The next thing
I remember is, waking up with a
feeling as if I had had a frightful
nightmare, and seeing before me
a terrible red
glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking
with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water:
agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror
confused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was
handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture,
and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before.
I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.
In five minutes more the cloud
of bewilderment dissolved: I
knew quite well that I was in
my own bed, and that the red
glare was the nursery fire. It
was night: a candle burnt on
the table; Bessie stood at the
bed-foot with a basin in her
hand, and a gentleman sat in
a chair near my pillow, leaning
over me.
I felt an inexpressible relief,
a soothing conviction of protection
and security, when I knew that
there was a stranger in the room,
an individual not belonging to
Gateshead., and not related to
Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie
(though her presence was far
less obnoxious to me than that
of Abbot, for instance, would
have been), I scrutinised the
face of the gentleman: I knew
him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary,
sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed
when the servants were ailing:
for herself and the children
she employed a physician.
"Well, who am I?" he
asked.
I
pronounced
his name, offering
him at the same time my hand:
he took it, smiling and saying, "We
shall do very well by-and-by." Then
he laid me down, and addressing
Bessie, charged her to be very
careful that I was not disturbed
during the night. Having given
some further directions, and
intimates that he should call
again the next day, he departed;
to my grief: I felt so sheltered
and befriended while he sat in
the chair near my pillow; and
as he closed the door after him,
all the room darkened and my
heart again sank: inexpressible
sadness weighed it down.
"Do you feel as if you should
sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather
softly.
Scarcely
dared I answer
her; for I
feared the
next sentence
might be rough. "I will try."
"Would
you like to
drink, or could
you eat anything?"
"No,
thank you,
Bessie."
"Then
I think I shall
go to bed,
for it is past
twelve o'clock;
but you may call me if you want
anything in the night."
Wonderful civility this! It
emboldened me to ask a question.
"Bessie,
what is the
matter with
me? Am I ill?"
"You
fell sick,
I suppose,
in the red-room
with crying;
you'll be better soon, no doubt."
Bessie went into the housemaid's
apartment, which was near. I
heard her say -
"Sarah,
come and sleep
with me in
the nursery;
I daren't
for my life be alone with that
poor child to-night: she might
die; it's such a strange thing
she should have that fit: I wonder
if she saw anything. Missis was
rather too hard."
Sarah came back with her; they
both went to bed; they were whispering
together for half-an-hour before
they fell asleep. I caught scraps
of their conversation, from which
I was able only too distinctly
to infer the main subject discussed.
"Something passed her, all
dressed in white, and vanished"--"A
great black dog behind him"--"Three
loud raps on the chamber door"--"A
light in the churchyard just
over his grave," &c. &c.
At last both slept: the fire
and the candle went out. For
me, the watches of that long
night passed in ghastly wakefulness;
strained by dread: such dread
as children only can feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily
illness followed this incident
of the red-room; it only gave
my nerves a shock of which I
feel the reverberation to this
day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I
owe some fearful pangs of mental
suffering, but I ought to forgive
you, for you knew not what you
did: while rending my heart-strings,
you thought you were only uprooting
my bad propensities.
Next day, by noon, I was up
and dressed, and sat wrapped
in a shawl by the nursery hearth.
I felt physically weak and broken
down: but my worse ailment was
an unutterable wretchedness of
mind: a wretchedness which kept
drawing from me silent tears;
no sooner had I wiped one salt
drop from my cheek than another
followed. Yet, I thought, I ought
to have been happy, for none
of the Reeds were there, they
were all gone out in the carriage
with their mama. Abbot, too,
was sewing in another room, and
Bessie, as she moved hither and
thither, putting away toys and
arranging drawers, addressed
to me every now and then a word
of unwonted kindness. This state
of things should have been to
me a paradise of peace, accustomed
as I was to a life of ceaseless
reprimand and thankless fagging;
but, in fact, my racked nerves
were now in such a state that
no calm could soothe, and no
pleasure excite them agreeably.
Bessie had been down into the
kitchen, and she brought up with
her a tart on a certain brightly
painted china plate, whose bird
of paradise, nestling in a wreath
of convolvuli and rosebuds, had
been wont to stir in me a most
enthusiastic sense of admiration;
and which plate I had often petitioned
to be allowed to take in my hand
in order to examine it more closely,
but had always hitherto been
deemed unworthy of such a privilege.
This precious vessel was now
placed on my knee, and I was
cordially invited to eat the
circlet of delicate pastry upon
it. Vain favour! coming, like
most other favours long deferred
and often wished for, too late!
I could not eat the tart; and
the plumage of the bird, the
tints of the flowers, seemed
strangely faded: I put both plate
and tart away. Bessie asked if
I would have a book: the word
BOOK acted as a transient stimulus,
and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's
Travels from the library. This
book I had again and again perused
with delight. I considered it
a narrative of facts, and discovered
in it a vein of interest deeper
than what I found in fairy tales:
for as to the elves, having sought
them in vain among foxglove leaves
and bells, under mushrooms and
beneath the ground-ivy mantling
old wall-nooks, I had at length
made up my mind to the sad truth,
that they were all gone out of
England to some savage country
where the woods were wilder and
thicker, and the population more
scant; whereas, Lilliput and
Brobdignag being, in my creed,
solid parts of the earth's surface,
I doubted not that I might one
day, by taking a long voyage,
see with my own eyes the little
fields, houses, and trees, the
diminutive people, the tiny cows,
sheep, and birds of the one realm;
and the corn-fields forest-high,
the mighty mastiffs, the monster
cats, the tower-like men and
women, of the other. Yet, when
this cherished volume was now
placed in my hand--when I turned
over its leaves, and sought in
its marvellous pictures the charm
I had, till now, never failed
to find--all was eerie and dreary;
the giants were gaunt goblins,
the pigmies malevolent and fearful
imps, Gulliver a most desolate
wanderer in most dread and dangerous
regions. I closed the book, which
I dared no longer peruse, and
put it on the table, beside the
untasted tart.
Bessie had now finished dusting
and tidying the room, and having
washed her hands, she opened
a certain little drawer, full
of splendid shreds of silk and
satin, and began making a new
bonnet for Georgiana's doll.
Meantime she sang: her song was
-
"In the days
when we went gipsying, A long
time ago."
I had often
heard the song before, and
always with lively
delight; for Bessie had a sweet
voice,--at least, I thought so.
But now, though her voice was
still sweet, I found in its melody
an indescribable sadness. Sometimes,
preoccupied with her work, she
sang the refrain very low, very
lingeringly; "A long time ago" came
out like the saddest cadence
of a funeral hymn. She passed
into another ballad, this time
a really doleful one.
"My feet they
are sore, and my limbs they
are weary; Long
is the way, and the mountains
are wild; Soon will the twilight
close moonless and dreary Over
the path of the poor orphan child.
Why did they send me so far
and so lonely, Up where the moors
spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind
angels only Watch o'er the steps
of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft the night
breeze is blowing, Clouds there
are none, and clear stars beam
mild, God, in His mercy, protection
is showing, Comfort and hope
to the poor orphan child.
Ev'n should I fall o'er the
broken bridge passing, Or stray
in the marshes, by false lights
beguiled, Still will my Father,
with promise and blessing, Take
to His bosom the poor orphan
child.
There is a
thought that for strength should
avail me, Though
both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home, and a rest
will not fail me; God is a friend
to the poor orphan child."
"Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said
Bessie as she finished. She might
as well have said to the fire, "don't
burn!" but how could she divine
the morbid suffering to which
I was a prey? In the course of
the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.
"What, already up!" said he,
as he entered the nursery. "Well,
nurse, how is she?"
Bessie answered that I was
doing very well.
"Then she ought
to look more cheerful. Come
here, Miss Jane:
your name is Jane, is it not?"
"Yes, sir,
Jane Eyre."
"Well, you
have been crying, Miss Jane
Eyre; can you tell
me what about? Have you any pain?"
"No, sir."
"Oh! I daresay she is crying
because she could not go out
with Missis in the carriage," interposed
Bessie.
"Surely not!
why, she is too old for such
pettishness."
I thought so
too; and my self-esteem being
wounded by the false charge,
I answered promptly, "I never
cried for such a thing in my
life: I hate going out in the
carriage. I cry because I am
miserable."
"Oh fie, Miss!" said
Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared
a little puzzled. I was standing
before him; he fixed his eyes
on me very steadily: his eyes
were small and grey; not very
bright, but I dare say I should
think them shrewd now: he had
a hard-featured yet good-natured
looking face. Having considered
me at leisure, he said -
"What made
you ill yesterday?"
"She had a fall," said
Bessie, again putting in her
word.
"Fall! why,
that is like a baby again!
Can't she manage
to walk at her age? She must
be eight or nine years old."
"I was knocked down," was the
blunt explanation, jerked out
of me by another pang of mortified
pride; "but that did not make
me ill," I added; while Mr. Lloyd
helped himself to a pinch of
snuff.
As he was returning
the box to his waistcoat pocket,
a loud
bell rang for the servants' dinner;
he knew what it was. "That's
for you, nurse," said he; "you
can go down; I'll give Miss Jane
a lecture till you come back."
Bessie would rather have stayed,
but she was obliged to go, because
punctuality at meals was rigidly
enforced at Gateshead Hall.
"The fall did not make you
ill; what did, then?" pursued
Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone.
"I was shut
up in a room where there is
a ghost till after dark."
I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown
at the same time.
"Ghost! What,
you are a baby after all! You
are afraid of
ghosts?"
"Of Mr. Reed's
ghost I am: he died in that
room, and was
laid out there. Neither Bessie
nor any one else will go into
it at night, if they can help
it; and it was cruel to shut
me up alone without a candle,--so
cruel that I think I shall never
forget it."
"Nonsense!
And is it that makes you so
miserable? Are you afraid
now in daylight?"
"No: but night
will come again before long:
and besides,--I
am unhappy,--very unhappy, for
other things."
"What other
things? Can you tell me some
of them?"
How much I wished to reply
fully to this question! How difficult
it was to frame any answer! Children
can feel, but they cannot analyse
their feelings; and if the analysis
is partially effected in thought,
they know not how to express
the result of the process in
words. Fearful, however, of losing
this first and only opportunity
of relieving my grief by imparting
it, I, after a disturbed pause,
contrived to frame a meagre,
though, as far as it went, true
response.
"For one thing,
I have no father or mother,
brothers or sisters."
"You have a
kind aunt and cousins."
Again I paused; then bunglingly
enounced -
"But John Reed
knocked me down, and my aunt
shut me up in the
red- room."
Mr. Lloyd a second time produced
his snuff-box.
"Don't you think Gateshead
Hall a very beautiful house?" asked
he. "Are you not very thankful
to have such a fine place to
live at?"
"It is not
my house, sir; and Abbot says
I have less right
to be here than a servant."
"Pooh! you
can't be silly enough to wish
to leave such a splendid
place?"
"If I had anywhere
else to go, I should be glad
to leave
it; but I can never get away
from Gateshead till I am a woman."
"Perhaps you
may--who knows? Have you any
relations besides
Mrs. Reed?"
"I think not,
sir."
"None belonging
to your father?"
"I don't know.
I asked Aunt Reed once, and
she said possibly
I might have some poor, low relations
called Eyre, but she knew nothing
about them."
"If you had
such, would you like to go
to them?"
I reflected. Poverty looks
grim to grown people; still more
so to children: they have not
much idea of industrious, working,
respectable poverty; they think
of the word only as connected
with ragged clothes, scanty food,
fireless grates, rude manners,
and debasing vices: poverty for
me was synonymous with degradation.
"No; I should not like to belong
to poor people," was my reply.
"Not even if
they were kind to you?"
I shook my head: I could not
see how poor people had the means
of being kind; and then to learn
to speak like them, to adopt
their manners, to be uneducated,
to grow up like one of the poor
women I saw sometimes nursing
their children or washing their
clothes at the cottage doors
of the village of Gateshead:
no, I was not heroic enough to
purchase liberty at the price
of caste.
"But are your
relatives so very poor? Are
they working people?"
"I cannot tell;
Aunt. Reed says if I have any,
they must
be a beggarly set: I should not
like to go a begging."
"Would you
like to go to school?"
Again I reflected: I scarcely
knew what school was: Bessie
sometimes spoke of it as a place
where young ladies sat in the
stocks, wore backboards, and
were expected to be exceedingly
genteel and precise: John Reed
hated his school, and abused
his master; but John Reed's tastes
were no rule for mine, and if
Bessie's accounts of school-discipline
(gathered from the young ladies
of a family where she had lived
before coming to Gateshead) were
somewhat appalling, her details
of certain accomplishments attained
by these same young ladies were,
I thought, equally attractive.
She boasted of beautiful paintings
of landscapes and flowers by
them executed; of songs they
could sing and pieces they could
play, of purses they could net,
of French books they could translate;
till my spirit was moved to emulation
as I listened. Besides, school
would be a complete change: it
implied a long journey, an entire
separation from Gateshead, an
entrance into a new life.
"I should indeed like to go
to school," was the audible conclusion
of my musings.
"Well, well! who knows what
may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd,
as he got up. "The child ought
to have change of air and scene," he
added, speaking to himself; "nerves
not in a good state."
Bessie now returned; at the
same moment the carriage was
heard rolling up the gravel-walk.
"Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked
Mr. Lloyd. "I should like to
speak to her before I go."
Bessie invited
him to walk into the breakfast-room,
and
led the way out. In the interview
which followed between him and
Mrs. Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences,
that the apothecary ventured
to recommend my being sent to
school; and the recommendation
was no doubt readily enough adopted;
for as Abbot said, in discussing
the subject with Bessie when
both sat sewing in the nursery
one night, after I was in bed,
and, as they thought, asleep, "Missis
was, she dared say, glad enough
to get rid of such a tiresome,
ill- conditioned child, who always
looked as if she were watching
everybody, and scheming plots
underhand." Abbot, I think, gave
me credit for being a sort of
infantine Guy Fawkes.
On that same occasion I learned,
for the first time, from Miss
Abbot's communications to Bessie,
that my father had been a poor
clergyman; that my mother had
married him against the wishes
of her friends, who considered
the match beneath her; that my
grandfather Reed was so irritated
at her disobedience, he cut her
off without a shilling; that
after my mother and father had
been married a year, the latter
caught the typhus fever while
visiting among the poor of a
large manufacturing town where
his curacy was situated, and
where that disease was then prevalent:
that my mother took the infection
from him, and both died within
a month of each other.
Bessie, when
she heard this narrative, sighed
and said, "Poor
Miss Jane is to be pitied, too,
Abbot."
"Yes," responded Abbot; "if
she were a nice, pretty child,
one might compassionate her forlornness;
but one really cannot care for
such a little toad as that."
"Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed
Bessie: "at any rate, a beauty
like Miss Georgiana would be
more moving in the same condition."
"Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried
the fervent Abbot. "Little darling!--with
her long curls and her blue eyes,
and such a sweet colour as she
has; just as if she were painted!--Bessie,
I could fancy a Welsh rabbit
for supper."
"So could I--with a roast onion.
Come, we'll go down." They went.
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