re- 
 ply. And he proceeded to inform us that his 
 departure from England was now definitively 
 fixed for the ensuing year. 
 
 "And Rosamond Oliver 1" suggested Mary : 
 the words seeming to escape her lips involun- 
 tarily ; for no sooner had she uttered them, 
 than she made a gesture as if wishing to recall 
 them. St. John had a book in his hand — it was 
 his unsocial custom to read at meals — he closed 
 it, and looked up. 
 
 " Rosamond Oliver," said he, " is about to be 
 married to Mr. Granby, one of the best con- 
 nected and most estimable residents in S , 
 
 grandson and heir to Sir Frederic Granby : I 
 had the intelligence from her father yesterday." 
 
 His sisters looked ateachother, andatrae; we 
 all three looked at him : he was serene as glass. 
 
 "The match must have been got up hastily," 
 said Diana ; "they can not have known each 
 other long." 
 
 " But two months : they met in October at 
 
 the county ball at S . But where there are 
 
 no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, 
 where the connection is in every point desira- 
 ble, delays are unnecessary : they will be mar- 
 ried as soon as S Place, which Sir Frederic 
 
 gives up to them, can he refitted for their re- 
 ception." 
 
 The fir-st time I found St. John alone after 
 this communication, I felt tempted to inquire if 
 the event distressed him ; but he seemed so 
 little to need sympathy, that, so far from ven- 
 turing to offer him more, I experienced some 
 shame at the recollection of what I liad already 
 hazarded. Besides, I was out of practice in 
 talking to him : his reserve was again frozen 
 over, and my frankness was congealed beneath 
 it. He had not kept his promise of treating 
 me like his sisters ; he coniinually made little, 
 chilling differences between us, which did not 
 at all tend to the development of cordiality ; in 
 short, now that I was acknowledged his kin.s- 
 woman, and lived under the same roof with 
 liim, I felt the distance between us to be far 
 greater than when he had known me only as 
 the village schoolmistress. When I remem- 
 bered how far I had once been admitted to his 
 confidence, I could hardly comprehend his pres- 
 ent frigidity. 
 
 Such being the case, I felt not a little sur- 
 prised when he raised liis head suddenly from 
 the desk over which he was stooping, and said — 
 
 " You see, Jane, the battle is fought and the 
 victory won." 
 
 Startled at being thus addressed, I did not 
 immediately reply ; after a moment's hesitation 
 I answered — 
 
 " But are you sare you are not in the position 
 of those conquerors whose triumphs have cost 
 them too dear ^ Would not such another ruio 
 youl" 
 
 " I think not — and if I were, it does not much 
 signify : I shall never be called upon to contend 
 for such another. The event of the conflict 
 is decisive ; my way is now clear ; I thank God 
 for it!" So saying, he returned to his papers 
 and his silence. 
 
 As our mutual happiness (». e. , Diana's, Mary's, 
 and mine) settled into a quieter character, and 
 we resumed our usual habits and regular studies 
 St. John stayed more at home ; he sat with ua 
 in the same room, sometimes for hours to- 
 gether. While Mary drew, Diana pursued 
 course of Encyclopaedic reading she had (to my 
 awe and amazement) undertaken, and I fagged 
 away at German, he pondered a mystic lore of 
 his own — that of some Eastern tongue, the 
 acquisition of which he thought necessary to 
 his plans. 
 
 Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his 
 own recess, quiet and absorbed enough ; but 
 that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving the 
 outlandish-looking grammar, and wandering 
 over, and sometimes fixing upon us, his fellow- 
 students, with a curious intensity of observa- 
 tion ; if caught, it would be instantly withdrawn ; 
 yet ever and anon, it returned searchingly to 
 our table. I wondered what it meant : I won- 
 dered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he nevet 
 failed to exhibit on an occasion that seemed to 
 me of small moment, namely, my weekly visit 
 to Morton school ; and still more was I puzzled 
 when, if the day was unfavorable, if there was 
 snow, or rain, or high wind, and his sisters 
 urged me not to go, he would invariably make 
 light of their solicitude, and encourage me to 
 accomplish the task without regard to the ele- 
 ments. 
 
 " Jane is not such a weakling as you wauld 
 make her," he would say ; " she can bear a 
 mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of 
 snow, as well as any of us. Her constitution 
 is both sound and elastic ; better calculated to 
 endure variations of climate than many more 
 robust." 
 
 And when I returned, sometimes a good deal 
 tired, and not a little weather-beaten. I never 
 dared complain, because I saw that to murmur 
 would be to vex him ; on all occasions forti- 
 tude pleased him ; the reverse was a speciaJ 
 annoyance. 
 
 One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay 
 at home, because I really had a cold. His sis- 
 ters were gone to Morion in my stead ; I sat 
 reading Schiller; he, deciphering his crabbed 
 Oriental scrolls. As I exchanged a translation 
 for an exercise, I happened to look his way, 
 there 1 found myself under the infiuence of the 
 ever-watchful blue eye. How long it had been 
 searching me through and through, and over 
 and over, I can not tell; so keen was it, and 
 yet so cold, I felt for the moment superstiiious 
 — as if I were sitting in the room with some- 
 thing uncanny. 
 
 " Jane, what are you doing V 
 
 " Learning German." 
 
 " I want you to give up German, and learo 
 Hindostanee." 
 
 " You are not in earnest?" 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 163 
 
 " In such eanieat that I must have it so, and 
 I will tell you why." 
 
 He then went on to explain that Hindostanee 
 was the language he was himself at present 
 studying ; that as he advanced, he was apt to 
 forget the cooimencement ; that it would assist 
 him greatly to have a pupil with whom he might 
 again and again go over the elements, and so 
 fix them thoroughly in his mind ; that his choice 
 had hovered for some time between me and his 
 sisters ; but that he had fixed it on me, because 
 he saw I could sit at a task the longest of the 
 three. Would I do him this favor 1 I should 
 not, perhaps, have to make the sacrifice long, 
 as it wanted now barely three months to his 
 departure. 
 
 St. John was not a man to be lightly refused ;^ 
 you felt that every impression made on him, 
 either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved 
 and permanent. I consented. When Diana 
 and Mary relumed, the former found her schol- 
 ar transferred from her to her brother: she 
 laughed ; and both she and Mary agreed that 
 St. John should never have persuaded them to 
 such a step. He answered, quietly — 
 . " I knew it." 
 
 I found him a very patient, very forbearing, 
 and yet an exacting master: he expected me 
 to do a great deal, and when I fulfilled his ex- 
 pectations he, in his own way, fully testified 
 his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a 
 certain influence over me that took away my 
 liberty of mind; his praise and notice were 
 more restraining than his indifference. I could 
 no longer talk or laugh freely when he was by, 
 because a tiresomely importunate instinct re- 
 minded me that vivacity (at least in me) was 
 distasteful to him. I was so fully aware that 
 only serious moods and occupations were ac- 
 ceptable, that in his presence every effort to 
 Bustain or follow any other became vain ; I fell 
 under a freezing spell. When he said "go," I 
 went; "come," I came; "do this," I did it. 
 But I did not love my servitude : I wished, 
 many a time, he had continued to neglect me. 
 
 One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters 
 and I stood round him, bidding him good-night, 
 he kissed each of ihem, as was his custom; 
 and, as was equally his custom, he gave me his 
 hand. Diana, who chanced to be in a frolick- 
 some humor (*/ie was not painfully controlled by 
 his will ; for hers, in another way, was as 
 strong), exclaimed : 
 
 "Si. John ! you used to call Jane your third 
 sister, but you don't treat her as such : you 
 should kiss her too." 
 
 She pushed me toward him. I thought Di- 
 ana very provoking, and felt uncotnfortably 
 confused ; and while I was thus thinking and 
 feeling, St. John bent his head, his Greek face 
 was lirouglit to a level with mine, his eyes 
 questioned my eyes piercingly — he kissed ine. 
 There are no such things as marble kisses, or ice 
 kisses, or I should say, my ecclesiastical cous- 
 in's salute belonged to one of these classes ; 
 but there may be experiment kisses, and his 
 was an experiment kiss. When given, he 
 ■viewed me to learn the result ; it was not strik- 
 ing; I am sure I did not blush; perhaps I 
 might have turned a little pale, for I felt as if 
 this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. 
 He never omitted the ceremony afterward, and 
 
 the gravity and quiescence with which I under- 
 went it, seemed to invest it for him with a cer- 
 tain charm. 
 
 As for me, I daily wished more to please 
 him.; but to do so, I felt daily more and more 
 that I must disown half my nature, stiSe half 
 my faculties, wrest my tastes from their origi- 
 nal bent, force myself to the adoption of pur- 
 suits for which I had no natural vocation He 
 wanted to train me to an elevation I could 
 never reach : it racked me hourly to aspire to 
 the standard he uplifted. The thing was as 
 impossible as to mold my irregular features to 
 his correct and classic pattern, to give to my 
 changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint and 
 solemn luster of his own. 
 
 Not his ascendency alone, however, held me 
 in thrall at present. Of late it had been easy 
 enough for me to look sad ; a cankering evil 
 sat at my heart and drained my happiness at 
 its source — the evil of suspense. 
 
 Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Roch- 
 ester, reader, amid these changes of place and 
 fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was 
 still with me ; because it was not a vapor sun- 
 shine could disperse, nor a sand-traced effigy 
 storms could wash away ; it was a name grav- 
 en on a tablet, fated to last as long as the 
 marble it inscribed. The craving to knove 
 what had become of him followed me every 
 where ; when f was at Morton, I re-enterefl 
 my cottage every evening to think of that ; ane* 
 now at Moor House, I sought my bedrooir 
 each night to brood over it. 
 
 In the course of my necessary correspond 
 ence with Mr. Briggs about the will, I had in 
 quired if he knew any thing of Mr. Rochester* 
 present residence and state of health ; but, a' 
 St. John had conjectured, he was quite igno- 
 rant of all concerning him. I then wrote to 
 Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on thf 
 subject. I had calculated with certainty on 
 this step answering my end : I felt sure il 
 would elicit an early a-nswer. I was astonish- 
 ed when a fortnight passed without reply ; but 
 when two months wore away, and day after 
 day the post arrived and brought nothing for 
 me, I fell a prey to the keenest anxiety. 
 
 I wrote again ; there was a chance of my first 
 letter having missed. Renewed hope followed 
 renewed effort ; it shone like the former for 
 some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered ; 
 not a line, not a word reached me. When 
 half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my 
 hope died out ; and then I felt dark indeed. 
 
 A fine spring shone round me, which I could 
 not enjoy. Summer approached; Diana tried to 
 cheer me ; she said I looked ill, and wished to 
 accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John 
 opposed ; he said I did not want dissipation, I • 
 wanted employment ; my present life was too 
 purposeless, I required an aim : and I sup- 
 pose, by way of supplying deficiencies, he pro- 
 longed still further my lessons in Hindostanee, 
 and grew more urgent in requiring their ac- 
 complishment ; and I, like a fool, never 
 thought of resisting him — I could not resist 
 him. 
 
 One day I had come to my studies in lower 
 spirits than usual : the ebb was occasioned by 
 a poignantly felt disappointment ; Hannah had 
 told me in the morning there was a letter for 
 
154 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 me, and when I went down to take it, almost 
 certain that the long-looked-for tidings were 
 vouchsafed me at last, I found only an unim- 
 portant note from Mr. Briggs on business. 
 The bitter check had wrung from me some 
 tears; and now, as I sat poring over the crab- 
 bed characters and flourishing tropes of an In- 
 dian scribe, my eyes filled again. 
 
 St. John called me to his side to read ; in 
 attempting to do this my voice failed me ; 
 words were lost in sobs. He and I were the 
 only occupants of the parlor ; Diana was prac- 
 ticing her music in the drawing-room, Mary 
 was gardening — it was a very fine May-day, 
 clear, sunny, and breezy. My companion ex- 
 pressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he 
 question me as to its cause ; he only said : 
 
 •• We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you 
 are more composed. And while I smothered 
 the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and 
 patient, leaning on his desk and looking like a 
 physician watching vviih the eye of science an 
 expected and fully understood crisis in a pa- 
 tient's malady. Having. stifled my sobs, wiped 
 my eyes, and muttered something about not 
 being very well that morning, I resumed my 
 task, and succeeded in completing it. St. John 
 put away my books and his, locked his desk, 
 and said ; 
 
 "Now, Jan^, you shall take a walk: and 
 ■vrith me." 
 
 " I will call Diana and Mary." 
 
 •' No. I want only one companion this 
 morning, and that must be you : put on your 
 things ; go out by the kitchen door; take the 
 road toward the head of Marsh-Glen ; I will 
 join you in a moment." 
 
 I know no medium ; I never in my life have 
 knov,'n any medium in my dealings with posi- 
 tive hard characters, antagonistic to my own, 
 between absolute submission and determined 
 revolt. I have always faithfully observed the 
 one, up to the very moment of bursting, some- 
 times with volcanic vehemence, into the other ; 
 and as neither present circumstances warrant- 
 ed, nor my present mood inclined me to muti- 
 ny, I observed careful obedience to St. John's 
 directions ; and in ten minutes I was treading 
 the wild track of tjie glen, side by side with him. 
 
 The breeze was from the west ; it caqae 
 over the hills, sweet with scents of heath and 
 rush ; the sky was of stainless blue ; the 
 stream descending the ravine, swelled with 
 past spring rains, poured along plentiful and 
 clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, 
 and sapphire tints from the firmament. As 
 we advanced and left the tract, we trod a soft 
 turf, mossy, fine, and emerald green, minutely 
 enameled with a tiny white flower, and span- 
 gled with a star-like yellow blossom ; the hills, 
 meantime, shut us quite in ; for the glen, to- 
 ward its head, wound to their very core. 
 
 "Let us rest here," said St. John, as we 
 leaqjied the first stragglers of a battalion of 
 rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which 
 the beck rushed down, a waterfall, and where, 
 still a little farther, the mountain shook ofl' turf 
 and flower, had only heath for raiment, and crag 
 for gem— where it exaggerated the wild to the 
 savage, and exchanged the fresh for the frown- 
 ing— where it guarded the forlorn hope of soli- 
 tude, aad a last refuge for silence. 
 
 I took a seat — St. John stood near me ; ho 
 
 looked up the pass and down the hollow; hia 
 glance wandered away with the stream, and 
 returned to traverse the unclouded heaven 
 which colored it ; he removed his hat, let the 
 breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow; he 
 seemed in communion with the genius of the 
 haunt ; with his eye he bade farewell to some- 
 thing. 
 
 " And I shall see it again," he said aloud, 
 " in dreams, when I sleep by the Ganges ; and 
 again, in a more remote hour — when another 
 slumber overcomes me — on the shore of a 
 darker stream." 
 
 Strange words of a strange love ! An au- 
 stere patriot's passion for his fatherland ! He 
 sat down ; for half an hour we never spoke — 
 neither he to me nor I to him ; that interval 
 past, he recommenced : 
 
 "Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my 
 berth in an East Indiaraan which sails on the 
 twentieth of June." 
 
 "God will protect you, for you have under- 
 taken his work," I answered. 
 
 " Yes,'-' said he, " there is my glory and joy. 
 I am the servant of an infallible master ; I am 
 not going out under human guidance, subject 
 to the defective laws and erring control of my 
 feeble fellow-worms ; my king, my lawgiver, 
 my captain, is the All-perfect : it seems strange 
 to me that all round m.e do not burn to enlist 
 under the same banner — to join in the same 
 enterprise." 
 
 " All have not your powers ; and it would be 
 folly for the feeble to wish to march with the 
 strong." 
 
 " I do not speak to the feeble, or think of 
 them ; 1 address only such as are worthy of the 
 work, and competent to accomplish it." 
 
 "Those are few in number, and difl!icult to 
 discover." 
 
 " You say truly ; but when found, it is right 
 to stir them up — to urge and exhort them to 
 the effort — to show them what their gifts are, 
 and why they were given — to speak Heaven's 
 message in their ear — to oflfer them, direct from 
 God, a place in the ranks of his chosen." 
 
 " If they are really qualified for the task, 
 will not their own hearts be the first to inform 
 them of itr' 
 
 I felt as if an awful charm was framing round 
 and gathering over me ; I trembled to hear some 
 fatal word spoken which would at once declare 
 and rivet the spell. 
 
 " And what does your heart say 1'' demanded 
 St. John. 
 
 " My heart is mute — my heart is mute," I 
 answered, struck and thrilled. 
 
 "Then I must speak for it," continued the 
 deep, relentless voice; " Jane, come with me 
 to India; come as my help-meet and fellow- 
 laborer." 
 
 The glen and sky spun round ; the hills 
 heaved I It was as if I had heard a summons 
 from Heaven — as if a visionary messenger, like 
 him of Macedonia, had enounced "Come over 
 and help us !" But I was no apostle, I could 
 not behold the herald, I could not receive his 
 call. 
 
 " Oh, St. John !" I then cried, " have some 
 mercy !" 
 
 I appealed to one, who, in the discharge of 
 
[ 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 155 
 
 ^ what he believed his duty, knew neither mercy 
 nor remorse. He continued : 
 
 " God and nature intended you for a mis- 
 sionary's wife. It is not personal but menial 
 endowments they have given you ; you are 
 formed for labor, not for love. A missionary's 
 wife you must — shall be. You shall be mine ; 
 I claim you — not for my pleasure, but for my 
 Sovereign's service." 
 
 " I am not fit for it ; I have no vocation," I 
 said. 
 
 He had calculated on these first objections ; 
 he was not irritated by them. Indeed, as he 
 leaned back against the crag behind him, folded 
 his arms on his cheSt, and fixed his counte- 
 nance, I saw he was prepared for a long and 
 trying opposition, and had taken in a stock of 
 patience to last him to its close — resolved, 
 however, that that close should be conquest 
 for him. 
 
 " Humility, Jane," said he, " is the ground- 
 work of Christian virtues ; you say right that 
 you are nor fit for the work. Who is fit for it 1 
 Or who, that ever was truly called, believed 
 himself worthy of the summons 1 I, for in- 
 stance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul 
 I acknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners ; 
 but I do not suffer tliis sense of my personal 
 vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader ; 
 that He is just as well as mighty ; and while 
 He has chosen a feeble instrument to perform 
 a great task. He will, from the boundless stores 
 of His providence, supply the inadequacy of the 
 means to the e.nd. Think like mc, Jane — 
 trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask 
 you to lean on ; do not doubt but it will bear 
 the weight of your human weakness." 
 
 " I do not understand a missionary life ; I 
 liave never studied missionary labors." 
 
 "There, I, humble as I am, can give you 
 the aid you want ; I can set you your task from 
 hour to hour ; stand by you always ; help you 
 from moment to moment. This I could do in 
 the beginning ; soon (for I know your powers) 
 you would be as strong and apt as myself, and 
 would not require my help." 
 
 " But my powers — where arc they for this 
 undertaking 1 I do not feel them. Nothing 
 speaks or stirs in mc while you talk. I am 
 sensible of no light kindling — no life quickening 
 — no voice counseling or cheering. Oh, I wish 
 I could make you see how much my mind is at 
 this moment like a rayless dungeon, with one 
 shrinking fear fettered in its depths — the fear 
 of being persuaded by you to attempt what I 
 can not accomplish !" 
 
 " I have an answer for you — hear it. I have 
 watched you ever since we first met ; I have 
 made you my study for ten months. I have 
 proved you in that time by sundry tests ; and 
 what have I seen and elicited 1 In the village 
 school I found you could perform well, punc- 
 tually, uprightly, labor uncongenial to your 
 habits and inclinations ; I saw you could per- 
 form it with capacity and tact ; you could win 
 while you controlled. In the calm with which 
 you learned you had become suddenly rich, I 
 read a mind clear of the vice of Demas ; lucre 
 had no und'je power over you. In the resolute 
 readiness with which you cut your wealth into 
 four shares, keeping but one to yourself, and 
 lelioquishing the three others to the claim of 
 
 abstract justice, I recognized a soul that revel- 
 ed in the flame and excitement of sacrifice. In 
 the tractability with which, at my wish, you 
 forsook a study in which you were interested, 
 and adopted another because it interested me" — 
 in the untiring ass^duity with which you have 
 since persevered in it — in the unflagging energy 
 and unshaken temper with which you have met 
 its difficulties — I acknowledge the complement 
 of qualities I seek. Jane, you are docile, dili- 
 gent, disinterested, faithful, constant, and cour- 
 ageous ; very gentle, and very heroic ; cease 
 to mistrust yourself — I can trust you unreserv- 
 edly. As a conductress of Indian schools, and 
 a helper among Indian woman, your assistance 
 will be to me invaluable." » 
 
 My iron shroud contracted round me ; per- 
 suasion advanced w^ith slow, sure step. Shut 
 my eyes as I would, these last words of his 
 succeeded in making the way, which had seem- 
 ed blocked up, comparatively clear. My work, 
 which had appeared so vague, so hopelessly 
 diffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and 
 assumed a definite form under his shaping 
 hand. He waited for an answer. I demanded 
 a quarter of an hour to think before I again 
 hazarded a reply. 
 
 " Very willingly," he rejoined ; and rising, 
 he strode a little distance up the pass, threw 
 himself down on a swell of heath, and there 
 lay still. 
 
 "I can do what he wants me to do'; I am 
 forced to see and acknowledg<? that," I medi- 
 tated — " that is, if life be spared me. But I feel 
 mine is not the existence to be long protracted 
 under an Indian sun. What then 1 He does not 
 care for that ; when rny time came to die he 
 would resign me, in all serenity and sanctity, to 
 the God who gave me to him. The case is very,j[^ 
 plain before me. In leaving England, I sliould 
 leave a loved but empty land — Mr. Rochester is 
 not there ; and if he were, what is, what can 
 that ever be to mel My business is to live 
 without him now ; nolhirtg so absurd, so weak 
 as to drag on from day to day, as if I were 
 waiting some impossible change in circum- 
 stances, which might reunite me to him. Of 
 course (as St. John once said) I must seek 
 another interest in life to replace the one lost ; 
 is not the occupation he now offers me truly 
 the most glorious man can adopt or God assign 1 
 Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results, 
 the one best calculated to fill the void left by 
 uptorn affections and demolished hopes 1 I 
 believe I must say yes — and yet I shudder. 
 Alas ! If I join St. John, I abandon half my- 
 self ; if I go to India, I go to premature death. 
 And how will the interval between leaving 
 England for India, and India for the grave, be 
 filled! Oh, I know well! That', too, is very 
 clear to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. 
 John till my sinews ache, I shall satisfy him — 
 to the finest central point and farthest outward 
 circle of his expectations. If I do go with him 
 — if I do make the sacrifice he urges, I will 
 make it absolutely; I will throw all on the 
 altar — heart, vitals, the entire victim. He wiU 
 never love me ; but he shall approve me ; I will 
 show him energies he has not yet seen, re- 
 sources he has never suspected. Yes; I can 
 work as hard as he can, and with as little 
 grudging. 
 
156 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " (Tonsent, then, to his demand is possible ; 
 but for one item — one dreadful item. It is — 
 that he asks me to be his wife, and has no more 
 of a husband's heart for me than that frowning 
 giant of a rock, down which the stream is foam- 
 ing in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier 
 would a good weapon ; and that is all. Un- 
 married to him, this would never grieve me ; 
 but can I let him complete his calculations — 
 coolly put into practice his plans — go through 
 the wedding ceremony 1 Can I receive from 
 him the bridal ring, endure all the forms of love 
 {which I doubt not he would scrupulously ob- 
 serve), and know that the spirit was quite 
 absent? Can I bear the consciousness that 
 every endearment he bestows is a sacrifice 
 made on principle 1 No, such a martyrdom 
 would be monstrous. I will never undergo it ; 
 As his sister, I might accompany "him — not as 
 his wife ; I will tell him so." 
 
 I looked toward the knoll ; there he lay, still 
 as a prostrate column ; his face turned to me : 
 his eye beaming watchful, and keen. He started 
 to his feet and approached me. 
 
 " I am ready to go to India, if I may go free." 
 
 "Your answer requires a commentary," he 
 ' said ; " it is not clear." 
 
 " You have hitherto been my adopted brother ; 
 I, your adopted sister ; let us continue as such ; 
 you and I had better not marry." 
 , He shook his head. "Adopted fraternity will 
 
 hot do in this case. If you were my real sister 
 it would be different ; I should take you, and 
 seek no wife. But, as it is, either our union 
 must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or 
 it can not exist ; practical obstacles oppose 
 themselves to any other plan. Do you see it, 
 Jane 1 Consider a moment — your strong sense 
 ^ will guide you." 
 
 I did consider, and still my sense, such as it 
 was, directed me only to the fact that we did 
 not love each other as man and wife should ; 
 and therefore it inferred we ought not to marry. 
 I said so. " St. John," I returned, " I regard 
 you as a brother— you, me as a sister ; so let 
 us continue." 
 
 "We can not — we can not," he answered 
 with short, sharp determination ; " it would 
 not do. You have said you will go with me to 
 India ; remember — you have said that." 
 
 " Conditionally." 
 
 " Well, well. To the main point — the depart- 
 ure with me from England, the co-operation 
 with me in my future labors — you do not ob- 
 ject. You have already as good as put your 
 hand to the plow ; you are too consistent to 
 withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in 
 view — how the work you have undertaken can 
 best be done. Simplify your complicated inter- 
 ests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims ; merge 
 all considerations in one purpose, that of ful- 
 filling with effect, with power, the mission of 
 your great Master. To do so, you must have 
 a coadjutor — not a brother, that is a loose tie, 
 but a husband. I, too, do not want a sister ; a 
 sister might any day be taken from me. I want 
 a wife ; the sole help-meet I can influence effi- 
 ciently in life, and retain absolutely till death." 
 I" I shuddered as he spoke ; I felt his influence 
 in my marrow, his hold on my limbs. 
 
 " Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John ; 
 seek one fitted to you." 
 
 " One fitted to my purpose, you mean, fitted 
 to my vocation. Again I tell you it is not the 
 insignificant private individual — the mere man, 
 with the man's selfish senses — I wish to mate ; 
 it is the missionary." 
 
 " And I will give the missionary my ener- 
 gies — it is all he wants — but not myself; that 
 would be only adding the husk and shell to the 
 kernel. For them he has no use ; I retain 
 them." 
 
 " You can not — you ought not. Do you think 
 God will be satisfied with half an oblation! 
 Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice 1 It is 
 the cause of God I advocate; it is under His 
 standard I enlist you. I can not accept on 
 His behalf a divided allegiance ; it must be 
 entire." 
 
 " Oh ! I will give my heart to God," I said. 
 " You do not want it." 
 
 I will not swear, reader, that there was not 
 something of repressed sarcasm both in the 
 tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in 
 the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently 
 feared St. John till now, because I had not un- 
 derstood him. He had held me in awe, be- 
 cause he had held me in doubt. How much of 
 him was saint, how much mortal, I could not 
 heretofore tell ; but revelations were being 
 made in this conference ; the analysis of his 
 nature was proceeding before my eyes. I saw 
 his fallibilities ; I comprehended them. I un- 
 derstood that, sitting there where I did, on the 
 bank of heath, and with that handsome form 
 before me, I sat at the feet of a man erring as 
 I. The veil fell from his hardness and despot- 
 ism. Having felt in him the presence of these 
 qualities, I felt his imperfection, and took cour- 
 age. I was with an equal, one with whom I 
 might argue ; one whom, if I saw good, I might 
 resist. 
 
 He was silent after I had uttered the last 
 sentence, and I presently risked an upward 
 glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on 
 me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen 
 inquiry. "Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to 
 mc V it seemed to say. ' " What does this sig- 
 nify!" 
 
 " Do not let us forget that this is a solemn 
 matter," he said, ere long ; "one of which we 
 may neiiher think nor talk lightly without sin. 
 I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when you say 
 you will give your heart to God ; it is all I want. 
 Once wrench your heart from man and fix it 
 on your M^tker, the advancement of ihal Ma- 
 ker's spiritual kingdom on earth will be your 
 chief delight and endeavor; you will be ready 
 to do at once whatever furthers that end. You 
 will SCO what impetus would he given to your 
 efforts and mine by our physical and mental 
 union in marriage : the only union that gives a 
 character of permanent conformity to tiie des- 
 tinies and designs of human beings ; find, pass- 
 ing over all minor caprices, all trivial difficul- 
 ties and delicacies of feeling; all scruple about 
 (he degree, kind, stVength, or tenderness of 
 mere personal inclination, you will hasten to 
 enter into that union at once." 
 
 "Shall I?" I said, briefly; and I looked at 
 his features, beautiful in their harmony, but 
 strangely formidable in their still severity; at 
 his brow, commanding, but not open ; at his 
 eyes, bright, and deep, and searching, but never 
 
JANE EViiE. 
 
 157 
 
 soft ; at hie tall, imposing figure ; and fan- 
 cied myself, in idea, his wife. Oh ! it would 
 never do ! As his curate, his comrade, all 
 would be right : I would cross oceans with 
 him in that capacity ; toil under eastern suns, 
 in Asian deserts with him in that office ; ad- 
 mire and emulate his courage, and devotion, 
 and vigor ; accommodate quietly to his master- 
 hood ; smile undisturbed at his ineradicable am- 
 bition ; discriminate the Christian from the 
 man ; profoundly esteem the one, and freely 
 forgive the other. I should suffer often, no 
 doubt, attached to him only in this capacity ; 
 my body would be under rather a stringent 
 yoke, but my heart and mind would be free. I 
 should still have my unblighted self to turn to ; 
 my natural unenslaved feelings with which to 
 communicate in moments of loneliness. There 
 would be recesses in my mind which would be 
 only mine, to which he never came ; and sen- 
 timents growing there fresh and sheltered, 
 which his austerity could never blight, nor his 
 measured warrior-march trample down ; but 
 as his wife, at his side always, and always 
 restrained, and always checked, forced to keep 
 the fire of my nature continually low, to compel 
 it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, 
 though the imprisoned flame consumed vital 
 after vital — this vvoujd be unendurable. 
 
 " St. John I" I exclaimed, when I had got so 
 far in my meditation. 
 
 "Weill" he answered, icily. 
 
 '• I repeat, I freely consent to go with you as 
 your fellow-missionary, but not as your wife ; 
 lean not marry you and become a part of yuu." 
 
 " A part ot me you must become," he an- 
 swered, steadily; "otherwise the whole bar- 
 gain is void. How can I, a man not yet thii- 
 ly, take out with me to India a girl of nineteen, 
 unless she is married to me'! How can we 
 he forever together — sometimes in solitudes, 
 sometimes amid savage tribes — and^ unwed 1" 
 
 "Very well," I said, shortly, '• under the cir- 
 cumstances ; quite as well as if I were either 
 your real sister; or a man and a clergyman, 
 like yourself." 
 
 " It is known that you are not my sister; I 
 can not introduce you as such; to aiiempt it 
 would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us 
 both. And for the rest, tiiough you have a 
 ^nian's vigorous brain, you have a woman's 
 liearl, and — it would not do." 
 
 " Ii would do," I affirmed, with some dis- 
 dain, " perfectly well. I have a woman's 
 lieart, but not where you are concerned ; for 
 you I have only a comrade's constancy ; a fel- 
 iow-soldier's frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if 
 you like ; a neophyte's respect and submissi^ju 
 to his hieroplianl ; nothing more — don't fear." 
 
 "It is what I want," he said, speaking to, 
 himself; "it is just what I want. And there 
 are obstacles in the way ; they must be hewn 
 down. Jane, you would not repent marrying 
 me ; be certain of that : we must be married. 
 I repeat it, there is no other way ; and undoubt- 
 edly enough of love would follow upon marriage 
 to render the union right even in your eyes." 
 J. " I scorn your idea of love," I could not help 
 saying, as I rose up and stood before him, lean- 
 ing my back against the rock. "I scorn the 
 counterfeit sentiment you ofler ; yes, St, John, 
 and I scorn you when you ofTer it." 
 
 He looked at me fixedly, compressnifi iua 
 well-cut lips while he did so. "Whether he was 
 incensed or surprised, or what, it is not easy 
 to tell ; he could command his countenance 
 thoroughly. 
 
 " I scarcely expecte<l to hear that expression 
 from you," he said ; " I think I have done and 
 uttered nothing to deserve scorn." 
 
 I was touched by his gentle tone, and over- 
 awed by his high, calm mien. 
 
 " Forgive me the words, St. John ; but it is 
 your own fault that I have been roused to speak 
 so unguardedly. You have introduced a topic 
 on which our natures are at variance — a topic 
 we should never discuss ; the very name of 
 love is an apple of discord between us — if the 
 reality were required, what should we dol 
 How should we feell My dear cousin, aban- 
 don your scheme of marriage — forget it." 
 
 "No," said he; "it is a long-cherished 
 scheme, and the only one which can secure my 
 great end ; but I shall urge you no further at 
 present. To-morrow I leave home for Cam- 
 bridge ; I have many friends there to whom I 
 should wish to say farewell. I shall be absent 
 a fortnight ; take that space of time to consider 
 my offer, and do not forget that if you reject it, 
 it is not me you deny, but God. Through my 
 means. He opens to you a noble career ; as my 
 wife only can you enter upon it. Refuse to be 
 my wile, and you limit yourself forever to a 
 track of selfish ease and barren obscurity. 
 Tremble, lest in that case you should- be num- 
 bered w-ith those who have denied the faith 
 and are worse than infidels !" 
 
 He had done. Turning from me, he once 
 more 
 
 " Locked to river, looked to hill ;" 
 
 but this time his feelings were all pent in his 
 heart ; I was not worthy to hear them uttered. 
 As I walked by his side homeward, I read well 
 in his iron silence all he felt toward me : the 
 disapi)ointment of an austere and despotic na- 
 ture, which has met resistance where it ex- 
 pected submission ; the disap|)rol)ation of a 
 cool, inflexible judgment, which has detected 
 in another feelings and vie^vs in which it has 
 no power to sympathize ; in short, as a man, 
 he would have wished to coerce me into obedi- 
 ence ; it was only as a sincere Christian he boro 
 so patiently vvith niy perversity, and allowed 
 so long a space for reflection and repentance. 
 
 That night, alter he had kissed his sisters, 
 he thought proper to forget even to shake hands 
 with me, but left the room in silence. I — who, 
 though I had no love, had much friendsliip for 
 him — was hurt by the marked omission ;" so 
 much hurt that tears started to my eyes. 
 
 "I see you and St. John have beu;! quarrel- 
 ing, Jane," said Diana, "during your walk on 
 the moor. But go after him ; he is now linger- 
 ing in the passage, expecting you — he wdl niako 
 it up." 
 
 I have not much pride under such circum 
 stances ; I would always rather be happy that 
 dignified ; and I ran after him — he stood at tli^ 
 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 6i 
 
158 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 my fingers ! He was deeply displeased by what 
 had occurred that day ; cordiality would not 
 warm, nor tears move him. No happy recon- 
 ciliation was to be had with him — no cheering 
 Bmile or generous word ; but still the Christian 
 was patient and placid ; and when I asked him 
 if he forgave me, he answered that he was not 
 in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of 
 vexation ; that he had nothing to forgive, not 
 having been offended. 
 
 And with that answer, he left; me. I would 
 much rather he had knocked me down. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, 
 as he had said he would. He deferred his de- 
 parture a whole week ; and during that time he 
 made me feel what severe punishment a good, 
 yet stern — a conscientious, yet implacable man 
 can inflict on one who has offended him. Wilh- 
 out one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding 
 word, he contrived to impress me momently 
 With the conviction that I was put beyond the 
 pale of his favor. 
 
 Not that St. John harbored a spirit of un- 
 christian vindictiveness — not that ho would 
 have injured a hair of my head, if it had been 
 fully in his power to do so. Both by nature 
 and principle he was superior to the mean grat- 
 ification of vengeance; he had forgiven me for 
 saying I scorned him and iiis love, but he had 
 not forgotten the words ; and as long as he and 
 I lived he never would forget them. I saw by 
 his look, when he turned to me, that they were 
 always written on the air between me and him ; 
 whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice 
 to his ear ; and their echo toned every answer 
 he gave me. 
 
 He did not abstain from conversing with me ; 
 he even called me as usual each morning to 
 join him at his desk ; and I fear the corrupt 
 man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, 
 and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evincing 
 with what skill he coald, while acting and speak- 
 ing apparently just as usual, extract from every 
 deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and 
 approval which had formerly communicated a 
 certain austere charm to his language and man- 
 ner. To me, he was in reality become no long- 
 er flesh, but marble ; his eye was a cold, bright, 
 blue gem ; his tongue, a speaking instrument — 
 nothing more. 
 
 All this was torture to me — refined, lingering 
 torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation, 
 and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed 
 and crushed me altogether. I felt how — if I 
 ■were his wife — this good n'an, pure as the deep 
 sunless source, could soon kill me — without 
 drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, 
 or receiving on his own crystal conscience the 
 faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this, 
 when I made any attempt to propitiate liim. No 
 ruth met my ruth. He experienced no suffer- 
 ing from estrangement — no yearning after roc- 
 onciliaiion ; and though, more than once, my 
 fast-falling tears blistered the page over vvhich 
 we both bent, they produced no more effect on 
 him than if his heart had been really a matter 
 of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime, 
 bo waa Boracwhai kinder than usual ; as if 
 
 afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently 
 convince me how completely I was banished 
 and banned, he added the force of contrast; 
 and this I am sure he did, not by malice, but on 
 principle. 
 
 The night before he left home, happening to 
 see him walking in the garden about sunset, 
 and remembering, as I looked at him, that this 
 man, alienated as he now was, had once saved 
 my life, and that we were near relations, I was 
 moved to make a last attempt to regain his 
 friendship. I went out and approached him, as 
 he stood leaning over the little gale ; I spoke 
 to the point at once. 
 
 "St. John, I am unhappy, because you are 
 still angry with mc. Let us be friends." 
 
 " I hope we are friends," was the unmoTed 
 reply; while he still watched the rising of the 
 moon, which he had been contemplating as I 
 approached. 
 
 "No, St. John, we are not friends as we 
 were. You know that." 
 
 " Are we not 1 That is wrong. For my part, 
 I wish you no ill and all good." 
 
 " I believe you, St. John ; for I am sure you 
 are incapable of wishing any one ill; but, as I 
 am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat 
 more of affection than that sort of general phi- 
 lanthropy you extend to mere strangers." 
 
 "Of course," he said. "Your wish is rea- 
 sonable ; and I am far from regarding you as a 
 stranger." 
 
 This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was 
 mortifying and baffling enough. Had I attend- 
 ed to ihe suggestions of pride and ire, I should 
 iinmediately have left him ; but something 
 worked within me more strongly than those 
 feelings could. I deeply venerated my cousin's 
 talent and principle. His friendsliip was of 
 vdlue to me ; to lose it tried me severely. I 
 would not so soon relinquish the attempt to re- 
 conquer it. 
 
 "Must we part in this way, St. John? And 
 when you go to India, will you leave ms so, 
 without a kinder word than you have yet 
 spoken 1" 
 
 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 1" 
 
 " You said I could not, unless I married 
 you." . 
 
 " And you will not marry me T You adhere 
 to that resolution?" 
 
 Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror 
 those cold people can put into the ice of their 
 questions ? How much of the fall of the ava- 
 lanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of 
 the frozen sea in their displeasure ? 
 
 " No, St. John. I will not marry you. I ad- 
 here to my resolution." 
 
 The avalanche had shaken and slid a little 
 forward, but it did not yet crash down. 
 
 " Once more, why this refusall" he askeJ. 
 
 " Formerly," I answered, " because you did' 
 not love nie ; now, I reply, because you almost 
 hate me. If I w(-re to marry you, you would 
 kill me. You arc killing me now." 
 
 His lips and cheeks turned white— quit© 
 white. 
 
 " 1 should hill— lam hlUng you 7 Your words 
 are such as ought not to bo used : violent, un- 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 150 
 
 feminine, and untnie. They betray an un- 
 fortunate state of mind ; they merit severe 
 reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that 
 it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow, even 
 until sevcnty-and-seven times." 
 
 I had finished the business now. While 
 earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the 
 trace of my former offense, I had stamped on 
 that tenacious surface another and far deeper 
 impression ; I had burned it in. 
 
 " Now you will indeed, hate me," I said. 
 " It is useless to attempt to conciliate you j I 
 see I have made an eternal enemy of you." 
 
 A fresh wrong did these words inflict ; the 
 worse, because they touched on the truth. 
 That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary 
 spasm. I knew the steelly ire I had whetted. 
 I was heart-wrung. 
 
 " You utterly misinterpret my words," I said, 
 at onee seizing his hand ; " I have no intention 
 to grieve or pain you — indeed I have not." 
 
 Most bitterly he smiled — most decidedly he 
 withdrew his liand from mine. " And now you 
 recall your promise, and will not go to India at 
 all, I presume?" said he, after a considerable 
 pause. 
 
 "Yes I will, as your assistant," I- answered. 
 
 A vt.y long silence succeeded. "What strug- 
 gle iliere was in him between Nature and Grace 
 in this interval, I can not tell ; only singular 
 gleams sci\itillated in his ey6s, and strange 
 shadows passed over his face. He spoke at 
 last. 
 
 " I before proved to you the absurdity of a 
 single woman of your age proposing to accom- 
 pany abroad a single man of mine. I proved 
 it to you in such terms as I should have thought 
 W"ould have prevented your ever again alluding 
 to the jilan. That you have done so, I regret — 
 for your sake." 
 
 I interrupted him. Any thing like a tangible 
 Teproach gave me courage at once. " Keep to 
 ommon sense, St. John ; you are verging on 
 nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what 
 I have said. You are not really shocked; for, 
 with your superior mind, you can not be either 
 so dull or so conceited as to misunderstand my 
 meaning. 1 say again, I will be your curate, if 
 you like, but never your wife." 
 
 Again he turned lividly pale ; but, as before, 
 controlled his passion perfectly. He answered 
 emphatically, but calmly — 
 
 " A female curate, who is not my wife, would 
 never suit ine. With me, then, it seems, you 
 can not go ; but if you are sincere in your 
 offer, I will, while in town, speak to a married 
 missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. 
 Your own fortune will make you independent 
 of the Society's aid ; and thus you may still be 
 spared the dishonor of breaking your promise, 
 and deserting the band you engaged to join." 
 _ Now I never had, as the reader knows, either 
 given any formal promise, or entered into any 
 eng;)gen'ent ; and this language was all much 
 too hard, and much too despotic for the oc- 
 casion. I replied — ■ 
 
 "There is no dishonor, no breach of promise, 
 no desertion in the case. I am not under the 
 slightest obligation to go to India, especially 
 With strangers. With you I would have ven- 
 tuied much, because I admire, confide in, and. 
 as a sister, I love you ; but I am convinced 
 
 that, go when and with whom I would, I should 
 not live long in that climate." 
 
 " Ah ! you are afraid of yourself," he said, 
 curling his lip. 
 
 " I am. God did not give me my life to 
 throw away ; and to do as you wish me, would, 
 1 begin to think, be almost equivalent to com- 
 mitting suicide. Moreover, bel'ore I definitively 
 resolve on quitting England, I will know for 
 certain, whether I can not be of greater use by 
 remaining in it than by leaving it." 
 
 " What do you mean 1" 
 
 " It would be fruitless to attempt to explain ; 
 but there is a point on which I have long en- 
 dured painful doubt ; and I can go nowhere till 
 by some means that doubt is removed." 
 
 " I know where your heart turns, and to 
 what it clings. The interest you cherish is 
 lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you 
 ought to have crushed it ; now you should blush 
 to allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester V 
 
 It was true. I confessed it by silence. 
 
 " Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester 1" 
 
 " I must find out what is become of him." 
 
 " It remains for me, then," he said, " to re- 
 member you in my prayers, and to entreat God 
 for you, in all earnestness, that you may not 
 indeed become a castaway. I had thought I 
 recognized in you one of the chosen. But God 
 sees not as man sees ; His will, be done." 
 
 He opened the gate, passed through it, and 
 strayed away down the glen. He was soon out 
 of sight. 
 
 On re-entering the parlor, I found Diana 
 standing at the window, looking very thought- 
 ful. Diana was a great deal taller than I ; she 
 put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, 
 examined my face. > 
 
 "Jane,"' she said, "you are always agitated 
 and pale now. I am sure there is something 
 the matter. Tell me v/hat business St. John 
 and you have on hand. I have watched you 
 this half hour from the window ; you inust for- 
 give my being such a spy. but for a long time I 
 have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is 
 a strange being — " 
 
 She paused — I did not speak ; soon she re- 
 sumed — 
 
 " That brother of mine cherishes peculiar 
 views of some sort respecting you, I anv sure ; 
 he has long distinguished you by a notice and 
 interest he never showed any one else — to 
 what endl I wish he loved you — does ho, 
 JaneV 
 
 I put her cool hand to my hot foreheadj 
 " No, Die, not one whit." 
 
 " Then why does he follow you so with his 
 eyes — and get you so frequently alone with 
 him, and keep j'ou so continually at his side! 
 Mary and I had both concluded he wished you 
 to marry him." 
 
 " He does — he has asked me to be his wife." 
 
 Diana clapped her hands. " That is just 
 what we hoped and thought ! And you will 
 marry him, Jane, won't youl And then he 
 will stay in England." 
 
 " Far from that, Diana ; his sole idea in pro- 
 posing to me is to procure a fitting fellow-laborer 
 in his Indian toils." 
 
 " What ! he wishes you to go to India ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Madness!" she exclaimed. "You would 
 
160 
 
 JANi: EYRE. 
 
 not live three months there, i am certain. You 
 never shall go ; you have not consented — have 
 you, Jane V • 
 
 " I have refused to marry him — " 
 
 "And have, consequently, displeased himV 
 she suggested. 
 
 " Deeply : he will never forgive me, I fear ; 
 yet I offered to accompany him as his sis- 
 ter." 
 
 " It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think 
 of the task you undertook — one of incessant 
 fatigue — where fatigue kills even the strong ; 
 and you are weak. St. John — you know him — 
 would urge you to impossibilities ; with him 
 there would be no permission to rest during 
 the hot hours ; and, unfortunately, I have no- 
 ticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself to 
 perform. I am astonished you found courage to 
 refuse his hand. You do not love him, then, 
 Jane 1" 
 
 "Not as a husband." 
 
 •' Yet he is a handsome fellow." 
 
 " And I am so plain, you see, Di. We 
 should never suit." 
 
 " Plain ! You 1 Not at all. You are much 
 too pretty, as well as too good, to be grilled 
 alive in Calcutta." And again she earnestly 
 conjured me to give up all thoughts of going 
 out with her brother. 
 
 " I must, indeed," I said ; " for when, just 
 now, I repeatefl the offer of serving him for a 
 deacon, he expressed himself shocked' at my 
 want of decency. He seemed to think I had 
 committed an impropriety in proposing to ac- 
 company him unmarried, as if I had not from 
 the first hoped to find in him a brother ; and 
 habituaiiy regarded him as such." 
 
 " What makes you say he does not love you, 
 Jane!" 
 
 " You should hear himself on the subject. 
 He has again and again explained that it is not 
 himself, but his office, he wishes to mate. He 
 has told me I am formed for labor — not for 
 love — which, is true, no doubt. But, in my 
 opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows 
 that I am not formed for marriage. Would 
 it not be strange, Di, to be chained for life 
 to a man who regarded one but as a useful 
 tool ?" 
 
 " Insupportable — unnatural — out of the ques- 
 tion !" 
 
 ;t " And then," I continued, " though I have 
 only sisterly affection for him now, yet, if 
 forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possi- 
 bility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, tor- 
 turing kind of love for him, because he is so 
 talented ; and there is often a certain heroic 
 grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation, 
 la that case, my lot would become unspeakably 
 wretched. He would not want me to love 
 him ; and if I showed the feeling, he would 
 make me sensible that it was a superfluity, un- 
 required hy him, unbecoming in me. I know 
 he would." 
 
 " And yet St. John is a good man," said 
 Diana. 
 
 "He is a good and a great man ; but he for- 
 gets, pitilessly, the feelings and claims of little 
 people, in pursuing his own large views. It is 
 bel^ttr, therefore, for the insignificant to keep 
 out of his way, Ipst, in his progress, he should 
 trample them down. Here he comes ! I will 
 
 leave you, Diana." And I hastened up stairs, 
 as I saw him entering the garden. 
 
 But I was forced to meet him again at sup- 
 per. During that meal he appeared just aa 
 composed as usual. I had thought he would 
 hardly speak to me, and I was certain he had 
 given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme ; 
 the sequel showed I was mistaken on both 
 points. He addressed me precisely in his or- 
 dinary manner, or what had, of late, been his 
 ordinary manner — one scrupulously polite. No 
 doubt he had invoked the help of the Holy 
 Spirit to subdue the anger I had roused in him, 
 and now believed he had forgiven me onc€ 
 more. 
 
 For the evening reading before prayers, he 
 selected the twenty-first chapter of Revelations. 
 It was at all times pleasant to listen, while from 
 his lips fell the words of the Bible ; never did 
 his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full 
 — never did his manner become so impressive 
 in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered 
 the oracles of God ; and to-night that voice took 
 a more solemn tone, that manner a more thrill- 
 ing meaning, as he sat in the midst of his house- 
 hold circle (the May moon shining in through 
 the uncurtained window, and rendering almost 
 unnecessary the light of the candle on the table); 
 as he sat there, bending over the great old Bi- 
 ble, and described from its page the vision of 
 the new heaven and the new earth — told how 
 God would come to dwell wilh men — how he 
 would wipe away all tears from their eyes, 
 and promised that there should be no more 
 death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more 
 pain, because the former things were passed 
 away. 
 
 The succeeding words thrilled me strangely 
 as he spoke ihem ; especially as I felt, by the 
 slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in 
 uttering tiiem his eye had turned on me. 
 
 " He that overcometh shall inherit all things ; 
 and I will be bis God, and he shall be my son. 
 But," was slowly, distinctly road, " the fearful, 
 the unbelieving, &c.. shall have their part in 
 the lake which biirneth with fire and brimstone, 
 which is the second death." 
 
 Henceforward I knew what fate St. John 
 feared for me. 
 
 A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a long- 
 ing earnestness, marked his enunciation of the 
 last glorious verses of that chapter. The read- 
 er believed his name was already written in tho 
 Lamb's book of life, and he yearned after the 
 hour which should admit him to the city to 
 w^hich the kings of the earth bring their glory 
 and honor — which has no need of sun or moon 
 to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens 
 it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. 
 
 In the prayer following the chapter, all his 
 energy gathered — all his stern zeal woke ; he 
 was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and re- 
 solved on a conquest. He supplicated strength 
 for the weak-hearted — guidance for wanderers 
 from the fold — a return, even at t!ie eleventh 
 hour, for thoao whom the teniptations ol the 
 world and the flesh were luring from the nar- 
 row path. He asked, he urged, he clauned the 
 boon of a brand snatched (mm the hiunmg. 
 Earnestness is ever deeply solemn ; first, as I 
 listened to that prayer, I wondered at his ; then, 
 when it continued and rose, I was touched by 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 161 
 
 it, and at tast awed. He feH the greatness and 
 goodness of his purpose so sincerely; others who 
 heard him plead for it could notbut feel it too. 
 
 The prayer over, we took leave of him : he 
 was to go at a very early hour in the morning. 
 Diana and Mary, having kissed him, left the 
 room, in compliance, I think, with a whispered 
 hint from him ; I tendered my hand, and wish- 
 ed him a pleasant journey. 
 
 "Thank you, Jane. As 1 said, I shall return 
 from Cambridge in a fortnight ; that space, 
 then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listen- 
 ed to human pride, I should say no more to you 
 of marriage with me ; but I listen to my duty, 
 and keep steadily in view my first aim — to do 
 all things to the glory of God. My Master was 
 long-suffering : so will f be. I can not give you 
 up to perdition as a vessel of wrath ; repent — 
 resolve, while there is yet time. Remember, 
 we are bid to work while it is day — warned that 
 " the night cometh when no man shall work." 
 Remember the fate of Dives, who had his good 
 things in this life. God give you strength to 
 choose that better part which shall not be taken 
 from you !" 
 
 He laid his hand on my head as he uttered 
 the last words. He had spoken earnestly, mild- 
 ly; his look was not, indeed, that of a lover 
 beholding his mistress ; but it was that of a 
 pastor recalling his wandering sheep — or better, 
 of a guardian angel watching the soul for which 
 he is responsible. All men of talent, whether 
 they be men of feeling or not ; whether they be 
 'Zealots, or aspirants, or despots — provided only 
 they be sincere — have their sublime moments ; 
 when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration 
 for St. John — veneration so strong that its im- 
 petus thrust me at once to the point I had so 
 long shunned. I was tempted to cease strug- 
 gling with him — to rush down the torrent of his 
 will into the gulf of his existence, and there 
 lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by 
 him now as I had been once before, in a differ- 
 ent way, by another. I was a fool both times. 
 To have yielded then would have been an error 
 of principle ; to have yielded now would have 
 been an error of judgment. So I think at this 
 hour, when I look back to the crisis through the 
 quiet medium of time ; I was unconscious of 
 folly at the instant. 
 
 I stood motionless under my hierophant's 
 touch. My refusals were forgotten — my fears 
 overcome — my wrestlings paralyzed. The im- 
 possible — i. «., my marriage with St. John — was 
 fast becoming the possible. All was changing 
 -utterly, with a sudden sweep. Religion called 
 — Angels beckoned — God commanded — life roll- 
 ed together like a scroll — death's gates opening, 
 showed eternity beyond ; it seemed, that for 
 safety and bliss there, all here might be sacri- 
 ficed in a second. The dim room was full of 
 visions. 
 
 "Could you decide now 1" asked the mission- 
 ary. The inquiry was put in gentle tones ; he 
 drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentle- 
 ness ! how far more potent is it than force ! I 
 could resist St. John's wrath ; I grew pliant as 
 a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the 
 time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be 
 made to repent, some day, of my former rebel- 
 lion. His nature was not changed by one hour 
 of solemn prayer ; it was only elevated. 
 
 "I could decide if I were but certain," I an- 
 swered ; " were I but convinced that it is God's 
 will I should marry you, I could vov/ to marry 
 you here and now — come afterwaird what 
 would !" 
 
 " My prayers are heard !" ejaculated St. John. 
 He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if 
 he claimed me : he surrounded me with his arm, 
 almost as if he loved me (I say almost — I knew 
 the difference — for I had felt what it was to be 
 loved ; but, like him, I had now put love out of 
 the question, and thought only of duty) : I con- 
 tended with my inward dimness of vis-on, be- 
 fore which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deep- 
 ly, f(=!rvenlly longed to do what was right ; and 
 only that. " Show me — show me the path !" I 
 entreated of Heaven. I was excited more than I 
 had ever been ; and whether what followed was 
 the effect of excitement, the reader shall judge. 
 
 All the house was still ; for I believe all, ex- 
 cept St. John and myself, were now retired to 
 rest. The one candle was dying out ; the room 
 was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and 
 thick; I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood 
 still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it 
 through, and passed at once to my head and ex- 
 tremities. The feeling was not like an electric 
 shock ; but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as 
 startling ; it acted on my senses as if their ut- 
 most activity hitherto had been but torpor, from 
 which they were now summoned, and forced to 
 wake. They rose expectant ; eye and ear wait- 
 ed, while the flesh quivered on my bones. 
 
 " What have you heard 1 What do you sec 1" 
 asked St. John. I saw nothing; but I heard a 
 voice somewhere cry, 
 
 "Jane! Jane! Jane!" nothing more. 
 
 " Oh, God ! what is it 1" I gasped. 
 
 I might have said, " Where is it V for it did 
 not seem in the room — nor in the house — nor in 
 the garden ; it did not come out of the air — nor 
 from under the earth — nor from overhead. I 
 had heard it — where or whence, forever impos- 
 sible to know ! And it was the voice of a hu- 
 man being — a known, loved, we!l-remcmbercd 
 voice — that of Edward Fairfax Rochester ; and 
 it spoke in pain and woe— wildly, eerily, ur- 
 gently, 
 
 "I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! 
 Oh, I will come !" I flew to the door, and look- 
 ed into the passage ; it was dark. I ran out 
 into the garden ; it was void. 
 
 " Where are you V I exclaimed. 
 
 The hills beyond Marsh-Glen sent the answer 
 faintly back, "Where are you!' I listened. 
 The wind sighed low in the firs ; all was moor- 
 land loneliness and midnight hush. 
 
 " Down superstition !" I commented, as thai 
 specter rose up black by the black yew at the 
 gate. "This is not thy deception, nor thy 
 witchcraft ; it is the work of nature. She was 
 roused, and did — no miracle — but her best." 
 
 I broke from St. John, who had followed, and 
 would have detained me. It was my turn to 
 assume ascendency. Mij powers were in play, 
 and in force. I told him to forbear question or 
 remark ; I desired him to leave me ; I must, 
 and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where 
 there is energy to command well enough, obe- 
 dience never fails. I mounted to my chamber ; 
 locked myself in ; fell on my knees ; and pray- 
 ed in my way — a different way to St. John'3, 
 
162 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 but cfTeclive in its own fashion. I seemed to 
 peneiraie very near a Miulily .Spirit; ami my 
 soul riislied (lilt in griiiiiude at His f<?ct. I rose 
 from the ihaiiivsgiving — took a resolve — and lay 
 down, uiiscared, enlightened — eager but for lh«^ 
 daylight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied 
 myself for an hour or two with arranging my 
 things in my chamher, drawers, and wardrobe 
 in the order wherein I should- wish to leave 
 them during a hrief absence. Meantime, I heard 
 St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door ; 
 I feared he would knock — no, but a slip of paper 
 was passed under the door. I took it up. It 
 bore these words : 
 
 "You left me too suddenly last night. Had 
 you stayed but a little longer, you would have 
 Jaid your hand on the Christian's cross and the 
 angel's crown. I shall expect your clear deci- 
 sion when I return this day fortnight. Mean- 
 time, watch and pray that you enter not into 
 temptation : the spirit, I trust, is willing, hut 
 the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall pray lor you 
 hourly. Yours, St. John." 
 
 " My spirit," I answered mentally, " is willing 
 to do what is riglit ; and my flesh, I hi^pe, is 
 strong enough to accomplish tlie will of Heav- 
 en, when once that will is distinctly known to 
 me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to 
 search— inquire — to grope an outlet from this 
 cloud of doubt, and tind the open day of cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 It was th '■ first of June ; yet the morning was 
 overcast anJ chilly : rai.n beat fast on my case- 
 ment. I heard the front door open, and St. 
 John pass out Looking through the window, 
 I saw him traverse llie garden. He look the 
 way over ihe m siy moors in the direction of 
 Whitc.oss — there be wouhl meet the coach. 
 
 " In a few more hours I shall succeed you in 
 that irack, cousin,' thought I; "I too have a 
 coach to meet at Wi 'Kiioss. I loo have some 
 to see and ask after ii England, before I depart 
 forever." 
 
 It wanted yet two hnirs of breakfast time. 
 I filled the interval in w Iking softly ;ibout my 
 room, and pondering the visitation wliich had 
 given my plans their presi nt bent. I recalle<l 
 that inward stnsnlion I h.ifl .experienced ; for I 
 could recall it, wiih all its un peakable strange- 
 ness. I recalled the voice 1 ad heard ; again 
 I <|ucslioned whence it came, ^s vainly as be- 
 fore ; it seemed in mc — not i ■ the external 
 world. I asked, was it a men nervous im- 
 pression — a (l<;hision] I could nc conceive or 
 believo it ; it was more like an 'ns|jiration. 
 The wondrous shock of feeling Iuim come like 
 the earthquake which shook the foun itions of 
 Paul and Silas's prison ; it had op. ned the 
 doors <if the soul's cell, and loosed its hands — 
 it bail wakened it out of its sleep, wn^nce it 
 sprung Ireiuliling, listening. aglia.>l ; ibfii vi- 
 briiicil thrice a cry on my startled ear, an.i in 
 niy quiiking heart, and through my spii'l; 
 wbici, neither feared nor shook, but exulted as 
 il in joy iivtM- the success of one eflori it bad 
 br<'n piivi|,.(r,.a lo make, independent of the 
 CUmbroviS tuuly. 
 
 "Ere many days" I said, ss I Irrminatcrf 
 my musings, "1 will know simieibing of ii.ra 
 wliose voice seemed last niglit to siimmotj me. 
 Letters have proved of no avail — personal in 
 quiry shall replace them." 
 
 At breakfast, I announced to Diana and Marj 
 that I was going a journey, and should be ab 
 sent at least four days. 
 
 "Alone, Jane V they aske<1. 
 
 " Yes ; il was to see, or hear news of, a 
 friend about whom I had for some time been 
 uneasy." 
 
 They might have said, as I have no donbt 
 they thought, that they had believed me to be 
 without any friends save them ; for, indeed, I 
 had often said so ; but with their true natural 
 delicacy, they abstained from comment ; ex- 
 cept that Diana asked me if I was sure I was 
 well enough to travel. I looked very pale, she 
 observed. I replied that nothing ailed me save 
 anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleri- 
 ate. 
 
 It was easy to make my further arrange- 
 ments ; for I was troubled with no inquiries — 
 no suifniises. Having once explained to then* 
 that I could not now be explicit about my ' 
 plans, they kindly and wisely acqui'esced in the 
 silence wiih which I pursued them ; according 
 to me the privilege of free action I shcmli^ 
 under similar circumstances, have accorded 
 them. 
 
 I left Moor House at three o'clock, p m., and, 
 so(m after four, I stood at the foot <if the sign- 
 post ai Whiicross, wailing the arrival of the 
 coach which was to lake rue to distant Thorn- 
 field. Amid the silence of those solitary roads 
 and desert hills, 1 heard it ap[iroacli from a 
 great distance. It was the same vehicle 
 whence, a year ago, I bad alighted one summer 
 evening on ibis very spot — how desolate, and 
 hopeless, and objeclless ! Ii stopped as 1 beck- 
 oned. I tniered — not «ow obliged lo part with 
 my wh<ile fortune as the price of its accomrao- 
 (laiion. Once more on the road lo Tliornfield, 
 I felt like the messenger pigeon flying home. 
 
 II was a journey (if six-and-tbirty hovrs. I 
 had set <uU from Whiicross <m a Tuesday af- 
 ternonn, and early on the succeed.:-.^ Thursday 
 morning lhec<iacb slopped to water the horses 
 at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of scen- 
 ery whose green hedges and large fields, and 
 low, pastoral hills (how mild of feature and 
 verdant of hue compared with th<? stern north- 
 midland moors of MorKm I) met my eye like 
 the lineaments of a once familiar face. Yes, I 
 knew the character of this landscape : I was 
 sure we were near my bourn. 
 
 "How far is Tliornfield Hall from herd" I 
 asked of the hostler. * 
 
 "Just two miles, ma'am, across the fitma.** 
 " My jiiurney is closed," I thougtt to myself. 
 I got out of the coach, gave a box 1 had into 
 the hostler's charge, to be kept till I callei^ for 
 it ; jiaid my f.ire ; satisfied the coachman, and 
 was going : ilu; brightening ihiy gleaiued on the 
 sgn of the inn, and I read in gill letier.<5 " 'J'ho 
 RurlK ster .\rms." .My heart le,i|icil up ; 1 was 
 already on my master's very lands. It fell 
 again : the tbonghl struck it : 
 ' " Your master himself may he hryond the 
 nritish Chiiniiel, f .raiadit yi'U know ; and then, 
 if he is at Tboruficld Hall, toward which you 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 163 
 
 hasten, who besides him is there ! His lunatic 
 wife; and you liave nothing to do with "him; 
 you dare not speak to him or seek his pres- 
 ence. You have lost your labor — you had bet- 
 ter go no farther," urged ttie monitor. "Ask 
 information of the people at the inn ; they can 
 give you all you seek: they can solve your 
 doubts at once. Go up to that man, and in- 
 quire if Mr. Rochester be at home." 
 
 The suggestion was sensible ; and yet I 
 could not force myself to act on it. I so 
 dreaded a reply that would crush me with de- 
 spair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope. 
 I might yet once more see the Hall under the 
 ray of her star. There was the stile before me 
 — the very fields through which I had hurried, 
 blind, deaf, distracted, with a revengeful fury 
 tracking and scourging me, on the morning I 
 fled from Tliornfield : ere I well knew what 
 course I had resolved to take, I was in the 
 midst of them. How fast I walked ! How I 
 ran sometimes ! How I looked forward to 
 catch the first view of the well-known woods I 
 With what feelings I welcomed single trees I 
 knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and 
 hill between them ! 
 
 At last the woods rose ; the rookery clus- 
 tered dark ; a loud cawing broke the morn- 
 ing stillness. Strange delight inspired me : 
 on I hastened. Another fielil crossed — a lane 
 threaded — and there were the court-yard walls 
 — the back offices ; the house itself, the rook- 
 ery still hid. 
 
 "My first view of it shall be in front," I de- 
 termined, " wliere its bold battlements will 
 strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can 
 fiuglc out my master's very window ; perhaps 
 he will be standing at it — he rises early : perhaps 
 lie is now walking in the orchard, or on the 
 pavement in front. Could I but see him ! — but 
 a moment I Surely, in that case, I should not 
 be so mad as to run to him ! I can hot tell — I 
 am not, certain. And jf I did — what then ! 
 God bless iiim ! What then 1 Who would be 
 hurl by my <mce more tastftig the life his glance 
 ea.'i give me! — I rave ; perhaps at this moment 
 he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, 
 or on the'lideless sea of the south." 
 
 I had coasted along the lower wall of the 
 orchard — turned its angle ; there was a gate 
 just there, opening into the meadow, between 
 two stone pdlars, crowned by stone balls. From 
 behind one pillar 1 could peep round quietly at 
 the full front of the mansion. I advanced my 
 head with piecaution, desirous .to ascertain if 
 any bedriHim window-blinds were yet drawn 
 up : haltlemcnls, windows, long front — all from 
 this sheltered station were at my command. 
 
 The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched 
 me. while I took this survey. I wonder what 
 thr-y thought ; they must have considered I 
 was very careful and timid at first, and that 
 gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A 
 peep, and then a long stare ; and then a de- 
 parture from my niche and a straying out into 
 the meadow ; and a sudden stop full in front of 
 the great mansion, and a protracted, hardy^aze 
 toward it. " What affectation of dithdence 
 ■^fas tliis at first!" they might have demanded, 
 " What stupid rpgardlessness now !" 
 
 Hear an illiistraiinn, reader. 
 
 A Jover linds his mistress asleep on a mossy 
 
 hank ; he wishes to catch a glimpse of her fair 
 face without waking her. He steals softly over 
 the grass, careful ti) make no sound ; he pauses 
 — fancying she has s'irred : he withdraws ; not 
 for worlds would he be seen. All is stdl — he 
 auain advances — he bends above her; a light 
 veil rests on her features ; he lifts it, bends 
 lower ; now his eyes anticipate the vision of 
 beauty — warm and blooming and lovely in rest. 
 How Imrried was their first glance! But how 
 they fi.v ! How he starts ! How he suddenly 
 and vehemently clasps in both arms the form 
 he dare not, a moment since, touch with his 
 finger ! Hov/ he calls aloud a name, and drops 
 his burden, and gazes on it wildly! He thus 
 grasps and cries, and gazes, because he no lon- 
 ger fears to-waken by any sound he can utter — 
 by any movement he can make. He thought 
 his love slept sweetly; he finds she is stone- 
 dead. 
 
 I looked with timorous joy toward a stately 
 house ; I saw a blackened ruin. 
 
 No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed f 
 to peep up at chamber lattices, fearing life was 
 astir behind them ! No need to listen fordours 
 opening — to fancy steps on the pavement or the 
 gravel-walk ! The lawn, the grounds were 
 trodden and waste ; the portal yawned void. 
 The front was, as I had once seen it in a dream, 
 but a shell-like wall, very high and very fragile- 
 looking, perforated with panclcss windows; no 
 roof, no battlements, no chimneys — all had 
 crashed in. 
 
 And there was the silence of death about it ; 
 the solitude of a lonesome wild. No wonder 
 that letters addressed to people here had never 
 received an answer ; as well dispatch epistles 
 to a vault in a church-aisle. The grim black- 
 ness of the stones told by what fate the Hall 
 had fallen — by conflagration ; but how kindh'd ? 
 What story belonged to this disaster? What 
 loss, besides mortar, and marble, and woodwork, 
 had followed upon iti Had life been wrecked, 
 as well as property 1 If so, whose I Dreadful 
 question ; there was lio one here to answer it — 
 not even dumb sign, mute token. 
 
 In wandering rotmd the shattered walls and 
 through the devastated interior, 1 gathered evi- 
 dence that the calamity was not of lair; occur- 
 rence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted 
 through that void arch, winter rains heatea 
 in at those hollow casements; fi)i, amid the 
 drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished 
 vegetation ; grass and weed grew here and 
 there between the stones and fallen rafters. 
 And, oh! where, meantime, was the hapless 
 owner of this wreck ? In what land! Under 
 what auspices? My eye involuntarily wander- 
 ed to ilie gray church tower near the gates, and 
 1 asked, " Is lie with Danier de Rochester, shar- 
 ing the shelter of his narrow marble house 1" 
 
 Some answer must he had lo these questions. 
 I could find it nowherg but at the inn ; and thith- 
 er, ere long, I returned. The host himself 
 brought my breakfast into the parlor. I request- 
 ed him to shut the door and sit down ; 1 had 
 some (luesiions lo ask him But when he cotn- 
 |)!ie<!, I scarcely knew how to begin ; such hor- 
 r<ir had I of the possiblo answers. And yetllM 
 spectacle of desolation I ha<l jtist left prepared 
 me in a measure for a tale of misery. The host 
 was a rcspectable-lookin;; middle-aged man. 
 
164 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 F "You know Thomfield Hall, of course 1" I 
 managed to say at last. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; I lived there once." 
 
 "DidyouT"' Not in my lime, I thought : you 
 ar*a stranger to me. ' 
 
 " I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he 
 added. 
 
 The late I I seemed to have received with 
 full force the blow I had been trying to evade. 
 
 " The late !" I gasped. " Is he dead V 
 
 " I mean the father of Mr. Ed ward, the present 
 gentleman," he explained. I breathed again; 
 my blood resumed it flow. Fully assured by 
 these words that Mr. Edward — my Mr. Roch- 
 ester (God bless him, wherever he was !) was 
 at least alive : was, in short, " the present gen- 
 tleman" (gladdening words !), it seemed I could' 
 hear all that was to come — whatever the dis- 
 closures might be — with comparative tranquil- 
 lity. Since he was not in the grave, I could 
 bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the An- 
 tipodes. 
 
 " Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfieid Hall 
 TiowV I asked, knowing, of course, what the 
 -answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring 
 the direct question as to where he really was. 
 
 "No, ma'am — oh, no ! No one is living there. 
 I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or 
 you would have heard what happened last au- 
 tumn. Thornfieid Halt is quite a ruin ; it was 
 burned down just about harvest time. A dread- 
 ful calamity! such an immense quantity of val- 
 uable properly destroyed ; hardly any of the fur- 
 niture could be saved. The fire broke out at dead 
 of night, and before the engines arrived from 
 Millcote.the building was one mass of flame. It 
 was a terrible spectacle ; I witnessed it myself" 
 
 "At dead of night !" I muttered. Yes, that 
 was ever the hour of fatality at Thornfieid. 
 "Was it known how it originated 1" I demanded. 
 
 " They guessed, ma'am . they guessed. In- 
 deed, I should say it was ascertained beyond a 
 doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he con- 
 tinued, edging his chair a little nearer the table, 
 and speaking low, " that there was lady — a — a 
 lunatic, kept in the house 1" 
 
 " I have heard something of it." 
 
 " She was kept in very close confinement, 
 ma'am ; people even for some years were not 
 absolutely certain of her existence. No one 
 saw her ; they only knew by rumor that such 
 a person was at the Hall ; and who or what she 
 was it was difficult to conjecture. They said 
 Mr. Edward had brought her from abroad ; and 
 8omc believed she had been his mistress. But 
 a queer thing happened a year since — a very 
 queer thing." 
 
 I feared now to hear my own story. I en- 
 deavored to recall him to the main fact. 
 
 '"And this lady!" 
 
 "This lady, ma'am," he answered, "turned 
 out to be Mr. Rochester's wife ! The discovery 
 Was brought about in the slrangest way. There 
 was a young lady, a governess at the Hall, that 
 Mr. Rochester fell in—" 
 
 "But the firel" I suggested. 
 
 "I'm coming to that, ma'am— that Mr. Ed- 
 ward fell in love with. The servants say they 
 n.evcr saw any body so much in love as he was ; 
 l>e was after her continually. They used to 
 watch him— servants will, you know, ma'am— 
 and ho set slore on her past every thing; for 
 
 all, nobody but him thought her eo Tery hand- 
 some. She was a litlie small thing, they say, 
 almost like a child. I never saw her myself; 
 but I've heard Leah, the housemaid, tell of her. 
 Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester 
 was about forty, and this governess not twenty; 
 and, you see, when gentlemen of his age fall in 
 love with girls, they are often like as if they 
 were bewitched : well, fie would marry her." 
 
 " You shall tel! n:e this part of the story an- 
 other time," I said ; but now I have a particu- 
 lar reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. . 
 Was it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Roch- 
 ester, had any hand in it ?" 
 
 " You've hit it, ma'am : it's quite certain that 
 it v/as her, and nobody but her, that set it going. 
 She had a woman to take care of her called 
 Mrs. Poole-T-an able woman in her line, and 
 very trustworthy ; but for one fault — a fault 
 common to a deal of them nurses and matrons 
 — she fc£pt a private bottle of gin by her, and now 
 and then took a drop overmuch. It's excusa- 
 ble, for she had a hard life of it ; but still it was 
 dangerous ; for, when Mrs. Poole was fast 
 asleep, after the gin and water, the mad lady, 
 who was as cunning as a witch, would take the 
 keys out of her pocket, let herself out of her 
 chamber, and go roaming about the house, 
 doing any wild mischief that came into her 
 head. They say she had nearly burned her 
 husband in his bed once ; but I don't know 
 about that. However, on this night, she sat 
 fire first to the hangings of the room next her 
 own ; and then she got down to a lower story, 
 and made her way to the chamber that had 
 been the governess's — (she was like as if she 
 knew somehow how matters had gone on, and 
 had a spite at her) — and she kindled the bed 
 there ; but there was nobody sleeping in it, 
 fortunately. The governess had run away two 
 months before ; and for all Mr. Rochester 
 sought her as if she had been the most pre- 
 cious thing he had in the world, he could never 
 hear a word of her ; and he grew quite savage — 
 quite savage on his disappointment ; he never 
 was a wild man, but he got dangerous after he 
 lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent 
 Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her 
 friends at a distance; but he did it handsome- 
 ly, for he settled an annuity on her for life -, and 
 she deserved it — she was a very good woman. 
 Miss Adele, a ward he had, was put to school. 
 He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, 
 and shut himself up, like a hermit, at the Hall." 
 
 "What! did he not leave England 1" 
 
 " Leave England ? Bless you, no ! Ho 
 would not cross the door-stones of the house ; 
 except at night, when he walked just like a 
 ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as 
 if he had lost his senses — which it is my opin- 
 ion he had ; for a more spirited, bolder, keener 
 gentleman than he was before that midge of a 
 governess cros.sed him, you never saw, ma'am. 
 He was not a man given to wine, or cards, or 
 racing, as some are, and he was not so very 
 handsome ; but he had a courage and a will of 
 his own, if ever man had. I knew him from a 
 boy, you see ; and for my part I have often 
 wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in tha 
 sea before she came to Thornfieid Hall." 
 
 "Then Mr. Rochester was at home when 
 the fire broke out?' 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 165 
 
 " yes, indeed was he : and he went up to the 
 attics when all was burning above and below, 
 and got the servants out of their beds and help- 
 ed them down himself — and went back to get 
 bis mad wife out of her cell. And then they 
 called out to him that she Was on the roof; 
 where she was standing, waving her, arms, 
 above the battlements, and shouting out till 
 they could hear her a mile off; I heard her, and 
 saw her with my own eyes. She was a big 
 woman, and had long, black hair ; we could see 
 it streaming against the flames as she stood. 
 I witnessed, and several more witnessed, Mr. 
 Rochester ascend through the skylight on to 
 the roof; we heard him call 'Bertha!' We 
 saw him approach her ; and then, ma'am, she 
 yelled, and gave a spring, and the next minute 
 she lay smashed on the pavement." 
 
 "Dead1" 
 
 " Dead 1 Ay, dead as the stones on which 
 her brains and blood were scattered." 
 
 " Good God !" 
 
 " You may well say so, ma'am : it was fright- 
 ful !" 
 
 He shuddered. 
 
 "And afterward 1" I urged. 
 
 "Well, ma'am, afterward the house was 
 burned to the ground ; there are only some bits 
 of wall standing now." 
 
 " Were any other lives lost 1" 
 
 "No — perhaps it would have been better if 
 there had." 
 
 "What do you mean ]" 
 
 " Poor Mr. Edward !" he ejaculated, " I httle 
 thought ever to have seen it ! Some say it 
 was a just judgment on him for keeping his 
 first marriage secret, and wanting to take an- 
 other wife while he had one living ; but I pity 
 him, for my part." — ' 
 
 "You said he was alive 1" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, yes — he is alive ; but many think he 
 had better be dead." 
 
 " Why ? How 1 " My blood was again run- 
 ning cold. 
 
 "Where is hel" I demanded. "Is he in 
 England?" 
 
 "Ay — ay — he is in England; he can't get 
 ott of England, I fancy — he's a fixture now." 
 
 What agony was this? And the man seem- 
 ed resolved to protract it ! 
 
 " He is stone-blind," he said at last. " Yes 
 — he is stone-blind — is Mr. Edward." 
 
 I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he Was 
 mad. I summoned strength to ask what had 
 caused this calamity. 
 
 "It was all his own courage, and, a body 
 may say, his kindness, in a way, ma'am ; he 
 wouldn't leave the house till every one else 
 was out before him. As he came down the 
 great stair-case at last,, after Mrs. Rochester 
 had flung herself from the battlements, there 
 was a great crash — all fell. He was taken out 
 from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt; a 
 beam had fallen in such a way as to protect 
 him partly ; but one eye was knocked out, and 
 one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the sur- 
 geon, had to amputate it directly. The other 
 eye inflamed ; he lost the sight of that also. 
 He is now helpless, indeed — blind and a crip- 
 ple." 
 
 " Where is he 1 Where does he now live 1" 
 
 "At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he 
 
 has, about thirty miles off; quite a desolate 
 spot." 
 
 "Who is with him'?" 
 
 " Old John and his wife ; he would have 
 none else. He is quite broken down, they 
 say." 
 
 Have you any sort of conveyance?" 
 
 " We have a chaise, ma'am — a very hand- 
 some chaise." 
 
 " Let it be got ready instantly ; and if your 
 post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before dark 
 this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the 
 hire you usually demand." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 The manor-house of Ferndean was a build* 
 ing of considerable antiquity, moderate size, 
 and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in 
 a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Roch- 
 ester often spoke of it, and sometimes went 
 there. His father had purchased the estate for 
 the sake of the game covers. He would have 
 let the house, but could find no tenant, in con- 
 sequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. 
 Ferndean then remained uninhabited and un- 
 furnished, with the exception of some two or 
 three rooms fitted up for the accommodation 
 of the squire when he went there in the season 
 to shoot. 
 
 To this house I came, just ere dark, on ao 
 evening marked by the characteristics of sad 
 sky, cold gale, and continued small, penetrating 
 rain. The last mile I performed on foot, hav- 
 ing dismissed the chaise and driver with the 
 double remuneration I had promised. Even 
 wheft within a very short distance of the man- 
 or-house, you could see nothing of it ; so thick 
 and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood 
 about it. Iron gates between granite pillars 
 showed me where to enter, and passing through 
 them, I found myself at once in the twilight of 
 close-ranked trees. There was a'grass-grown 
 track descending the forest-aisle, between hoar 
 and knotty shafts and under branched arches. 
 I followed it, .expecting soon to reach the 
 dwelling ; but it stretched on and on, it wound 
 far and farther ; no sign of habitation or grounds 
 was visible. 
 
 I thought I had taken a wrong direction and 
 lost ray way. The darkness of natural as well 
 as of sylvan dusk gathered over me; I looked 
 round in search of another road. There was 
 none ; all was interwoven stem, columnar 
 trunk, dense, summer foliage — no opening any 
 where. 
 
 I proceeded ; at last my way opened, the 
 trees thinned a little ; presently I beheld a rail- 
 ing, then the house — scarce, by this dim light, 
 distinguishable from the trees; so dank and 
 green were its decaying walls. Entering a 
 portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amid 
 a space of inclosed ground, from which the 
 wood swept away in a semicircle. There were 
 no flowers, no garden-beds ; only a broad grav- 
 el-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set ia 
 the heavy frame of the forest. The house pre- 
 sented two pointed gables in its front ; tke 
 windows were latticed and narrow ; the front- 
 door was narrow too, one step led up to it. 
 The whole looked, aa the host of the Roches- 
 
168 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 ter Arms had said, "quite a desolate spot." It 
 was as still as a church on a week day — the 
 pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only 
 sound audible in its vicinage. 
 
 "Can there be life hereV I asked. 
 
 Yes : life of some kind there was, for I heard 
 a movennent — that narrow fiont-door was un- 
 closing, and some shape was about to issue 
 from the grange. 
 
 It opened slowly : a figure came OLt into the 
 twilight and stood on the step ; a man without 
 a hat : he stretched forth his hand as if to feel 
 whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had rec- 
 ognized him : it was my master, Edward Fair- 
 fax Rochester, and no other. 
 
 I stayed my step, almost my breath, and 
 stood to watch him — to examine him, myself 
 unseen, and, alas ! to him invisible. It was a 
 sudden meeting, and one in which rapture was 
 kept well in check by pain. I had no difficulty 
 in restraining my voice from exclamation, my 
 step from hasty advance. 
 
 His form was of the same strong and stal- 
 wart contour as ever : his port was still erect, 
 his hair was still raven black ; nor were his 
 features altered or sunk : not in one year's 
 space, by any sorrow, could his athletic strength 
 be quelled, or his vigorous prime blighted. But 
 in his countenance I saw a change : that look- 
 ed desperate and brooding — that reminded me 
 of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, 
 dangerous to approach in his sullen woe. The 
 caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has 
 extinguished, might look as looked that sight- 
 less Samson. 
 
 And, reader, do you think I feared him in his 
 blind ferocity 1 If you do, you liltle knovf me. 
 A soft hope blended wiih my sorrow that soon 
 I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of 
 rock, and on those lids so sternly sealed be- 
 neath it: but notyet. I would not accost him 
 yefr. 
 
 He descended the one step, and advanced 
 slowly and gropingly toward the grass-plat. 
 Where was his ilaring stride nowl Then he 
 paused, as if he knew not wl)ich way to turn. 
 He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; 
 gazed blank, and with a straining efTort, on the 
 sky, and toward the amphilheater of trees, 
 one saw that all to him was void darkness. 
 He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the 
 mutilated one he kept hidden in his bosom) ; 
 he seemed to wish, by touch, to gain an idea of 
 what lay round him: he met but vacancy still, 
 for the trees were some yards off where he 
 stood. He relinquished the endeavor, folded 
 his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, 
 now falling fast on his uncovered head. At 
 this moment John approached from some quar- 
 ter. 
 
 "Will you take my arm, sir!" he said; 
 " there is a heavy shower coming on ; had you 
 not better go in I" 
 
 " Let me alone," was the answer. 
 
 Jolin withdrew, wiihout having observed me. 
 Mr. Rochester now tried to walk about, vainly 
 — all was too uncertain. He groped his way 
 hack to the house, and, re-entering it, closed 
 the door. 
 
 I now drew near and knocked ; John's wife 
 opened fur me. •' Mary," I said, " how are 
 you]" 
 
 She started as if she had seen a ghost ; I 
 calmed her. To her hurried "Is it really you, 
 miss, come at this late hour to thia 'only 
 placet" I answered by taking her hand, and 
 then I followed" her into the kitchen, where 
 John now sat by a good fire. I explained to 
 them, in few words, that I had heard all which 
 had happened since I left Thornfield, and that 
 I was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked 
 John to go down to the turnpike-house, where 
 I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my 
 trunk, which I had left there ; and then, while 
 I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned 
 Mary as to whether I could be accommodated 
 at the manor-house for the night, and finding 
 that arrangements to that efTect, though diffi- 
 cult, would not be impossible, I informed her I 
 should stay. Just at this moment the parlor- 
 bell rung. 
 
 " When you go in," said I, " tell your master 
 that a person wishes to speak to him, but do 
 not give my name." 
 
 " I don't think he will see you," she an- 
 swered ; " he refuses every body." 
 
 When she returned, I inquired what he had 
 said. 
 
 " You are to send in your name and your 
 business," she replied. She then proceeded to 
 fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, 
 together with candles. 
 
 " Is that what he rung fori" 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 parlor door. The tray shook as I held it, 
 the water spilled from the glass, my heart 
 struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened 
 the door lor me, and shut it behind me. 
 
 This parlor looked gloomy ; a neglected 
 handful of fire burned low in the grate, and, 
 leaning over if, with his head supported against 
 the high, old-iashioned mantle-piece, appeared 
 the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, 
 Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, 
 and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently 
 trodden on. Pilot pricked up his ears when I 
 came in, then he jumped up with a yelp and a 
 whine, and bounded toward me ; he almost 
 knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on 
 the table, then patted him, and said softly, "Lie 
 doWn !" Mr. Rochester turned mechanically 
 to see what the commotion was ; but as he 
 saw nothing, he returned and sighed. 
 
 " Give me the water, Mary," he said. 
 
 I approached him with the now only half- • 
 filled glass ; Pilot followed me. still excited. 
 
 " What is the matter?' he inquired. 
 
 " Down, Pilot !"' I again said. He checked 
 the water on its way to his lips, and seemed t© 
 listen ; he drank, and put the glass down. 
 " This is you, Mary, is it not \" 
 
 " Mary is in the kitchen," I answered. 
 
 He put out his hand with a quick gesture, 
 but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch 
 me. "Who is this! Who is this?" he de- 
 manded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those 
 sightless eyes — unavailing and distressing at- 
 tempt,! "Answer me— speak again!" he or- 
 dered, imperiously and aloud. 
 
 " Will you have a little more water, sirl I 
 spilled half of what was in the glass," I said. 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 1G7 
 
 ♦• Who is it 1 What is it ! Who speaks 1" 
 
 "Piliit knows me, ami John and Mary know 
 1 am liere ; I came only ihis evening," I an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Orcnt God ! — what delusion has come over 
 me? What sweet madness has seized mel" 
 
 "No delusion — no madness; your mind, sir, 
 is too stron(^ for delusion — your health too 
 sound for frenzy." 
 
 " And where is this speaker 1 Is it only a 
 voice ! Oh ! I can not see, hut I must feel, or 
 my heart will stop and my brain burst. What- 
 ever — whoever you are — be perceptible to the 
 touch or I can not live." 
 
 He groped : I arrested his wandering hand, 
 and prisoned it in both mine. 
 
 "Her very fingers !" he cried ; " her small 
 slight fingers ! If so, there must be more of 
 her." 
 
 The muscular hand broke from my custody ; 
 my arm was seized, my shoulder — neck — waist 
 — I was entwined and gathered to him. 
 
 "Is it Janet What is it 1 This is her 
 shape^ — this is her size — " 
 
 "And this is her voice," I added. "She is 
 all here : her heart, too. God bless you, sir 1 
 I am glad to he so near you again." 
 
 " Jane Eyre ! Jane Eyre !" was all he said. 
 
 "My dear master," I answered, " I am Jane 
 Eyre ; I have found you out — I am come back 
 to you." 
 
 "In truth? in the flesh? ' My living Jane?" 
 
 "You touch me, sir — you hold me, and fast 
 enough ; I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant 
 like air. am 1?" 
 
 "My living darling! These are certainly 
 lier limbs, and these her features : t)ul I can not 
 be so blessed after all my misery. It is a dreain ; 
 such dreams as I have had at niglil when I 
 liave clasped her once more to iriy heart, as I 
 do now ; and kissed her, as thus — ami felt that 
 she loved me, and trusted she would not leave 
 me." 
 
 "Which I never will, sir, from this day." 
 
 " Never will, says the vision ! But I always 
 woke and found it an empty mockery ; and I 
 "Was desolate and abandoned — my life, dark, 
 lonely, hopeless — my soul athirst and Ibrbidden 
 to drink — my heart famished and never to be 
 fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms 
 now, you will fly, too; as your sisters have all 
 fled before you ; but kiss me before you go — 
 embrace me, Jane." 
 
 " There, sir — and there !" 
 
 I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and 
 BOW rayless eyes — I swept his hair from his 
 brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seem- 
 ed t«» rouse himself; the conviction of the 
 reality of all this seized him. 
 
 " It is you — is it Jane ? You are come back 
 to me then?" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 •' And you do not lie dead in some ditch, un- 
 der some stream? And you are not a pining 
 outcast among strangers V 
 
 " 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 
 cri«id : " I should never dream that. Besides, 
 Uiiiie ia that peculiar voice of hers, so anima- 
 
 ting and piquant, as well as soft; it cheers my 
 
 wiihered lieart ; it puts life into it. What, 
 Janet! Are you an mdependent woraanl A 
 rich woman ?" 
 
 "Quite rich, sir. If you wont let me live 
 with you, 1 can build a house of my own, close 
 up to your door, and you may come and sit in 
 my parlor when you want company of an even- 
 ing." 
 
 " But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, 
 no doubt, friends who will look after you, and 
 not sufl^er you to devote yourself to a blind 
 lameter like me?" 
 
 " 1 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 neighbor, your nurse, your housekeeper. 
 I find you lonely ; I will be your companion — 
 to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with 
 you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to 
 you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear 
 master ; you shall not be left desolate, so long 
 as I live." 
 
 He replied not ; he seemed serious— ab- 
 stracted : he sighed ; he half-opened his lipa 
 as if to speak; he closed them again. I felt 
 a little embarrassed. Perhaps I had been too 
 officious in my offers of companionship and 
 aid : perhaps I had too rashly overleaped con- 
 venlionalilies, and he, like St. John, saw im- 
 propriety in my inconsiderateness. I iiad in- 
 deed made my proposal from the idea that ho 
 wished and vvou'd ask me to be his wife : an 
 expectation, not the less certain because unex- 
 pressed, had buoyed me up, that he would 
 claim me at once as his own. But no hint to 
 that eflect escaping him, and his countenance 
 becoming more overcijst, I. suddenly remem- 
 bered tiiat I might have been all wrong, and 
 was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly ; and 
 I began gently to wiihdraw myself Irom his 
 arms — but he eagerly snatched mc cluser. 
 
 " No — no — Jane ; you must not go. No — I 
 have touched you, heard you, felt llie comfort 
 of your piesence — the sweetness of your con- 
 solation ; I can not give up these joys. I have 
 little left in myself — I must have you. The 
 world may laugh — may call me absurd, selfish 
 — but it does not signify. My very soul de- 
 mands you ; it w ill 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 «)n me as a 
 kind little- nurse (for you have an affectionate 
 heajrt and a generous spirit, which prompt you 
 to make sacrilices for those you piiy), and that 
 ought to suffice for me no doubt. 1 suppose I 
 siiould now entertain none but fatherly feelings 
 for you ; do you think so ! Come — tell me." 
 
 "I will think what you like, sir; I am con- 
 tent lo be only your nurse, if you think it 
 better." 
 
 " But you can not always he my nurse, 
 Janet : you are young and must marry one 
 day." 
 
 " I don't care about being married." 
 
 " You should care, Janet ; if I were what I 
 
166 
 
 JANE EYRS. 
 
 once was, I would try to make you care— but — 
 a sightless block !" 
 
 He relapsed again into gloora. I, on the 
 contrary, became more cheerful and took fresh 
 courage : these last words gave me an insight 
 as to where the difficulty lay ; and as it was no 
 difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my 
 previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier 
 vein of conversation. 
 
 " It is time some one undertook to rehuman- 
 i?^ you," said I, parting his thick and long- 
 uncut locks ; for I see you are being meta- 
 morphosed into a lion, or something of that 
 sort. You have a ' faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar 
 in the fields about you, that is certain ; your 
 hair reminds me of eagle's feathers ; "whether 
 your nails are grown like bird's claws or not, I 
 have not yet noticed." 
 
 " On this arm, I have neither hand ■ nor 
 nails ; he said, drawing the mutilated limb 
 from his breast, and showing it to me. " It is 
 a mere stump — a ghastly sight ! Don't you 
 think so, Jane 1 
 
 "It is a pity to see it ; and a pity to see 
 your eyes — and the scar of fire on your fore- 
 head : and the worst of it is, one is in danger 
 of loving you too well for all this, and making 
 too much of you." 
 
 " I thought you would be revolted, Jane, 
 when you saw my arm and my cicatrized 
 visage." 
 
 '* Did you 1 Don't tell me so — lest I should 
 aay something disparaging to your judgment. 
 Now, let me leave you an instant, to make 
 a better fire and have the hearth swept up. 
 Can you tell when there is a good fire I" 
 
 " Yes ; with the right eye I see a glow, a 
 ruddy haze." 
 
 " And you see the candles V' 
 
 " 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 1" 
 
 " I never take supper." 
 
 •' But you shall have some to-night. I am 
 hungry : so are you, I dare say, only you for- 
 get." 
 
 Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in 
 more cheerful order ; I prepared him likewise 
 a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, 
 and with pleasure and ease I talked to him 
 during supper, and for a long time after. There 
 was no harassing restraint, no repressing of 
 glee and vivacity with him ; for with him I 
 was at perfect ease, because I knew I suited 
 him ; all I said or did seemed cither to console 
 or revive him. Delightful consciousness ! It 
 brought to life and light my whole nature ; in 
 his presence I thoroughly lived, and he lived in 
 mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over his 
 face, joy dawned on his forehead ; his linea- 
 ments softened and warmed. 
 
 After supper, he began to ask me many ques- 
 tions, of where I had been, what I had been 
 doing, how I had found him out ; but I gave 
 him only very partial replies ; it was too late 
 to enter into particulars that night. Besides, I 
 wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord, to 
 open no fresh well of emotion in his heart ; my 
 sole present airn was to cheer him. Cheered, 
 ;ib I have said, he was, and yet but by fits. I< 
 
 a moment's silence broke the conTersatioo, 
 he would turn restless, touch me, then aay, 
 " Jane." 
 
 "You are altogether a human being, Jane? 
 You are certain of that 1" 
 
 " I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Roches- 
 ter." 
 
 " Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, 
 could you so suddenly rise on my lone hearth? 
 I stretched my hand to take a glass of water 
 from a hireling, and it was given me by you ; I 
 asked a question, expecting John's wife to an- 
 swer me, and your voice spoke at my ear." 
 
 " Because I had come in, in Mary's stead, 
 with the tray." 
 
 "And there is enchantment in the very hour 
 I am now spending with you Who can tell 
 what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have 
 dragged on for months pasf! Doing nothing. 
 expecting nothing ; merging night in day ; feel- 
 ing but the sensation of cold when I let the fire 
 go out, of hunger when I forgot to eat ; and 
 then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very 
 delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. 
 Yes, for her restoration I longed, far more than 
 for that of my lost sight. How can it be, that 
 Jane is with me and says she loves me 1 Will 
 she not depart as suddenly as she came 1 To- 
 morrow, I fear, I shall find her no more." 
 
 A common-place, practical reply, out of the 
 train of his own disturbed ideas, was, I was 
 sure, the best and most reassuring for him ia 
 this frame of mind. I passed my finger over 
 his eyebrows, and remarked that they were 
 scorched, and that I would apply something 
 which should make them grow as broad and 
 black as ever. 
 
 " Where is the use of doing me good in any 
 way, beneficent spirit, when, at some fatal mo- 
 ment, you will again desert me, passing like a 
 shadow, whither and how, to me unknown ; 
 and for me, remaining afterward undiscover- 
 abler' 
 
 " Have you a pocket-comb about you, sirl" 
 
 "What for, Jane?" 
 
 " Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. 
 I find you rather alarming, when I examine 
 you close at hand ; you talk of my being a 
 fairy ; but, I am sure, you are more' like a 
 brownie." 
 
 "Am I hideous, Jane?" 
 
 " Very, sir ; you always were, you know." 
 
 "Humph! The wickedness has not been 
 taken out of you, wherever you have sojourn- 
 ed." 
 
 " Yet I have been with good people ; far bet- 
 ter than you, a hundred times better; people 
 possessed of ideas and views you never enter- 
 tained in your life ; quite more refined and ex- 
 alted." 
 
 " Who the deuce have you been with ?" 
 
 " If you twist in that way, you will make me 
 pull the hair out of your head ; and then I think 
 you will cease to entertain doubts of my sub- 
 stantiality." 
 
 " Who have you been with, Jane ?" 
 
 " You shall -not get it out of me to-night, sir ; 
 you must wait till to-morrow ; to leave my 
 tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of se- 
 curity that I shall appear at your breakfast-ta- 
 ble to finish it. By the by. I must mind not to 
 rise on your hearth with only a glass of water, 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 16& 
 
 tben ', I must bring an egg at the lesat, to say 
 nothing of fried ham." 
 
 " You mocking changeling, fairy-born and 
 numan-bred ! You make me feel as I have 
 not felt these twelve months. If Saul could 
 have had you for his David, the evil spirit 
 would have been exorcised without the aid of 
 the harp." 
 
 " There, sir, you are redd up and made de- 
 cent. N»w I'll leave you ; I have been trav- 
 eling these last three days, and I believe I am 
 tired. Good-night!" 
 
 " Just one word, Jane i were there only la- 
 dies in the house where you have been V 
 
 I laughed and made my escape, still laughing 
 as I ran up stairs. " A good idea !" I thought, 
 •with glee. " I see I have the means of fretting 
 him out of his melancholy for some time to 
 come." 
 
 Very early the next morning, I heard him up 
 and astir, wandering from one room to another. 
 As soon as Mary came down, I heard the ques- 
 tion, "Is Miss Eyre herel" Then, "Which 
 room did you put her into 1 Was it dry ? Is 
 she up 1 Go and ask if she wants any thing ; 
 and when she will come down." 
 
 I came down as soon as I thought there was 
 a prospect of breakfast. Entering the room 
 ▼ery softly, I had a view of him before he dis- 
 covered my presence. It was mournful, in- 
 deed, to witness the subjugation of that vigor- 
 ous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He sat in 
 bis chair, still, but not at rest ; expectant evi- 
 dently ; the lines of now habitual sadness 
 marking his strong features. His countenance 
 reminded one of a lamp quenched, waiting lo 
 be relighted, and alas ! it was not himself that 
 could now kindle the luster of animated expres- 
 sion ; he was dependent on another for that of- 
 fice ! I had meant to be gay and careless, but 
 the powerlessness of the strong man touched 
 my heart to the quick; still I accosted him 
 with what vivacity I could. 
 
 "It is a bright, sunny morning, sir," I said. 
 " The rain is over and gone, and there is a ten- 
 der shining after it; you shall have a walk soon." 
 
 I had wakened the glow ; his features 
 beamed. 
 
 " Oh, you are indeed there, my sky-lark ! 
 Come to me. You are not gone ; not van- 
 ished 1 I heard one of your kind an hour ago, 
 singing high over the wood ; but its song had 
 DO music for me, any more than the rising sun 
 bad rays. All the melody on earth is concen- 
 trated in my Jane's tongue to my ear (I am glad 
 it is not naturally a silent one) ; all the sun- 
 shine I can feel is in her presence." 
 
 The water stood in my eyes to hear this 
 avowal of his dependence : just as if a royal 
 eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to 
 entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. But 
 I would not be lachrymose ; I dashed off the 
 salt drops, and busied myself with preparing 
 breakfast. 
 
 Most of the morning was spent in the open 
 air. I led him out of the wet and wild wood, 
 into some cheerful fields ; I described to him 
 how brilliantly green they were ; how the flow- 
 ers and hedges looked refreshed ; how spark- 
 lingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for 
 him in a hidden and lovely spot — a dry stump 
 of a tree ; nor did I refuse to let him, when 
 
 seated, place rae on his knee ; why ehoald 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 — 
 
 " Crqel, cruel deserter ! Oh, Jane, what did 
 I feel when I discovered you had fled from 
 Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you; 
 and, after examining your apartment, ascer- 
 tained that you had taken no money, nor any 
 thing which could serve as an equivalent 1 A 
 pearl necklace I had given you lay untouched 
 in its little casket ; your trunks were left corded ' 
 and locked as they had been prepared for the 
 bridal tour. What could my darling do, I asked, 
 left destitute and penniless? And what did 
 she do"! Let me hear now." 
 
 Thus urged, I began the narrative of my ex- 
 perience for the last year. I softened consid- 
 erably what related to tfie three days of wan- 
 dering and starvation, because to have told him 
 all would have been to inflict unnecessary pain ; 
 the little I did say lacerated his faithful heart 
 deeper than I wished. 
 
 I should not have left him thus, he said, 
 without any means of making my way ; I 
 should have told him my intention. I should 
 have confided in him ; he would never have 
 forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he 
 had seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved 
 me far too well and too tenderly to constitute 
 himself my tyrant ; he would have given me 
 half his fortune, without demanding so much 
 as a kiss in return, rather than I should have 
 flung myself friendless on the wide world. I 
 had endured, he was certain, more than I had 
 confessed to him. 
 
 " Well, whatever my sufferings had been 
 they were very short," I answered ; and then I 
 proceeded to tell him how I had been receiv- 
 ed at Moor House, how I had obtained the of- 
 fice of schoolmistress, &c. The accession 
 of fortune, the discovery of my relations, fol- 
 followed in due order. Of course, St. John 
 Rivers's name came in frequently in the prog- 
 ress of my tale. When I had done, that name 
 was immediately taken up. 
 
 "This St. John, then, is your cousin 1" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You have spoken of him often ; did you like 
 himr' 
 
 " He was a very good man, sir ; I could not 
 help liking him." 
 
 "A good man"? Does that mean a respecta- 
 ble, well-conducted man of fifty ? Or what does 
 it mean V 
 
 "St. John was only twenty-nine, sir." 
 
 "Jcune encore," as the French say. "Is he 
 a person of low stature, phlegmatic, and plain? 
 A person whose goodness consists rather in his 
 guiltlessness of vice, than. in his prowess in 
 virtue 1" 
 
 " He is untiringly active. Great and exalted 
 deeds are what he lives to perform." 
 
 " But his brain T That is probably rather soft? 
 He means well ; but you shrug your shoulders 
 to hear him talkl" 
 
 " He talks little, sir ; what he does say is ever 
 to the point. His brain is first rate, I shoaM 
 think ; not impressible, but vigorous." 
 " Is he an able man, then"!" 
 "Truly able." 
 
!70 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 " A thoroughly educated man 1" 
 
 "St. John 13 an accomplisiied and profound 
 8chi)lar." 
 
 "His manners, I think, you said are not to 
 your taste 1 priggish and parsonic!" 
 
 " 1 never mentioned his manners ; but, unless 
 I had a very bad taste, they must suit it ; they 
 are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike." 
 
 " His appearance — I forget what description 
 vou gave of his appearance ; a sort of raw^ cu- 
 rate, half strangled with his whjte neckcloth, 
 and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, 
 eh!" 
 
 " St. John dresses well. He is a handsome 
 man : tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian 
 profile." 
 
 {Aside.) "Damn him!" {To me.) "Did 
 you like him, Janel" 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him : but you 
 asked me that before." 
 
 I perceived, of course, the drift of my inter- 
 locutor. Jealousy had got hold of him ; she 
 stung him; but the sting was salutary; it gave 
 him respite from the gnawing fang of melan- 
 choly. I would not, therefore, immediately 
 charm the snake. 
 
 " Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer 
 on my knee, Miss EyreT' was the next some- 
 what unexpected observation. 
 
 " Why not, Mr. Rochester 1" . ' 
 
 "The picture you have just drawn is sug- 
 gestive of a rather too overwiielming contrast. 
 Your words have delineated very prettily a 
 graceful Apollo ; he is present to your imagi- 
 nation — tall, fair, blue-eyed, and vvitli a Gre- 
 cian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan — 
 a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered ; 
 and blind and lame in the bargain." 
 
 " I never thought of it before ; b'jt you cer- 
 tainly are ralher like Vulcan, sir." 
 
 "Well-ryou can leave me, ma'am; but be- 
 fore you go (and be retained nie by a firmer 
 grasp than ever), you will l)e pleased just to 
 answer me a question or two." He paused. 
 
 " What questions. Mr. Rochester 1" 
 
 Then followed this cross-e.xamination : — 
 
 " St. John made you schoolmistress of Mor- 
 ton before he knew you were his cousin 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You would often see him 1 He would visit 
 the school sometimes V 
 
 '• Daily." 
 
 "He would approve of your plans, Janel I 
 know they would be clever; for you are a tal- 
 ented creature V 
 
 " He approved of them — ^yes." 
 
 "He would discover many things in you he 
 could not have expected to find 1 Some of 
 your accomplishments are not ordinary." 
 
 " I don't know about that." 
 
 " You had a liitle cottage near the school, 
 yon say ; did he ever come there to see youl" 
 
 "Now and then." 
 
 "Of an evening 1" 
 
 "Once or twice." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 "How long did you reside with him and his 
 sisters after the cousinsbip was discovered ?" 
 
 "Five inonllis." 
 
 " Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies 
 of his family 1" 
 
 "Yes; the back parlor was both his study 
 
 and ours ; ho sat near the window, and we by 
 
 the table." 
 
 " Did he study muchi" 
 
 "A good deal." 
 
 " What?" 
 
 " Hindostanee." 
 
 " And what did you do meantime !" 
 
 " I learned German, at first." 
 
 " Did he teach you V' 
 
 " He did not understand German." 
 
 "Did he teach you nothing 1" 
 
 "A little Hindostanee." 
 
 "Rivers taught you Hindostanee** 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 . "And his sisters also t" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Only youl" 
 
 "Only me." 
 
 " Did you ask to learn t" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " He wished to teach you 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 A second pause. 
 
 " Why did he wish itt Of what use could 
 Hindostanee be to youl" 
 
 " He intended me to go with him to India." 
 
 " Ah ! here I reach the root of the matter. 
 He wanted you to marry himi" 
 
 " He asked me to marry him." 
 
 " That is a fiction — an impudent invention to 
 vex me." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth ; 
 he asked me more than once, and was as stiff 
 about urging bis point as ever you could be." 
 
 "Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. 
 How often am I lo say the same thing T Why 
 do you remain pertinaciously perched on my 
 knee, when 1 have given yon noiit-e lo quitl" 
 
 " Because I airi comfortable there." 
 
 " No, Jane, you are not comlorlable there; 
 because your heart is not with me ; it is with 
 this cousin — this St. John. Oh, till this mo- 
 ment, I thought niy little Jane was all mine! 
 I had a belief she loved nie even when she left 
 me ; that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. 
 Eong as we have been parted, hot tears as I 
 have wept over our separation, I never thought 
 that while I was mourning her, she was loving 
 another ! But it is useless grieving. Jane, 
 leave me; go and marry Rivers." 
 
 "Shake me off, then, sir — push me away; 
 for I'll not leave you of my own accord." 
 
 " Jane, I ever like your tone of voice ; it 
 still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When 
 I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forgot 
 that you have formed a new tie. But I am not 
 a fool — go — " 
 
 "Where must I go, sirV 
 
 " Your own way — with the husband you have 
 chosen." 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 "You know — this St. John Rivers." 
 
 " He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He 
 does not love me ; I do not love him. He loves 
 (as he can love, and that is not as you love) a 
 beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He 
 wanted to marry me only because he thought I 
 should make a suitable missionary's wife, which 
 she would not have done. He is good and 
 great, but severe ; and, for me, cold as an ice- 
 berg. He is not like you, sir; I am not happy 
 at his side, nor near him, nor with him. Ho 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 171 
 
 ^a3 no indulgence for me — no fondness. He 
 sees nothing attractive in me ; not even youth 
 — only a few useful mental points. Then, must 
 I leave you, sir, to go to him V 
 
 I shuddered invohintarily, and clung instinct- 
 ively closer to my blind bur. beloved master. 
 He smiled. 
 
 "What, Jane ! Is this true 1 Is such really 
 the state of matters between you and Rivers 1" 
 
 " Absolutely, sir. Oh, you need not be jeal- 
 ous ! I wanted to tease you a little to make 
 you less sad ; I thought anger would be better 
 than grief But if you wish me to love you, 
 could you but see how much I do love you, you 
 would be proud and content. All my heart is 
 yours, sir ; it belongs to you ; and with you it 
 would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me 
 from your presence forever." 
 
 Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts 
 darkened his aspect. 
 
 " My seared vision ! My crippled strength !" 
 he murmured regretfully. 
 
 1 caressed in order to soothe him. I knew 
 of what he was thinking, and wanted to speak 
 for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his 
 face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under 
 the sealed eyelid, and trickle down the manly 
 cheek. My heart swelled. 
 
 "I am no better than the old, lightning- 
 utruck chestnut- tree in Thornfield orchard," 
 he remarked, ere long. " And what right 
 would that ruin have to bid a budding wood- 
 bine cover iis decay with freshness T' 
 
 "You are no ruin, sir — no lightning-struck 
 tree ; you are green and vigorous. Plants will 
 grow about your roots, whether you ask them 
 or not. because they take delight in your boun- 
 tiful shadow ; and as they grow they will leiin 
 toward you, and wind round you, because your 
 strength offers them so safe a prop." 
 
 Again he smiled ; I gave him comfort. 
 
 "You speak of friends, Jaiiel" he asked. 
 
 "Yes ; of friends," J answered, rather hesita- 
 tingly ; for I knew I meant more than friends, 
 but could not tell what other word to employ. 
 He helped me. 
 
 " Ah I Jane. But I want a wife." 
 
 "Do you, sir?" 
 
 " Yes ; is it news to you V 
 
 " Of course ; you said nothing about it be- 
 fore." 
 
 " Is it unwelcome news V 
 
 " That depends on circumstances, sir — on 
 your choice." 
 
 " Which you shall make for me, Jane. 1 
 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 1" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " A poor blind man, whom you will have to 
 lead about by the hand V* 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "A crippled man, twenty years older than 
 you, whom you will have to wait on 1" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Truly, Jane V 
 
 "Most truly, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! my darling ! God bless you and re- 
 ward you !" 
 
 "Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in 
 my life — if ever I thought a good thought— if 
 
 ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer — 
 if ever I wished arighleous wish, 1 am reward- 
 ed now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as 
 happy as I can be on earth." 
 
 '•Because you delight in sacrifice." 
 
 "Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine 
 for food, expectation for content. To 1)6 priv- 
 ileged to put my arms round what I value — to 
 press my lips to what I love — to repose on 
 what I trust ; is that to make a sacrifice? If 
 so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice " 
 
 " And to bear with my infirmities, Jane ; to 
 overlook my deficiencies." 
 
 "Which are none sir, to me. I love you 
 better now, when I can really be useful to you, 
 than I did in your state of proud independence, 
 when you disdained every part but that of the 
 giver and protector." 
 
 " Hitherto I have hated to be helped — to be 
 led ; henceforth, I feel, I shall hate it no more. 
 I did not like to put my hand into a hireling's, 
 but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's lit- 
 tle fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the 
 constant attendance of servants ; but Jane's 
 soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane 
 suits me ; da I suit her ?" 
 
 "To the finest fiber of my nature, sir." 
 
 " The case being so, we have nothing in the 
 world to wait for ; we must be married in- 
 stantly." 
 
 He looked and spoke with eagerness ; his 
 old impetuosity was rising. 
 
 " We must become one flesh without any de- 
 lay, Jane ; there is but the license to get — then 
 we marry — " 
 
 "Mr- Rochester, I have just discovered the 
 sun is far declined from its meridian, and Pilot 
 is actually gone home to his dinner. Let m* 
 look at your watch." 
 
 "Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and kec[ 
 it henceforward ; 1 have no use for it." 
 
 "It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 sir. Don't yuu feel hungry ?" 
 
 "Tlie third day frr m this must he our wed- 
 ding-day, Jane. N;ver mind find clothes and 
 jewels, now ; all that is not worth a fillip." 
 
 "The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, 
 sir. The breeze is still ; it is quite hot." 
 
 "Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl 
 necklace at this moment fiistened round my 
 bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn 
 it since the day I lost my only treasure ; as a 
 memento of her." 
 
 " We will go home through the wood.; that 
 will be the shadiest way." 
 
 He pursued his own thoughts without heed- 
 ing me. 
 
 "Jane! you think mp, I dare say, an irre- 
 ligious dog ; but my heart swells with gratitude 
 to the beneficent God of this earth just now. 
 He sees not as man sees, but far clearer ; judges 
 not as man judges, but far more wisely. I 
 did not wrong ; I would have sullied my inno- 
 cent flower — breathed guilt on its purity; the 
 Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my 
 stifli'-nccked rebellion, almost cursed the dis- 
 pensation ; instead of bending to the decree, I 
 defied it. Divine justice pursued its course ; 
 disasters came thick upon me ; 1 was forced t4 
 pass through the vailcy of the shadow of death. 
 His chastisements are mighty ; and one smota 
 me which has humbled me forever. Yon 
 
172 
 
 JANE EYRE, 
 
 know I was proud of my strength ; but what is 
 it now, when I must give it over to foreign 
 guidance, as a child does its weakness! Of 
 late, Jane — only of late — I began to see and 
 acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I 
 began to experience remorse, repentance ; the 
 wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began 
 sometimes to prao^ ; very brief prayers they 
 were, but very sincere. 
 
 " Some days since — nay, I can number 
 them, four ; it was last Monday night, a singu- 
 lar mood came over me ; one in which grief 
 replaced frenzy ; sorrow, sullenness. I had 
 long had the impression that since I could no- 
 where find you, you must be dead. Late that 
 night, perhaps it might be between eleven and 
 twelve o'clock, ere I retired to my dreary rest, 
 I supplicated God, that, if it seemed good to 
 Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and 
 admitted to that world to come, where there 
 was still hope of rejoining Jane. 
 
 " I was in my own room, and sitting by the 
 window, which was open ; it soothed me to 
 feel the balmy night air, though I could see 
 no stars, and only by a vague, luminous haze, 
 knew the presence of a moon. I longed for 
 thee, Janet ! Oh, I longed for thee both, with 
 soul and flesh ! I asked of God, at once in 
 anguish and humility, if I had not been long 
 enough desolate, afflicted, tormented, and 
 might not soon taste bliss and peace once 
 more. That I merited all I endured, I ac- 
 knowledged ; that I could scarcely endure 
 more, I pleaded ; and the alpha and omega of 
 my heart's wishes broke involuntarily from my 
 lips, in the words, " Jane ! Jane ! Jane !" 
 
 " Did you speak these words aloud 1" 
 
 " I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me 
 he would have thought me mad, I pronounced 
 them with such frantic energy." 
 
 "And it was last Monday night ; somewhere 
 near midnight "!" 
 
 " Yes ; but the time is of no consequence ; 
 what followed is the strange point. You will 
 think me superstitious — some superstition I 
 have in my blood, and always had ; neverthe- 
 less, this is true — true, at least, it is that I 
 heard what I now relate. 
 
 "As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane! Jane I' a 
 ^voice — I can not tell whence the voice came, 
 but I know whose voice it was— replied, ' I am 
 coming; wait for me!' and a moment after, 
 went whispering on the wind, the words, 
 • "Where are you V 
 
 "I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture 
 these words opened to my mind : yet it is dif- 
 ficult to express what I want to express. 
 Ferndcan is buried, as you see, in a heavy 
 wood, where sound falls dull, and lies unrcver- 
 berating. 'Where are youl' ^emed spoken 
 among mountains, for I heard a hill-sent echo 
 repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the 
 moment the gale seemed to visit my brow ; I 
 could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, 
 I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe, 
 we must have met. You, no doubt, were, at 
 that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane ; perhaps 
 your soul wandered from its cell to comfort 
 mine ; for those were your accents — as certain 
 as I live— they were yours !" 
 
 Reader, it was on Monday night, near mid- 
 night, that I, too, had received Uie myeterioas 
 
 summons ; those were the very words by 
 which I had replied to it. I listened to Mr. 
 Rochester's narrative, but made no disclosure 
 in return. The coincidence struck me as too 
 awful and inexplicable to be communicated or 
 discussed. If I told any thing, my tale would 
 be such as must necessarily make a profound 
 impression on the mind of my hearer ; and 
 that mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to 
 gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the su- 
 pernatural. I kept these things, then, and 
 pondered them in my heart. 
 
 " You can not now wonder," continued my 
 master, "that when you rose upon me so un- 
 expectedly last night, I had difficulty in belicT- 
 ing you any other than a mere voice and vi- 
 sion ; something that would melt to silence 
 and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and 
 mountain echo had melted before. Now, I 
 thank God ! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I 
 thank God !" 
 
 He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently 
 lifting his hat from his brow, and bending his 
 sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute 
 devotion. Only the last words of the worship 
 were audible. 
 
 " I thank my Maker, that in the midst of 
 judgment he has remembered mercy. I hum- 
 bly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength 
 to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done 
 hitherto !" 
 
 Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I 
 took that dear hand, held it a moment to my 
 lips, then let it pass round my shoulder ; being 
 so much lower of stature than he, I served 
 both for his prop and guide. We entered the 
 wood, and wended homeward 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding 
 we had ; he and I, the parson and clerk, were 
 alone present. When we got back from church, 
 I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, 
 where Mary was cooking the dinner, and John 
 cleaning the knives, and J said : 
 
 " Mary, I have been married to Mr. Roches- 
 ter this morning." The housekeeper and her 
 husband were both of that decent phlegmatic 
 order of people, to whom one may at any time 
 safely communicate a rcmarkabh; piece of 
 news without incurring the danger of having 
 one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, 
 and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy 
 wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did 
 stare at me ; the ladle with which she was 
 hasting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, 
 did for some three minutes hang suspended in 
 air ; and for the same space of time John's 
 knives also had rest from the polishing process ; 
 but Mary, bending again over the roast, said 
 only, 
 
 " Have you, miss 1 Well, for sure .'" 
 
 A short time after she pursued ; " I aeed you 
 go out with the master, but I didn't know you 
 were gone to church to be wed ;" and she bast- 
 ed away. John, when I turned to him, was 
 grinning from ear to ear. 
 
 " I telled Mary how it would be," he said ; 
 
JANE EYRE. 
 
 173 
 
 " I knew what Mr. Edward" (John Was an old 
 aervant. and had known his master when he 
 was the cadet of the house, therefore he often 
 gave him his Christian name) ; — " I knew what 
 Mr. Edward would do, and I was certain he 
 ■would not wait long neither ; and he's done 
 right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, miss !" 
 and he politely pulled his fore lock. 
 
 " Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me 
 ■to give you and Mary this." I put into his 
 hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear 
 more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of 
 that sanctum some time after, I caught the 
 words, 
 
 " She'll happen do better for him nor ony 
 o' t' grand ladies." And again, " If she be n't 
 one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry 
 good-natured ; and i' his een she's fair beauti- 
 ifuJ, ony body may see that." 
 
 I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge 
 immediately, to say what I had done ; fully ex- 
 plaining also why I had thus acted. Diana 
 and Mary approved the step unreservedly. 
 Diana announced that she would just give me 
 time to get over the honey-moon, and then she 
 would come and see me. 
 
 " She had better not wait till then, Jane," 
 said Mr, Rochester, when I read her letter to 
 him ; " if she does, she will be too late, for our 
 honey-moon will shine our life-long; its beams 
 will only fade over your grave or mine." 
 
 How St. John received the news I don't 
 know ; he never answered the letter in which 
 I communicated it ; yet six months after, he 
 wrote to me, without, however, mentioning 
 Mr. Rochester's name, or alluding to my mar- 
 riage. His letter was then calm ; and, though 
 Tery serious, kind. He has maintained a reg- 
 ular, though not frequent correspondence ever 
 since ; he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am 
 not of those who live without God in the world, 
 .and only mind earthly things. 
 
 You have not quite forgotten little Adele, 
 "have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked 
 ^nd obtained leave of Mr. Rochester to go and 
 ■eee her at the school where he had placed her. 
 Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved 
 me much. She looked pale and thin ; she said 
 she was not happy. I found the rules of the 
 establishment were too strict, its course of 
 study too severe, for a child of her age ; I took 
 her home with me. I meant to become her 
 .governess once more ; but I soon found this 
 impracticable ; my time and cares were now 
 jeqaired by another— my husband needed them 
 -all. So I sought out a school conducted on a 
 more indulgent system; and near enough to 
 permit of my visiting her often, and bringing 
 her home sometimes. I took care she should 
 never want for any thing that could contribute 
 to her comfort ; she soon settled in her new 
 abode, became very happy there, and made fair 
 progress in her studies. As she grew up, a 
 sound, English education corrected in a great 
 measure her French defects ; and when she 
 left school, I found in her a pleasing and oblig- 
 ing companion: docile, good-tempered and 
 well-principled. By her grateful attention to 
 me and mine, she has long since well repaid 
 any little kindness I ever had it in my power 
 to offer her. 
 
 My tale draws to its close: one word re- 
 
 specting my experience of married life, and 
 one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose 
 names have most frequently recurred in this 
 narrative, and I have done. 
 
 I have now been married ten years. I know 
 what it is to live entirely for and with what I 
 love best on earth. I hold myself supremely 
 blessed — blessed beyond what language can ex- 
 press ; because I am my husband's life as fully as 
 he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her 
 mate than I am ; ever more absolutely bone of 
 his bone, and flesh of his flesh. I know no 
 weariness of my Edward's society ; he knows 
 none of mine, any more than we each do of 
 the pulsation of the heart that beats in our sep- 
 arate bosoms ; consequently, we are ever to- 
 gether. To be together is for us to be at once 
 as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. 
 We talk, I believe, all day long : to talk to each 
 other is but a more animated and an audible 
 thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on 
 him ; all his confidence is devoted to me ; we 
 are precisely suited in character ; perfect con- 
 cord is the result. 
 
 Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two 
 years of our union : perhaps it was that cir- 
 cumstance that drew us so very near — that knit 
 us so very close ; for I was then his vision, as 
 I am still his right hand. Literally, I was 
 (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. 
 He saw nature — he saw books through me; 
 and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, 
 and of putting into words the effect of field, 
 tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam— of the land- 
 scape before us; of the weather around us — 
 and impressing by sound on his ear what light 
 could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I 
 weary of reading to him ; never did I weary con- 
 ducting him where he wished to go ; of doing 
 for him what he wished to be done. And there 
 was a pleasure in my services, most full, most 
 exquisite, even though sad — because he claimed 
 these services without painful shame or damp- 
 ing humiliation. He loved me so truly, that ho 
 knew no reluctance in profiting by my attend- 
 ance ; he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield 
 that attendance was to indulge my sweetest 
 wishes. 
 
 One morning at the end of the two years, as 
 I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came 
 and bent over me, and said, "Jane, have you 
 a glittering ornament round your neck?" 
 
 I had a gold watch-chain : I answered, 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And have you a pale blue dress on V' 
 
 I had. He informed me then, that for some 
 time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one 
 eye was becoming less dense ; and that now 
 he was sure of it. 
 
 He and I went up to London. He had the 
 advice of an eminent oculist ; and he eventu- 
 ally recovered the sight of that one eye. He 
 can not see very distinctly ; he can not read or 
 write much : but he can find his way without 
 being led by the hand ; the sky is no longer a 
 blank to him — the earth no longer a void. 
 When his first-born was put into his arms, he 
 could see that the boy had inherited his own 
 eyes, as they once were — large, brilliant, and 
 black. On that occasion, he again, with a full 
 heart, acknowledged that God had tempered 
 judgment with mercy. 
 
174 
 
 JANE EYRE. 
 
 My Edward and I, then, are happy : and the 
 more so, lieonuse iliosc we most love are happy 
 likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are holli 
 married : allernaU;Iy, once every year, lliey 
 come to see us, anil we go to see Ihem. Di- 
 nna's husband is a captain in the navy ; a gal- 
 lant officer, and a good man. Mary's is a 
 clergyman; a college friend of her hroiher's; 
 and, from his attainments and principles, wor- 
 thy of the connection. Bolh Captain Fiiz- 
 james and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and 
 are loved by them. 
 
 As to St. John Rivers, he left England : he 
 went to India. He entered on the path he had 
 marked for himself; he pursues it slill. A 
 more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never 
 wrought amid rocks and dangers. Firm, faith- 
 ful, and devoted ; full of energy and zeal, and 
 truth, he labors for his race; he clears their 
 painful way to improvement ; he hews down 
 like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste 
 that encumber it. He may be stern ; he may 
 be exacting; he may he ambitious yet; but 
 his is the sternness of the warrior. Great- 
 heart, who guards his pilgrim-convoy from the 
 onslauglit of Apollyon. His is the exaction of 
 the aixisile who speaks hut for Christ, when he 
 Bays — "Whosoever will come after me, let 
 
 him deny hiihseir, and take up his cross and 
 follow me." His is the ambition of the hioh 
 master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in tha 
 (irst rank of those who are redeemed from the 
 earth — who stand without fault before the 
 throne <tf God ; who share the last mighty vic- 
 tories <if the lamb ; who are called, and chosen, 
 and faithful. 
 
 St. John is unmarried : he never will marry 
 now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the 
 toil; and the toil draws near its close; his 
 glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last 
 letter I received from him drew from my eyes 
 human tears, and yet filled my heart with di- 
 vine joy ; he anticipated his sure reward, his 
 incorruptible crown. I Know that a stranger's 
 hand will write to me next, to say that the 
 good and faithful servant has been called at 
 length into the joy of his Lord. And why 
 weep for this? No fear of death will darken 
 St. John's last hour: his mind will be uncloud- 
 ed ; his heart will be undaunted ; his hope will 
 be sure ; his faith steadfast. His own words 
 are a pledge of this : 
 
 " My Master," I.e says, "has forewarned me. 
 Daily he announces more distinctly — •S'jrely 
 I come quickly :' and hourly I more eagerly 
 respond—' Amen ; even so come, I.ord Jesu-s^"* 
 
 CPUB END 
 
/iAJ^ ^-^-^JS^ 
 
 WEBSTER'S OCTAVO DICTIONARY, REVISED, 
 
 EMBRACING ALL THE WORDS IN THE QUARTO EDITION, AND ALSO AN 
 ARRANGEMENT OF SYNONYMS UNDER THELEADING WORDS. 
 
 HAIEIPIIIS & Ig]Ii(D)S'TFi:EISO, ITEW 'S'OmiE, 
 
 HAVE RECBNTLV PUBLISHED, 
 
 In one handsome Volume, of nearly fourteen hundred pages, Sheep extra. Price $3 50, 
 
 SDr. iDcbstcr's American mictionarg 
 
 OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, 
 
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 THOROUGULY REVISED AND CONSIDERABLY ENLARGED, 
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 VARIOUS DEPARTMENTS OF LEARNING, WHOSE NAMES WILL BE FOUND IN THE PREFACE. 
 
 The entire work has been re-stereotyped, and is now beautifully printed upon a new set of plates. 
 
 Several thousand additional words have been incorporated in this edition, embracing uti the 
 terms given in the recent edition ?n the (/uarto form. 
 
 The Si/nopsis and Walker's Key to tlie classical pronunciation of Greek, Latin, and Scripture 
 proper names have been revised with much care and greatly improved. 
 
 A complete Vocabulary, giving the pronunciation of modern Geographical names, has been 
 added to this edition. 
 
 Great attention has been given in the revision to the pronimeiation. A large number of words 
 having been respelied, it will now be found to be a complete Pronouiicing Dictionary. 
 
 This edition has been made a Sy7ionymous Dictionary: a new and very important feature, not 
 to be found incorporated in the same form into any similar work. 
 
 Tlie uimo.st care has been given in every department of the work to render it the most per* 
 feet and satisfactory ever offered to the public. Considering its comprehensiveness, its numer- 
 ous essential improvements, and its general utility, it will be found one of the most indispeusa 
 ble and cheapest books of the times. 
 
 For a more particular statement of the principles on which the revision has been conducted 
 reference is made to the preface of the work. 
 
 ' EXTRACTS FROM CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Th<! most cnmplcte nnd Ihoroujh manuni of our l.inguagfi 
 yet offend to the |.ulilic. The work, as originally prcjiared 
 by l)r. Wehster, was a inonamenl i>( learniiis am! aliilily 
 which hus won for Inn the most dislinguislicd reputation. 
 Since hisdeatli it hiis licen .siilijected to the constant, pro- 
 tracted, and earnest laliors of a niiniiier of scieiititic and lit- 
 erary getilleineii, who )iave carefully revised every part of 
 it, corrected all errors, added many liiousands of words, en- 
 larged and made nioic copious I'S well as more accurate the 
 dcttniCioiis, iiitiwliiccd throughout si/iioni/ms to the words, 
 and in every possiMe way increased its value and its utility. 
 The riwull of their hihors h.is lieen the production of an En- 
 glish lexicon, which can not fall to conic into universal use, 
 not only m all schools and academies, hut wiih every prac- 
 tical person and general reader. — lAterary World. 
 
 No one ever lahured more assiduously and suiccssfully 
 in throwing a strong and steady light upon the English lan- 
 guage than Ur. Webster, liesides, he h.is done more to- 
 ward extending the vocalmlary of our language, and giving 
 it a IVIIness of detinilioii connnensiirate with the ]irogiess of 
 the language as written and spiAcii, than any u'.her lexicog- 
 rapher. — Tcacher^s Atlvvcale. 
 
 Every part of the work has lieen suhmitted to the most 
 nnreliil scrutiny. The orthography, derivaluni, and pro- 
 nunciation of all the words have lieen closely examined and 
 c<trrected. The Oefiiiitions have been eniarged, made more 
 precise and accurate, am' perfected m evi'iy way, liy the 
 careful coiisiillation of encycIopedMS, and the lahor of sev- 
 eral emiiK'iit scholars. However some may diller concern- 
 ing a lew of Ur. Webster's general principles, it must be 
 conceded on all sides that we have here one of the niosl 
 compact, comprehensive, and uselul lexii'ons now bebire the 
 public. It IS, in fact, uii aiiiosl ludisjiensablc work. — .Vtio- 
 ark Ai'—'rtis(r. 
 
 A goiHl English dictionary is an im'ispensablc book for 
 every profession. This edition of Webstbr is all that could 
 be desired. EiyrmdogicaMy, it is superior to any that has 
 preceded it, and i.s, in tins ileparliniMit of lexicographic la- 
 bor, a uiouume.it of learning and research. Professor CoihI- 
 ri'-'i !)a= given a tiioroi;i>h revision ui the work, together 
 With much additKHial and no Iris valuublo Uifuruialluu. — 
 1^*11 York Vornmoeta' Advertiser. 
 
 The work, in its present form, is iindnuhtedly tTio hesi 
 English dictionary ever piiblndied. It •» complete in ali 
 its |iarts, and in every possibln way the woik has beea 
 adapted to the wants of the great body of the |>eojile. It 
 will tiiid its way not only into all tlie schools and acade- 
 mies of the country, but to the desk of every student autl 
 the fireside of every 'aniily. — .Minor. 
 
 The whole work has been thoroughly revised Ijy Prof. 
 Goodrich, of Yale College, and several iin|ioriaiil and most 
 valuable improvements introduced, which will give to tliia 
 edition a pre-eminent advantage over any that has bcoo 
 previously published. — i)hsrrvcr. 
 
 It appears under new editorial auspices, and shows noma 
 marked changes that will add greatly to :ts value, and placo 
 It foremost among all works of the kind among iig. (.'onsid- 
 eriiig Its beautiful typography, its Iwoad ami rational priu- 
 ciples, its singularly cdearand accurate ilefmitions, its cuni- 
 preliensivencss and adaptedn, ss to the wants of Kcholars iiinl 
 people, we can safely say that, for a dictionary for cominott 
 use. It has no superior — in our judgment no eiinal.- £°van- 
 gclist. 
 
 This is lieyonJ all doubt the most complete and perfect 
 edition of Webster's well-known dictionary tbat has ever 
 been published. It can not fail to tiinl access to raery li- 
 brary, into every school, ami into every fainilv. We poiii 
 mend it most heartily to the attention and favor ut ui»' 
 readers. — Sun. 
 
 The best English dictionary extant. Manv of tlin orig 
 inal errors of Ur. Werster have been correlated, wh'la X- 
 few only of his corre<tioiis of ilie old defective ■>rtho^raph^ 
 hav'e been abandoned, an I the wurk,ou the whole, is Iwtter 
 than he lell it. — Tihrune 
 
 Tiie labors of Prolessoi Goodrich have materially adiW 
 t) the value of I his dicti lary. He has been engaged i -. 
 il-.eni for three years past kiiiI the application of his rriitf 
 p'l lolui^ical laciilties to th task bus not been without lua 
 ample fruit. — .Vcio York t ruin^' I'ost. 
 
 It must lie the slandard Knglisii tlictinnary throui'hniit 
 this Country. It conforms iiion- nearly than any oiber to lh( 
 usage ot the best aillhurs, and is hi eveiv respect the best 
 work of Us kiinl, lor general use, now before the putdic 
 W« cuiuiiieud It to the notice of our readers. — .V. V. '.'uuntr. 
 
 October, 1847. 
 
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 vith Genesis and continues to the second book of Kings, and embraces the whole of the New 
 ['estament. It has been the labor of a great number of years. 
 
 The third is called "Theological Institutes." This will be a complete and comprehensive 
 reatise on systematic divinity. This is looked forward to as his largest and most matured con- 
 ribution to the science of Theology. It is left nearly in the state in which the author designed 
 present it to the public, and it will therefore be regarded as a most important and valuable ad- 
 lition to the theological literature of the age. 
 
 The fourth is Dr. Chalmers' "Lectures on Butler's Analogy." The fifth will be entitled 
 ' Discourses." This will embrace one volume of hitherto unpublished sermons, beginning with 
 me of Dr. Chalmers' earliest compositions for the pulpit, and giving a series of others, composed 
 it different successive periods in the course of his ministry. A Life ok Dr. Chalmers, by his 
 on-in-law, Dr. Hanna, editor of the " North British Review," is also to be published. 
 
 He possessed in highest measure that divinest faculty 
 f spirit, the power of creating its own world. He took his 
 ype of Christianity from its Divine Original. * * * Kin 
 srvid imajination was not like Jeremy Taylor's, nor Pos- 
 er's, nor Cowper's, nor was it the imagination nf his dear 
 ompanion, Edward Irving : more zeal than the first — niure 
 appy than the second — more lordly than the third— more 
 modern and more lightsome than the last: -t was massy in 
 iB proportions and stately in its ornaments— the lofty dwell- 
 
 ing of a princely mind— and into this imagination its happf 
 owner took the Gospel and enshrined and enthroned it : that 
 Gospel was soon the better genius of the place. * * * Hi* 
 writings are alt gold and silver and precious stones — a mag- 
 azine of generous thoughts for the elevation, and genial 
 thoughts for the comfort, of mankind. It will take tho 
 Church a generation to learn all he has taught it ; and th» 
 world a century to reach that point from which he wa» 
 translated. — North British Rtview. 
 
 Recently Published, 
 embellished by numerous fine engravings. MUSLIN GILT, PRICE $1 25. 
 
 AN EXPLORATORY VISIT 
 
 TO EACH OF THE 
 
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 AND TO THE ISLANDS OF HONG KONG AND CHUSAN, 
 
 m 3aeb. CKeorgc Smitjft, MM, 
 
 A work as instructive as it is entertaining : we have met 
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